"Taking turns pumping the pedals

Passing over bowing sunflowers

Taking in the steady wind, yeah, as if we could fly."

(That line from the Ruroni Kenshin second season theme that originally popped into my head, more on that later.)

Well, this is the second instalment of 'Where In the World is the Cowardly Lion?' and I must say don't I feel posh. Could be a saga even!

I got a short amount of reviews, but I ain't complaining.

Last time, on the Wizard of Ahz! (Always wanted to say that . . .)

"Having some trouble?"

"CAUSE YOU'RE GUNNA HAVE A HELL OF A LOT MORE, NOW!"

The authoress known as Rune-of-Iormangand lifted her head from the keyboard.

"Yeah," she said. "Pretty much."

"MAY YOU SUFFER IN YOUR INSECURITY!"

:Violent action:

"You keep sugar packets in there?"

"Here we have perfect scenario for a deviation from the parody!" explained Mr Tipples enthusiastically. "An entire chapter dedicated to your study of particular characters and how they would fit the suit for the Cowardly Lion!"

"Great!" ROI shoved away a stack of senior homework and slipped a disk into her computer. "Thanks! Let's get it going! CAN YOU HEAR THE SOUNDS OF HYSTERIA?"

"You're welcome!"

"Dugong!"

"YOU! YOU MURDERING GARGOYLE!"

"Who, me?" asked our Scarecrow.

:Bonk:

"Thank you!" said Nathaniel and Kitty simultaneously.

:Bonk:

"Thanks!" says Kitty.

:Bonk:

Something large and scary lurks like lurkers of today would be proud to lurk as . . .

"So, if we don't find this person was supposed to be murdered, but wasn't, Bartimaeus spends the rest of his life in a terrible cell?"

"Yes."

"OK!"

"With you guys."

"Let's go, magician."

—But, of course, this recount is nothing compared to my venerable wit in the chapter beforehand, so check that out before reading on. Maybe drop another review, or perhaps a suggestion for my "All I Ever Needed to Know in Life I Learned From the Bartimaeus Trilogy!" List! ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?

And so, without much further ado, we have for you . . .

Where is the World is the Cowardly Lion? PART II!

(Always wanted to do that . . .)

Fluoride City! The City of Viziers, Grand Priests, Advisers to the Kings and all other unsavoury cliché types! Built on the once-beautiful-now-kin-to-a-river-devised-by-the-honourable-Terry-Pratchett Munchkin River, it is a sprawling, er, sprawl, that sprawls wide, filled with buildings and stuff. Big buildings! Filled with bad people!

And, speaking of bad people . . .

"NOOOO! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO MEEE!" howled Bartimaeus, as he was hauled down the deepest depth of the Police Force of Fluoride City's Headquarters.

"Oh, yes we can," said a tall, lanky man, who was doing the least hauling.

"Oh, no you can't," shot back Bartimaeus.

"Oh, yes we can," said the partner of the lanky man, who was the part-time bouncer type, pulling out a black volume from his dark uniform. "It sez right here, right here, ah, dat we can keep suspects in custody for a certain amount of time."

"And 'cause your friends are out proving your innocence, you should be grateful," mentioned the tall one. "Speaking of which, I wonder how they are going?"

"Yes. I wonder," mused the bouncer type.

I can write my own joining scenes, you know!

So now we go and see what our heroes have been doing while Bartimaeus was being dragged and stuff and—

Oh.

"How are you going?" Kitty asks tiredly.

"Ah, Subject 1, no. Subject 2, visually possible, but no. Subject 3 was just chased away by a motorcycle gang. Subject 4 tried to bite my leg. Subject 5 was inanimate. Subject 6, there is no Subject 6. And you happen to be Subject 7. Any luck?" Nathaniel says, as if he was born to do this sort of work.

"No. What are we supposed to be looking for again?"
"The Cowardly Lion."

"Who is?"

"The Cowardly Lion?"

"Yes!"

"The Cowardly Lion!"

Silence.

"My hypothesis is all I have," says Nathaniel, meaning he didn't have any idea about what he should be doing either.

"Yeah. Me too," sighed Kitty.

Nathaniel unclipped the paper from his clipboard and tossed them vaguely towards a bin. They were snatched up by homeless Harvard professors before they even hit the ground.

"You know, we really need more information," mused the magician, showing not a hint of caring towards the cruel and unhappy world around him, but we won't draw attention to that because then he'll realize he doesn't need less kokoro, and we'll be down a Tin Man.

"What's that?"

Nothing! Only that you hair's real purdy with all the gel.

"What gel?"

"OK, so it's a Cowardly Lion. That could be a title or a nickname," Kitty said, ticking off a plan in her head she had made long ago to help search for mysterious characters in the London undergrowth. "We need a motive . . ."

Perhaps the fact that she was sharing Commoner wisdom with a magician was amended by the fact that Nathaniel wouldn't listen anyway.

"Perhaps it is a snitch who blabbed on something important on someone. Perhaps they are looking for revenge . . ."

"Perhaps he a threat to the higher powers of the city . . ." mused Nathaniel.

"Or she," Kitty corrected.

"Or he," Nathaniel repeats.

"Well, because there's been all this theorizing about how it's male, and only male examples, so because of irony, it must turn out to be a female," said Kitty, proud of her deduction.

"Well, possibly," Nathaniel allowed. "But there is still a 50 percent chance that it is male. Also, most of the characters of the Bartimaeus Trilogy are male, as well as those Cowardly Lion types. And, also, if it had been female, then she would have been dubbed the Cowardly Lioness by the author. There is very little material for irony."

Kitty was silent. I was considering nicer treatment for Nathaniel.

"I agree, Mr Buttons," she says to her puppet. "Anyway, let's start talking to people again."

Meanwhile, back at the Headquarters of the Fluoride Police, Sergeant Droopy was deeply absorbed in some serious work.

"Darn it! What's eight letter word for a position in the army? With-guns?"

"Er, sergeant?" said the guy next-door who likes to point things out and since last chapter has been called Mr Pointy and given no description otherwise.

