Dr. Dume ~ The Doctor is In

I had to wait until my fingers grew back before typing this one.

On Christmas Eve, we were ready. Click had hacked into the NASA Santa-tracking satellite and discovered that it was reporting twenty minutes behind his actual location at any time. Cunning old devil had ensured nobody could catch him, but he had not reckoned on extraterrestrial intervention.

Caligula and I were on the roof with crossbows while Click waited downstairs with the fireplace net, the gin traps and the anaesthetic-laced sherry. We let Santa land his sleigh and disappear into the chimney before shooting his reindeer.

That's where things started to get a bit strange.

Caligula and I both hit our targets but all the reindeer did was turn their heads and stare at us. The one with the big red nose snorted and hundreds of heavily-armed elves poured out of the back of the sleigh. They had lights and tinsel and marshmallows and fluffy clouds and egg-nog and good cheer. They also had submachine guns and machetes.

Caligula curled into the foetal position, teeth bared and fingers extended. I can't blame him, he is only a child and cannot be expected to cope with marshmallows and good cheer at his age. I reloaded and fired but one bolt at a time wasn't enough. I could only kebab three at a time so I was soon overwhelmed and lost all the fingers of my right hand to a piece of exceptionally sharp tinsel.

Later I learned that Click had failed to net Santa, who had then cajoled Click with a merry 'Ho ho ho' and offered to share his mince pie and sherry. It was over a day later that I actually found this out because Click was sedated and in a drunken stupor when I found him. Santa, apparently, is impervious to alcohol and anaesthetic.

So he escaped with his bolt-proof reindeer and his army of chuckling green-clad miniature monsters. I lost the bet with Senga and had to pay her three gold coins. I did say I was good at haggling, didn't I? Senga was the only one to get a present from Santa. It was a gold coin. The sarcastic old swine, he must have known somehow.

The bullet-holes in the roof will need sorting out and I'll make Click deal with the residual marshmallows and tinsel. He can sweep them off the roof. They'll probably help to keep the Ferals at bay until the swamp swallows them. If it can.

So once more, I have failed to capture Santa. It wasn't all bad. Santa has to abide by rules like any other supernatural being. Caligula, Click and I had, in his book, been very naughty indeed so the coal we received will heat this place until the spring.

It's more than three gold coins' worth at current prices. I think I'm still ahead on the deal.

An army of elves and Kevlar reindeer. I hadn't considered he might cheat.

You can't even trust Santa these days. What is the world coming to?

 

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 03:46 AM | Permalink

options

After a gruelling day in the lab, training Click in the correct way to skin, trim and butcher an estate agent, I did not expect to be faced with a murder mystery. Yet that is exactly what I found.

There is a dead tree in my living room. Not only has it been mercilessly severed at the part that normally joins the ground, the corpse has been draped with shiny fronds, glass balls and little lights. I had to admit that when it came to hiding the evidence, someone had gone about it in entirely the wrong way.

Naturally, such wanton brutality coupled with obvious inexperience led me to suspect Caligula but then he generally eats whatever he kills. He has not been known to decorate corpses before. Click had an alibi, he was with me in the lab. That left only Senga.

Therefore Senga must have stalked and killed this tree all on her own, dragged it indoors and draped it with shiny things. I was impressed at her skill in selecting one of the less dangerous forms of plant life in the swamp, subduing it and manipulating the corpse. I gave it a poke to make sure it was dead, then went to find her. If she is going to kill things, she would be better to restrict her tendencies to things we can eat. It's all very well having a herbicidal maniac around the place but tree soup isn't particularly nutritious.

I thought it best not to open with an accusation, so I casually mentioned the dead tree in the living room and asked if she had noticed it.

"I put it there," she said. "Do you like it?"

I know that tone of voice. It's the one that leaves the last part of the sentence unspoken - 'because if you don't...'

"It's very nice," I said. "Did you kill it yourself?"

"Kill it? No, I bought it. It's plastic so it won't go rotten unlike those stockings you insist on hanging up. Shouldn't you take the feet out of them first?"

"You did what?" I could barely believe my ears. She bought a tree? We are surrounded by free trees and she spent money on one? The woman had evidently lost her mind, or had been beguiled by the shiny things in Old Morag McStench's Shiny Things Shop.

Ah, now that was a likely explanation. The tree was covered in the sort of shiny and pointless things old Morag sells to the gullible, and to those she can snare with her enchantments.