"Hey, I do have a name and appearance, you know," says Mr Pointy. "It's—"

"That's it! You there!" Sergeant Droopy, the rather disappointing but handsome leader of the Fluoride Police Force so warped that he must be a caricature of a stereotype, rudely indicated.

(It should be noted that, if any acquaintances of ROI are browsing past this section, that she has nothing but the utmost respect for them, but that they should be really worried.)

(It should also be noted that ROI just likes messing with people. She would never criticise them.)

(So obviously, anyway.)

(Under such an obvious name.)

(But there're other important things, so let's go on.)

"Are we on? Are we on? OK, there was some interference there. Anyway. You there! What do you want?" Sergeant Droopy rudely indicated.

Mr Pointy sighed deeply. "Sir, I have come to inform you that there is more evidence of malicious intent against our unlocated victim."

"Ah-ha! Another one! Malicious . . . intent . . . again— no . . . against, that's it . . . our . . . unlocated . . . no, it doesn't fit!"

Droopy bent over his crossword in concentration, and Mr Pointy did so because of a bad feeling in his gut.

"No . . . Seven down, twelve letters, two words, title of the guy who knows who he is who is and is going to be killed in a variety of messy and pre-Victorian ways. With thumbscrews. Eight letters first word, four letters second . . ."

Mr Pointy closed his eyes in pain at his placing as a throwaway character with no real name.

"But I nearly got that other one. Three across, reason whys we gunna kill him. Dunno about letters, just squeeze 'em in."

"Now how am I going to finish this and win myself a collection of door jams?" asked Droopy sorrowfully.

"Now what are we going to do with our prisoner?" asked Mr Pointy pointlessly.

"Take it."

"No!"

"Take it!"

"NO!"

"TAKE IT!"

"NOOOO! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! IT'S INHUMAN!"

"For the lord's sake, just take the bloody Queen of Spades so we can play another trick!" cried the tall man in frustration. "And be a man about it!"

"But I'm not a man!" pointed out Bartimaeus, trying to buy himself enough time to steal a few of the bouncer guy's cards.

"Look. You lost the trick, you get the cards. IT'S THE RULES, OK!"

"But it's not fair! I only played the King of Spades!"

"Yeah, and I played the Queen, which is lower. If Bouncer or Ratty had played an Ace of Spades, they would have got it but they were too smart to play such a high card first!"

"Look, what makes you think I don't have a plan already— ARRGH! LET GO OF MY ARM!"

"You weren't trying to steal a look at me cards, were you?" asked Bouncer suspiciously, who had gotten rid of an Ace of Hearts just then and so was safe.

"Well, no, you see— ARRGH! I WAS JUST TRYING TO STEAL THEM!"

"You can't do that! All the hands have to be equal!" Lanky Guy explained another aspect of the rules that shouldn't have been worried about.

"While it is interesting learning how to play this four-person card game, I have to remind you that this is a fanfic, which should not become educational," stated Ratty, who was a two-foot tall lean rat with a pay check equal to that of Lanky and Bouncer since the Mammal-apart-from-the-inconclusive-marsupial-monotreme-or-marine-mammal-Rights-Act of '05.

"Right! Take those cards, or I'll smash your head in!" said Lanky, effectively drawing the scene from attention.

Now would be a good time to see where Nathaniel and Kitty were, but just before we do, let's check out my suspenseful writings!

In a warehouse that quite effectively captured the atmosphere of an old and chilly cave hidden in ancient mountains, the thing that lurked beforehand arrived in a gush of hot and stuffy air.

The previously alone occupant of the warehouse turned ponderously around.

"Did you find him?" he enunciated clearly, as if he had to consider how to form every sound precisely outside his mouth.

'Find' was an iffy enough term in the lurking thing's mind. It would have been happy if 'find' was used to hunt down something and kill it. To hunt down something and not kill it gave it a vague feeling of un-satisfaction.

". . . No?" it hazarded, aware enough that itself wouldn't like it, but it's master . . .

Unfortunately it was too dark to make out a narrative opinion of the master's reaction, but we plough on nonetheless. The master's eyes narrowed.

"No?" he repeated crisply.

The lurker searched his memory banks in a hurry.

". . . Yes?" it hoped.

The master already had his eyes narrowed, but now he ever so slightly lowered his lids as if relaxing.

The lurker felt a weird feeling just below its—

"ARRGH!"

. . . Let's just say, it won't be racing motorbikes for a while now.

"FIND HIM, FLUSH HIM OUT, AND FOR THE LORD'S SAKE, GET BETTER PANTS!"

What is it with djinn and pants? Can't they have pockets?

"OUT!" with an appalled shout, a housewife-type shoved the two teenagers out of her door.

"But, ma'am, you don't understand. I'm a magician—" before Nathaniel could complete his badly-placed plea, a heavy metal saucepan was thrown out the door, and because certain people have threatened to hurt me, he ducked just in time, having Kitty get it in the face.

"I don't think that fans will appreciate this either," said Mr Tipple, as Kitty straightened in an almost black magic way.

"Oh, but I'll appreciate this. Take that!"

:The saucepan, defying all laws of physics and narration, spins out and knocks the author off her chair.:

Alright, is everybody happy now? That's your first favour, OK?

"Er, thanks. Now where do we go?"

Kitty was checking her teeth. "How should I know? Why don't we see what those police know?"

Pause.

"Because they are the ones that got the note, and the authority, and the search warrants and . . ."

Embarrassed silence.

"That was my next idea," Nathaniel lied smoothly. "Let's go."

Of course, Kitty was checking the alignment of her nose and ignoring Mr Buttons, so she couldn't comment.

They walked— well, really, it was that Kitty and Nathaniel walked in the same direction with about the same intentions, but not at all with any sort of allegiance. Anyway, they walked coincidently side-by-side in the same direction, when there was a sudden explosion somewhere above them.

The cause appeared to be a shattered and smoking window across the street.

This was followed by an amazing scream, which sounded like a cross between a comical howl, yodel, and terrible Idol attempt. There was another explosion, one that sounded bigger and worse aimed, and a bathtub immediately shot out at Nathaniel in a blur of narrating necessity.

My battle of whether to let him get hit and subject myself to many painful uses of cutlery was resolved when the magician ducked to let the tub fly over him and plough into Kitty.

Damn. Now I'm down a Dorothy. That makes things twice as hard to work with compared to the simple absence of a Tin Man.

"What was that?" asked Nathaniel.

Nothing. You've got snappy reflexes for a plastic-wrapped magician.

"Yeah," said Nathaniel proudly.

You've got no . . . blind spots or anything? Achilles heel? Beloved family members?

"No."

Of course, of course. Please help Kitty up, if you don't mind.

"It appears we may have found our Cowardly Lion," Nathaniel remarked as he dragged Kitty up by touching as small a piece as he can, ending up supporting her by the sleeve of her jacket. "As well as its attempting murderer."

Kitty, not being a particularly comic character, had only a pounding head, glared at him.

"Well, duh!" she stated viciously, as another scream so high it was unidentifiable to be male or female pierced the air.

Another explosion blew out a portion of the wall.

"Shouldn't we . . . do something?" asked Kitty, as she accepted a glass with dissolved aspirin because I felt sorry for her and her incredibly pointy silver disk.

The entire front of the building collapsed in a cloud of obscuring dust.

"I suppose so," mused Nathaniel. "We do want to get out of the city, after all."

The gibbering passed out of human range.

"Well then, shouldn't we hurry up?" asked Kitty in annoyance. "And is this non-drowsy?"

There is a high-pitched squeal, followed by an equally high-pitched "NO-NO-NO-NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!" and a blur leapt out of the front, and screamed past Nathaniel and Kitty with a cloud of dust.

The two look after it.

"I think we just missed an opportunity," said Kitty.

"OPPORTUNITY!" screamed Nathaniel, triggered by a traumatising memory from his days with Jessica Whitwell that won't be explained here.

Fluoride City, Jamboree Street, that window with the pink streamers around it, perfectly placed for a good sniper shot.

In his room of bad flowing chi, Sergeant Droopy was sitting in front of his desk of which whose contents I will not describe to destroy the illusion of authority.

Anyway, logged into his account, Sergeant Droopy was searching his data files for important information to help him expand his mind and opinions.

"Run away!"

"RUN AWAY!"

"MOO!"

"BWA HA HA HAA!" he screamed in laughter, as the sweaty and dusty Nathaniel and Kitty burst through the door.

"YOU!" said Nathaniel, so tired he referred to an exhausted joke. "We . . . have . . . news and . . ." he then collapsed, illustrating the terrible health of the average magician.

Droopy hurriedly closed his animation, revealing his Tokyo Mew-Mew background. "Yes? What?"

"We've seen the Cowardly Lion!" said Kitty, hardly gasping at all, illustrating the great health of the Resistance.

"Really?" said Droopy, shoving all his Disney Comics into a drawer.

"And where he lived!"

"Really?"

"And the attempting murderer?"

"Really? What did they look like?" asked Droopy eagerly.

"Well, we couldn't really tell through all the dust," Kitty admitted, as Nathaniel tried to soundlessly beg for a paper bag.

"Oh? So where did you see all this?" asked Droopy, then paused. "Ah, you haven't been here long, and probably don't know the streets. Do you know any landmarks around the area?"

"Sure. That smoking apartment block.

"Which smoking apartment block?"

"The one where they were attempting murder."

Droopy suddenly flung open a window, knocking off an attempting successor assassin. He scrutinized the horizon.

"What, over there?"

"No, it's a bit closer."

"Not near the sock factory!"

"No, it's more to the right."

"Oh! Right there!"

". . . No, that's the insurance building."

"DAMN IT ALL!"

"It's across the street from that."

Droopy looked sagely over the gently smoking landscape, and a breeze caught his hair and rippled it in what was surely Shortlist winning way. The knocked-off assassin groaned, hanging one-handed off a windowsill in a way that could be fascinating and suspensive if I felt like it!

"I think," said Droopy, in a clearly expressed way. "That I must get my mid-morning strawberry-and-banana milkshake."

I must be nuts. Strawberry and banana don't go together in any way!

"If they were in a fancy dessert— but that is besides the point. Anyway, we have proven that someone else is after the Cowardly Lion guy, so if you don't mind, can we take our Scarecrow and go?" asked Nathaniel in a . . . rather nondescript way, if you compare.

Droopy had somehow psychically connected with the secretary down the hall, who had predicted this and started the coffee machine perking just in time to deliver into him in the matter of a paragraph.

Then all these explanations were wasted as Droopy took one sip, made a face, and tipped the coffee out the window and onto the head of the assassin that had been carefully levering himself up,

"Oh, God no. I AM JUST UNAPPRECIATED!"

That was Jenkins by the way, but currently he is flat on the pavement in a comic in-pain-but-not dead way, and so we will be unable to appreciate his visit.

Say aww everybody. Aww . . .

"Yes!" announced Droopy to anyone within earshot, which is a lot of people; since the walls are cardboard thin around here. On days when the air is still, you could hear a barbershop quartet locked in a cupboard from the dungeons.

"Sweet Adeline . . ."

"We must be prepared to take this suffering person in for his protection," stated Droopy, turning around with an impressive sweep of his trench coat, with had pink-tinted lace and embroidered fluffy rodents around the hems.

"Sweet Adeline . . ."

"State the name of the building where the subject was last seen," Droopy commanded Kitty, and if he weren't one of my beloved OCs, he would have ended up out the window and on Jenkins's back.

"My Adeline . . ."

"We can't," said Nathaniel. "It was in a poor and magician-sparse part of the city. Plus we've never been here before and it was destroyed."

"My Adeline . . ."

"Then we must use the awesome collective power of the human mind to run a series of attributes through a survey to select a group of individuals of relevant hits," said Droopy boldly.

"I'm out of lines. Anything else we can do until they let us out?"

"Which means?" sighed Kitty, preparing for a necessary gag at the expense of somebody's pride.

"Mama . . . just killed a man . . . put a gun against his head . . . pulled the trigger . . . Now he's dead . . ."

"We're going to use the Web!" said Droopy cheerfully, walking back to his computer.

"I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me!"

And so he signed on— using the name DrDroopy— entered his password— which was PrincessPeachRulz— that's 'rules' with a 'Z'—cracked the code of the obelisks in Might and Magic VIII— which basically outlines you've got to kill a Great Unicorn on a particular day in summer to get a treasure— and logged on his home-page, which was the Official Pokemon Website— which I haven't visited in ages.

"Galileo!"

"Alright . . . Cowardly . . . Lion . . . Any other distinguishing features you may have saw?"

"Galileo!"

"Erm, fast," Nathaniel tried to recall.

"Galileo!"

"High-pitched," said Kitty, recalling her headache.

"Galileo, let me go!"

"Fast, high-pitched, headache inducing," Droopy typed in with his glitter sprinkled yellow keyboard.

"Magnifico!"

"No! I do not mean 'migraines'! Hey! Since when did I have a site dedicated to me? I am not high-pitched!"

"Oh! Oh! Oh— Hey! Check this out!"

"Alright! By using the person-finding option on Yahoo, registered trademark of the Yahoo Corporation, I have brought up a list of the entities sharing those attributes!"

"Hmm, that looks interesting. Let's try it out!"

"You don't have to narrate," said Kitty, since they've got an author to do that (hi again!). "So, who are they?"

"OK, just drop down here and— WHOA!"

"Alright, first we must go through the process of elimination," said Droopy, as the off-scene barber shop gag dropped off into places unknown. "Before I select a group of suspects!"

Kitty nearly missed her line. "Oh! But who is there?"

And as your attention flows my way, I smoothly pull up a list with names and attributes and prepare to type it out:

Print doc

Rewrite masks

Prepare costumes—

Hey! That's not it! That's my preparation list for my documentary drama that was due last week!

I got it in on time, don't worry. I just totally froze on the last scene that I stayed up for over an hour researching and writing and—

Sorry, sorry. My fault. My bad. We'll get back on track, and I'll clean my desk, and where did my hairbrush go?

"Well, there's a Nicholas Drew . . . but he has no fixed address, and no comic worth whatsoever.

Then there could be Jane Farrar . . . although with Lioness tendencies, is quite bold, and currently occupied in an ominous tower to the west . . ."

"Mm-hmm, mmm, no, not that ugly colour, it'll look like a nursery. No, of course I won't go with just black! It's cliché, stereotypical, spiritually draining and— really, it'll go with all my outfits?"

Jane Farrar glanced around her soon-to-be ominous tower.

"It's a start," she begrudged of her currently pale yellow room. "Just make sure you extract the gargoyles totally from the— I don't care if they accent my atmosphere, I hate— well, I suppose if you replace them with wolves . . ."

Suddenly she looked up, and drops her slim latest-thing mobile. "Oh, KUSO! I didn't realize I was getting another scene! I am not ready!"

She dashes off in a flurry of mud mask and thickly conditioned towel-wrapped hair.

"Are we on?"

"Yeah. That scene thing's been playing up for ages. She needs to upgrade to the latest model."

No! It's too expensive, hard to find, and I don't like its graphics!

"Excuse me? I think we must be moving on now?"

"Right, right. Now, where were we? Ah, yes! Process of elimination! If we just put a few iron maidens out, and pipe out Madonna hits, the major members of the council will be sure to— whoops, other list.

"OK, there's a Mr Pennyfeather, as he puts on a good act, but he is really inoffensive, non-comic, and currently based in Munchkin City . . ."

"Three of those extra long-handled paintbrushes, please."

"Of course, sir. I am glad they are working out for you."

"Sure, sir! I can reach right to the top of the frame, now!"

"Hmm. Business is good," sighed Mr Pennyfeather. "And now I am away from those dreadful magicians, I have time to pursue my dream."

He smiled.

"I am going to be the latest Idol!" he claimed, standing up on his counter, accepting a microphone and better threads from a fast stage hand.

". . . Hang on, his comic rating is just . . ."

"Curse it! My back! Now I'll have to accept a life of surreptitious resistance!"

"What about it?"

"Nothing, false alarm.

"But here there's a Ptolemy—!"

There is a low boom from below the complex.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

". . . Nothing. But the rest of the list seems to be reasonable."

Kitty rubbed her ears as Nathaniel shakily collected himself from the floor.

"Right. Do we need to go out with the teams to help identify the victim?" she asks.

Droopy stared at her.

"I don't understand the question."

"I mean," said Kitty slowly. "Do we—" she gestured to herself and the rapidly composure-generating magician, "Need—" she gestured begging, "To go—" she gestured walking with her fingers, "With your—" she pointed to Droopy, "Men—" she whipped off a helmet and truncheon from the desk, "To identify—" she whipped out an ensemble of tartan flapped hat, trench coat and magnifying glass, "The victim of an incredibly brutal crime?" She punched Nathaniel.

It took about a minute for Droopy to process this. Out of spite I didn't offer Nathaniel an aspirin.

"No," he said finally. "You are—" he pointed to Kitty and the stunned Nathaniel, "Going—" he gestured walking with his fingers, "To go—" he made aeroplane wings with his arms, "Out—" he made chicken wings, "To do it—" he hopped in a circle on one foot, "By yourselves!" he then did a magnificent back flip combo that could have won him something in the Olympics.

"Ta da!" he sung, sticking the landing.

Kitty found herself applauding, then stuck her arms by her side in annoyance.

"Alright! I'll do it myself then!" she snapped, spinning on her heel and heading for the door.

"Wait!" called Nathaniel, hauling himself off the floor before crashing into the wall. "You can't go on your own!"

Kitty paused, and turned. You could almost imagine coloured bubbles between them.

"You need me!" said Nathaniel.

The background violins tremor . . . a flute reached an incredibly high trill . . .

"After all, a common Commoner would never have the skills necessary for proper referencing."

The violins screech. I trail off after a while, and after quickly cleaning the mouthpiece (which I have to take apart to do), continue typing.

Kitty gave him a disgusted look, and walked out.

Nathaniel looked in confusion at Droopy.

"The great question that has never been answered is 'What does a woman want?'" said Droopy solemnly.

Nathaniel's eyes widened.

"What did you just say?" he asked.

"We are the knights who say 'Ni!' Ni!" said Droopy cheerfully.

Nathaniel nodded in content, took the list, and followed Kitty.

And now for something completely different!

The barbershop quartet tumbled helplessly through the air. For brief moments the strangest objects would pause next to them in their similar descent, then continue about their business, not unlike the start of the second chapter, except less restrained.

A spotted cow wearing a straw hat paused from free falling, took a sip from her fruit cocktail, and watched as they suddenly accelerated.

Now observe the little-known-of migration of the socks. The five examples of different colour combinations circled briefly around the falling quartet. The bass reached out for one in curiously, startling the entire flock so that they flew away with ripples of red, blue, orange and a cross breed of stripes and spots.

The background is now drenched in a gorgeous mandarin orange, with star-like flecks of blue, exampling the harmony of complementary colours. A 2D Chinese dragon circles around them like they were all trapped in a tube, then shattered into thousands of white and crimson scales, transformed into origami cranes, and all fluttered away.

"You don't think this is the slightest bit strange?" asked the tenor.

The bass was currently a bright orange upside-down elephant.

"Hmm . . ." mused the soprano, as a herd of six-legged bulls thundered past.

"Perhaps we have somehow transgressed the light fantastic?" the alto, who nobody cares about, hazarded.

Odin, on his eight-legged horse, swooped past on some mysterious god-like duty. He was followed by his two crows and his dimming cry of "Valhalla ale!"

"Or maybe we might have—" the alto was cut off by another rush of random gods and goddess, not only Norse, as I could have sworn I glimpsed Set, Bast, Quetzalcoatl and Hermes passing as well.

"You're driving! No, you're driving!" which was what followed them.

"We might be trapped in the chaotic subconscious of the narrating author?" suggested the alto again.

The other three of the trio considered this.

"No, no anime characters," said the highly important soprano at last.

"Excuse me, it looks like you need help," said a clever looking fellow with red hair.

"Oh, yes please!" begged the elephantine bass.

"If you please go through this portal, you may find what you're looking for?" said the man with a curious inflection, gesturing to a mysterious swirling vortex.

"Thanks!" said the quartet, getting sucked through with a smell of brimstone.

The red-head grinned, and high-fived a hiding purple-haired character from a cameo a couple of chapters ago.

"Tried to sedate me with tying me to a rock with my own entrails will they? I think not!"

Kitty stared at the list.

"Great," she said at last. "Another magician."

At this time Nathaniel caught up, panting for breath, the romantic-comedy moment well and truly over because I'm not getting my flute out in this weather.

"Who . . . is it?" he managed to gasp, before leaning against the frame of the headquarters door.

"Sholto Pinn, located in Pinn's Acropolis. Wait, no . . . Accomplice? Accompanier? A comfortable pair of pants?"

Nathaniel hauled himself by the staircase banister up to Kitty, and looked over the list.

"Accoutrements," he read. "It's famously a well-stocked store of all the modern day magician needs. Equipage; trappings. Taken from French, modification of, stem of accoutrer."

"Oh, yeah?" asked Kitty, not impressed. "What's that mean then?"

"Equipage; trappings," said Nathaniel, and because I am not allowed to hurt him, Kitty pounded him on the head.

"Enough definition jokes! Let's go!" she said.

Now we break away from my average sort of humour— average for me, not for everyone else, I hope. If it was, I'd immediately start writing angst and romance and stuff, because that's the person I am, you know? Someone against the grain. A quiet rebel. The one behind the scenes. The one—

"Get on with it," sighed Kitty, so tired she referred to a Monty Python quote.

Right, right. I'll finish up. The quiet one you never suspect of brutally killing the head of council— I mean, the fiancé of the daughter of the baron of the impressive mansion on a patch of wildlife home to a unique ecosystem based on funky smelling green moss. Yeah. That's me. Completely honest and modest too.

Anyway, we now switch our attention to the watcher. The lurker. The servant, who has currently taken the form of a pigeon, which sits on the awning above the nearest building, flutters down cautiously, gets caught by a cat and—

Oh, sorry, wrong one.

How about the old lady, seemingly innocently buying her fruits and vegetables, selecting innocent looking watermelons, apples, oranges, lemons—

No, I don't think so.

Wait, cabbages and squash— SHE SURELY IS EVIL! Get her, minions!

The crows stare pointedly at the author.

. . . OK, maybe I overreacted. I've just got this thing against— shallots! EVIL! EVIL! EVIL FROM THE BOWELS OF HELL!

"Doesn't that gargoyle look suspicious?" suggested Kitty loudly.

"You mean that one shaped like a man crossed with a—" Nathaniel is suddenly cut off by a kick from Kitty.

Right, right. Unbeknownst to the Resistance member and magician— yes, look away please, whistle or something— the lurker lurked above them. Crouched amongst some simular looking creatures that looked like they were dredged from the nightmares of someone with a lot of imagination but no art skill—

"DUGONG!"

Shut up!

—It observed the unlikely team with something that might be suspicion if I was lazy and kind. Actually, it was just somewhat more focused blood thirst than usual.

With its unnaturally sharp eyes, it spotted the list, and grinned evilly. Its master would need to know about this.

"So, where is this place supposed to be?" asked Kitty. "This place where the Cowardly Lion might be?"

It grinned evilly. Its master would need to know about this.

"On the corner of Duchess and Piccalilli Street," said Nathaniel. "See, like Duke and Piccadilly in the book, only modified to show the alluding skill of the author and not tread on the copyright."

It grinned evilly. Its master—

Nobody appreciates my genius. Oi! You! Off scene now!

"So where do we go?" asked Kitty.

It grinned evilly. Its—

I said pineapple off!

"To the corner of Duchess and Piccalilli Street?" repeated Nathaniel.

It grinned evilly—

Get lost!

"Yeah?" asked Kitty.

It grinned—

Anna!

"The corner of Duchess and Piccalilli Street!" Nathaniel repeated.

It—

:The Hook of Bruised Souls comes spinning off-scene, caught around its neck, spun it around, and in defiance of the laws of physics and narration, again, comes flying through the author's computer and just misses her automatic jerk and lodges in her bedroom wall:

. . . Dad's not going to be happy.

"Nor is master," said the lurker sadly, and disappeared.

Bartimaeus was bored.

This means he was at leisure to be bored. The guards from before had forced him to play in their distracting games of cards to foil the most obvious means of escape. Now, he was simply locked in a decent sized cell with decent bars.

His attempts to break the bars were, as hinted in the last paragraph, futile. He couldn't slip between them either, because working with the limitations of a parody I had to take away his transforming powers.

"Bloody dugongs," he muttered to himself as he tugged half-heartedly at the bars.

Oi! You start that, I won't be so gentle!

"No chance of you, say, gnawing at my bindings, so I can slip off the table and escape?" Bartimaeus asked hopefully of the cigar-smoking Ratty.

"Sorry," said the rodent, blowing out a ring. "You must've been reading Poe to come up with that."

Bartimaeus gave up struggling with the bars when an attempt to chew them resulted in the discovery of a small amount of iron in them.

He retreated to a corner of his cell to think.

Wait, what was this? A slightly protruding brick? Could it be? Could it maybe, possibly, have the slightest chance of being a way out?

Whoops, sorry, my mistake. Just a normal brick they mortared in a bit early.

"DAMN DUGONG!"

Just then, the cell shrunk by a quarter.

"Damn dugong!"

Just then, the cell shrunk half its original size.

"Damn in general," muttered Bartimaeus.

"And now for something completely different," said Ratty, filing his claws.

"Thanks!" said Kitty, waving.

"No problem," said Mr Leonard Charles Wildberry Balderdash III kindly. "It's just around that block. And tell the author that the lease on my crows will end soon unless I get another ribbon or equally appealing trinket."

"Sure," said Nathaniel, as I shuddered in my seat.

"It mentions 'Sholto Pinn and other'," remarked Kitty, looking over the list. "What could that mean?"

Nathaniel at this point could have made a totally precise but otherwise useless response, but he missed his chance as they arrived at the shop.

Pinn's Accoutrements. The store of all the modern day magician— right, that's already been said.

Pinn's Accoutrements! Your one-stop shop for all your one-stop pop of a lot of top stuff stop!

Hurrah! My ability to secure public attention to a service is completely competent! I display leadership!

Nathaniel and Kitty are deadpan at the humour, but still function enough to tap at the door.

There is a sudden curse and a crash, and then book-sized imp comes hovering up to the door, and squints out.

"'Ere! Wot do we have 'ere, then?" it asks.

Just so everybody knows, I love Cockney accents, or English in general, but Cockney 'specially.

There are more bumps, and the sound of something knocking again highly expensive glass, followed by a moan of dread, then another noble entity comes to the door and gazes out.

Whoa, scratch out that last half-a-sentence. It's just Simpkin.

The foliot, looking miffed that he just got shot down, but still respectful of my awesome still-applicable crow-related powers, looks critically out the glass, then screams—

"Master Pinn is occupied! We're closed!"

—And tries to close the door.

"Steady on, mate," the imp sticks itself between the doorframe and door. "Ya can't go chasing off potential customers, else your— heh-heh— 'master' might Stipple ya."

A shudder of fear coursed through the lower entity, and he sighed.

"Right. Welcome to Pinn's Accruements, the store of all the modern day magician pops, so on and so forth."
The imp gives the foliot a cheery wave, and zips out the door.

"Oi!" Simpkin shouts, running back to the door again. "Get back here!"

"Sorry! I ain't gots such a nice master, you know," the imp called back.

Simpkin shuddered again in psychological fear.

"Of course, what mine ain't gots is at least made up by his looks, know what I mean?" he commented to the audience before leaving.

Um, it's just foreshadowing, you know. Sets up the atmosphere. It certainly doesn't hint at anything like . . . never mind!

Simpkin did the most effective attack he ever achieved . . . the infamous Scowl.

However, it rebounded off an iron decoration above the front of the shop, and hit the cat from a couple of scene changes before, turning it yellow with green splotches.

Hey, who can tell what these crazy spells and such do? OK, first you have initiating stage, in which you prepare the necessary equipment or initiating phrase, then—

:Djinn arrive out of thin space, and assault the author with attack spells:

Oi! You didn't say anything!

"That is because my initiation phrase takes place in my head," said Farquarl, calmly sending a light inferno in my direction. "As long as I keep in mind the context and the result, it will effectively work."

Oh yeah? How about this attack: OCS ATTACK!

:There is a sudden bout of . . . nothing:

:The crows stare.:

. . . I'll see what I can find.

:The crows attack! Driving back the djinn, they drop a slip of paper before heading in all directions:

What do you mean, no instalments!

Going back on scene NOW!—

Stepping forward, and with a straightening of his collar, Nathaniel took control with the self-confidence that I suppose must have been what enamoured him to his fans. Personally, I felt like stomping on him at the end of the second book, and then at the end of the third it's like: 'Hey! He's actually turning good and— uh-oh, things happening, bad things and— OH MY GOD! How dare that happen now? Do you have no respect for my feelings and— NOOO! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN? WHY DID THIS HAPPEN? WHY DID HE—!'

"What are you talking about?" asked the still-alive-and-in-reasonably-good-health magician in confusion.

. . . Nothing. I'd just like to say, I LOVE YOU AND—

"Czech! Another fangirl!" cursed Nathaniel, running out of the scene very fast.

. . . OK, I'd better not talk to Bartimaeus then.

:One embarrassing begging session later:

"We have come to speak with your master," stated Nathaniel, surreptitiously tucking his Jane Farrar plushie away, to Simpkin.

Simpkin nodded and smiled with good djinni grace.

"Sorry . . ." he said politely. "WE'RE CLOSED!"

"Still, we need to talk to your master," said Nathaniel, then leant forwards threateningly. "Or else we could just walk in . . . I hope you just don't have anything valuable . . . I don't have my servant under complete control."

It took Kitty only a few seconds to translate the magician's threat, and about the smallest unit of time possible to become offended enough for me to have to retain her from killing Nathaniel too early.

"You can't just walk in to see master and threaten me!" spluttered Simpkin, shaken by the conflict between obliging servant and loathsome evil force in his soul.

"Oh yes I can!" said Nathaniel, drawing himself up. "Because, I have this!"

And he pulls out the best weapon you can get without bullets, lasers or blades! A piece of paper!

"I have the 'Advance to Succour Meeting with Business Owner and Intimidate Servant' Permit!" Nathaniel announced, holding forth the paper for all to see.

Simpkin was shocked, but retaliated.

"Oh? But do you have the most recent edition?" the foliot challenged.

"The Thirteenth Advanced Edition!" replied Nathaniel. "Subsection 3 Paragraph 10.9 too, which means I can threaten ransacking!"

Simpkin was given blow after blow, but his opponent had miscalculated something badly.

"Oh yeah? Is that all matter of status?" he charged.

"Yes! From Upper-Upper Lower Middle, Middle class to Low-Low-Low-Lower-than-Low Upper Lower Middle Class!" said Nathaniel proudly. "That's Subsection 3 the entirety of Paragraph 5."

"Ah-ha!" cried Simpkin triumphantly. "That's for humans only!"

Nathaniel paused, and checked his paper.

"Founder's Day!" he cursed. "Drat! That was Subsection 3 Paragraph 12.6 under the new moon! Well, I'm out."

He tossed the paper and turned around. Kitty seized and spun him back so fast it could have torn his shirt if that wouldn't have interfered with the following exchange.

"What is your master busy with?" Kitty questions, as I go find a sewing kit.

Simpkin paled, his eyes shooting across to the counter, where there is a crimson sealed letter. I pick out a needle.

"That's none of your business, Commoner!" Simpkin gathers himself and spits. I compare thread colours. "And how can you see me? What type of terrible unnatural powers do you have at your service?"

Let me explain. See::snap navy thread with teeth: I have to make this :pick up scissors: Alternate Universe where everyone :tries to cut thread ineffectively: can— just a moment— interact— cut, damn you—, so then I had to— damn it— had to— damn it— work out a— damn it! Now it's all frayed!

I had to restrict some entities' abilities, OK? Which means that Bartimaeus can't change into this massive ultimate-type form and smash everybody—

"NOOOO!" echoes the cry from beneath the Police Headquarters.

—And some djinn lose the power to cloak themselves on the first plane. Now I must go and raid Mum's sewing supplies.

"Ah," said Simpkin, in resignation. "Anyway, that is none of your concern."

Steady, steady, nice perilously balanced needles . . .

"Yes it is," pressed Kitty. "It is vital that we find and speak with your master."

Hey! Look at this neato thing! The scissors are sharpened as they go back into their holder!

"Master is engaged in a matter of extreme importance," said Simpkin, drawing himself up to his impressive four feet in height.

Ha-ha! Scissors go in::Scrape: Scissors come out::Scrape: Scissors go in—

"Would you hurry up!" demanded Nathaniel.

Alright! I'll just use my mum's really nice thread cutting scissors and . . .

"But we are here on police business— hurry up, hurry up— and so we must have precedence over anything— ARGH! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!"

Blanket stitch, Stringy!

"You've ruined it! It's tailor made you stupid dugong!"

If you start that, I'll turn you into something that could never get near a tailor.

"Oh, like what?"

Well, um, a brick perhaps. Or a manikin. Or maybe that imp that flew out a minute ago . . .

"Wait a minute," interrupted Kitty. "What was that imp here for? And what, may I ask, is that letter?" She pointed with an imperial— for a Commoner imperial— hand at the wax-sealed letter on the counter.

"Nothing," said Simpkin.

"Really?" questioned Kitty.

"Yes," said Simpkin.

"Well, if that was really true," said Kitty. "Why have you gone that shade of colour?"

"What shade of colour?" asked Simpkin.

"That lime green," said Kitty.

"No, that's May green," said Nathaniel, twisting furiously at his new horns.

"More of a grass green," said Mrs Underwood, taking her newly arrived antique tea set from an old civilisation from the Middle East that had been destroyed by an easily bored entity.

"Emerald green!" said Bartimaeus from his cell. "And didn't I like rampage through all the china shops?"

"Puke green," said the imp, smoking a pipe on the eave of a nearby church.

"Grey!" said the lurker from above the eave of a nearby church.

"I GET IT!" shrieked Simpkin. "OK! I'M LYING! LOOK AT MY NOSE, IT'S GETTING BIG!"

"It was always like that," said Nathaniel, futilely chasing a spearheaded tail behind him.

"But I will never betray master's trust!" Simpkin cried. "I will never violate the bond we share! As a convenient deity as my witness, I will never go Stippled again!"

At this, the grim foliot crushed a bitter mandarin, the fruit of his Summoning, and the decent allusion scene ended.

"Fine, we'll just interview you," said Nathaniel, the horns, tail and hooves disappearing as he became assured of himself and his heart, yadda, yadda.

Simpkin staggered backwards as the magician ruthlessly advanced with a clipboard.

"Name?"

"K-Kin no Baka?" (1. Will put pointless note on bottom. Don't worry about it.)

"Age?"

"Between here to eternity?"

"Half full or empty?"

"Empty?"

"Red or white?"

"Meat?"

"Favourite Harry Potter book?"

"The Philosopher's Stone?"

"Are you the Cowardly Lion?

"No?"

Nathaniel clicked his tongue as he reviewed the notes.

"Checks out on the vitals . . ." he murmured. "But my intuition tells me he is not the one."

Kitty rolled her eyes at being ignored, and snatched up the clipboard.

"OK, we'll just interview your master, and we'll be off," stated Kitty, and headed for the counter.

Simpkin looked dazed for a moment, then leapt across to block her way.

"You can't!" he said. "It's impossible!"

"Look," said Kitty. "I've broken into tons of places with better taste than this. I'm not going to waste a moment on your hackneyed laser-and-ravenous-djinn security system."

Evidently she hadn't read the 'Bartimaeus meets the Chucky Prototypes' chapter in the 'Amulet of Samarkand'. I have. I loved it. One of my all-time favourite scenes, and I'd love to make one even halfway as brilliant.

"But you can't because you're writing a parody," said Nathaniel. Now he gets an unsightly rash of scales up his neck and half his cheek.

"That's not what I mean!" the foliot pleaded desperately.

"I have no moral or ethical qualms about unlawfully entering someone's hermit cave either," stated Kitty. "So tell me where your master is."

"That's just it!" Simpkin waved frantically. "He's not here! He's out on business!"

There is a pause.

"Why didn't you tell us that sooner, then?" Kitty seized him by his collarbone.

"'Cause master said to tell nobody!" Simpkin wailed, waves of exaggerated tears down his cheeks.

Nathaniel sighed, and jotted down some note in a slim notebook he kept in his tight breast pocket.

"Well, no use hanging around here," he says, turning for the door. "The best thing we can do is try to get as much information as possible from our other suspects.

"Fine!" says Kitty, dropping the poor foliot. "Let's go."

They head out as Simpkin gasps and writhes behind the counter.

"By the way, did you know your face was covered in purple scales?"

"Dear Gladstone, NO!"

Droopy was engaged in an incredibly delicate operation requiring intense concentration, skill, and a sturdy mind.

"Steady . . ." he whispered. "Steady . . ."

"Boss!" cried out Mr Pointy, suddenly whipping open the door.

Droopy sat and stared at where once was a nearly complete tower of cards. A few errant clubs and still skirted over the ground.

"I hope this is important," said the Sergeant slowly, in one of his serious moods.

Mr Pointy scratched a cheek in nervousness. "Well, sir, I thought it might be necessary to keep you updated on our pursuit of the Cowardly Lion."

Droopy picked up a Joker and looked at it. "Very well then."

"Um . . . the update . . . the update . . . is that it stopped," Mr Pointy finally came out.

Droopy was still looking at the cards.

"Ah, I mean, we've lost it."

Ace of Hearts, Two of Hearts, Three of— hey, that's Spades!

"The Cowardly Lion. And whatever is chasing it. We've lost it."

His sergeant was reordering the cards spread all around the office.

"Ah, sir?" Mr Pointy questioned. "What are you going to do now?"

Sergeant Droopy looked at the Royal Flush he had in his hands.

"I think," he started. "That I'm going to have my evening warm milk."

Mr Pointy sighed and closed his eyes. Working for the Mob was less stressful than this.

FOOTNOTE'S JUST A LITTLE LOWER DOWN!

It was a bit late and a bit pointless, but I felt like I had to end it there. Feels like I have to wait 'till next chapter to put in the things I wanted there and get this in on time.

Wow, it might turn out to be a quartet . . .

Since we still don't a Cowardly Lion, I'll ask another character to do the Disclaimer. For your entertainment and approval, please get it up for . . .

A small and obscure imp steps forward into the focus, and is tossed a microphone. Holding it to his black-lipped mouth, he speaks thusly:

"G'day, all! It's Nittles, 512, as long as it's got something in it, as long as it's not moving, the Prisoner of Azkaban and NOT."

He takes out a slip of paper almost as big as himself, and switches the microphone into another hand.

"Right, yous. The author don't own the following: The Bartimaeus Trilogy, by Jonathon Stroud; the Wonderful Wizard of Oz, by Frank Baum; Terry Pratchett; crosswords; Hearts; clips of 'Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail', least since they lost it on an old computer; any barber shop quartets and songs; 'Bohemian Rhapsody' by Queen; Yahoo, registered trademark of the Yahoo Corporation; Madonna; the International Idol concept; the Olympics; various Gods and Goddesses; a re-cameo-ing Mysterious Priest; any Edgar Allen Poe works; Cockney accents (wit' she c'n't fake f'r long, like); blanket stitching; 'Gone With the Wind' or, more specifically, the allusion on the brilliant cartoon 'Daria'; the Harry Potter series; and any and all Monty Python skits which may have been used as basis for some of the scenes."

Nittles checks the note for any further remarks, and turns over.

"Right, and t' one-and-only footnote:"

FOOTNOTE HERE NOW!

1. 'Kin no Baka' is the author's crude attempt at Japanese. Basically, she's trying to mean 'Kin of Idiots', although why in Japanese we don't know. Must be a crazy music-induced whim.

To the applause of many, the imp bows.

Thank you, Nittles! Now, I remind you about the All I Ever Needed to Know in Life I Learned From the Bartimaeus Trilogy is still open, in fact, it's empty, so if you could just make one up from the top of your head—

"Like: 'Them small and wit' the mucky jobs always get picked on.'"

—Yeah, like that, and just spit it out with or without a note of acknowledgement to my written work, I would be deliriously happy, and go to school all smiling and give to charities and all that.

"An' if ya, don't, she's gunna find ye houses and—"

That's enough—

"—An' get this mega load of eggs, 'n—"

YOU DO NOT NEED TO SAY ANY MORE!

"An' that's just if ye say summing nice wit' constructive criticism an' all the like."

Thank you Nittles, I really appreciate it! Now let's just finish this up so—

"If ya flame 'er, she's gunna break ya bedroom winda (2) an'—"

CROW ARMY!

:Void of silence:

Um, I'm getting a special order in the mail next week?

:The flock of crows blow past, sending the tiny imp spinning into the distance:

Thanks, and that second footnote up there? (2) I just wanted to mention that pronunciation came from the play 'Educating Rita', which is like t' best play ta learn 'ow ta speak Liverpudlian and t' like.

See ya next time!