Senga sniffed. "I spent a few coins, that's all. You have plenty. You won't even miss them."

"The reason I have plenty of them is that I don't spend them. Those coins are Father's and when he finds a few missing he's going to be angry enough to invite that banshee over again. Last time he did that I went a week without sleep and ended up stitching my own ears closed until it left."

"Oh don't be silly." Senga pulled an enormous dead bird from the cupboard and slapped it on the table. "Your father has been dead for years. He can't take it with him."

"No, he can't, that's why he's staying here with it." I examined the bird. "What's that for?"

"Tomorrow's dinner."

"No, we are having reindeer." I checked the time. "I hope. I'd better get Caligula and Click ready. It's time to lie in wait on the roof."

Senga laughed. "You won't catch him. You never do. I bet you five gold coins we'll be having turkey tomorrow."

"Four," I said. Oh, I'm certain we can get him this time but haggling just comes naturally.

"Done," she said with that infuriating little smile of hers.

I would have argued further but time had run out. I still had to open the gin traps and set the trip wires and get Click and Caligula onto the roof with crossbows (atomic blasters were disallowed because I am not interested in eating reindeer mince) and hide our footsteps in the snow before Santa arrived.

A dead plastic tree in my living room, a team effort for Santa capture and the risk of losing four gold coins.

Maybe I'm getting old, but Christmas doesn't seem the same any more.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:04 AM | Permalink

options

The Day of the Beard approaches once more. This year, I will have Caligula's help setting my Santa traps but this year there is something new.

First of all, I tried summoning him with magic. That didn't work. The following year I set traps but he's surprisingly nimble and he escaped. Not unscathed, but he did escape.

Then I turned to technology but he was ahead of me there also.

Last year I was distracted by Caligula who was only three months old and hadn't yet learned to howl only at the full moon. He howled every time his grandmother looked at him, but then that's excusable. The resemblance is really quite remarkable, right down to the placement of the craters. He understands the difference now but if she turns up unexpectedly he can still lapse into unseasonal howls. I can't punish him because looking at her makes me want to howl too. I hope Senga doesn't grow to resemble her mother.

This year, I have a new tactic. Caligula and I will hide on the roof, let him get inside and then shoot his reindeer. Then we can ransack his sleigh at our leisure and track him through the house. There'll be no escape this time, other than on foot through the swamp. The Slimy Swamp Thing will probably be dormant at that time of year but the Ferals don't hibernate. They'll be hungry and possibly drunk.

Even if he makes it to the village, if he turns up there without presents they'll lynch him. 

Reindeer steaks for Christmas dinner too. It's perfect.

Well, better go and re-string the crossbows. Christmas preparations can take a lot of time.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:59 PM | Permalink

options

Senga likes to read romance novels. I find them deeply disturbing myself because of the considerable physical contact with no blood. I mean, it's just not right. Then there are the squelchy bits that give me nightmares. Those parts are just nasty.

Well, anyway, I found a new source of such frightening books for her. Here's one of them. There is, at least, a red rose but it's cheating. I usually get the cheaper white ones and colour them in the laboratory. A quick dip is all it takes.

These books keep her quiet but sometimes they give her weird ideas. Still, all I have to do is mention that the last time she had those ideas, the result was Caligula.

Then she goes back to her books.

I wish I could write stories so terrifying.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:16 AM | Permalink

options

Little Caligula's feeding time was delayed today by a visit from the local constabulary. Their request seemed odd, but they insisted on knowing whether I was bothered by the Ferals in the swamp.

"Why would they bother me? I have lived with those Ferals all my life and am accustomed to their ways. The boiling lead and my trusty crossbow generally keep them at bay."

The policemen looked at each other for a moment. Yes, there were two. There always are, and I can't blame them after what happened to Constable McBludgeon in the swamp, all those years ago. They never did find his helmet.

"You're joking, right?" one of them said.

"I can assure you, there is nothing to joke about where Ferals are concerned. Nasty little vermin if they corner you."

One of them puffed out his chest. An impressive feat considering the plate-armour they all wear now. 

"I'll have to ask you to moderate your tone, sir. Those are people you are talking about."

 I had to laugh. "People? They might have been once, but no more. They are Ferals now. A different species."

"Seriously, sir, you can't say that. I have to ask - you are joking about the boiling lead and the crossbow, aren't you?"

"Certainly not. Ferals don't understand bluff. Sometimes they need a little persuasion to go away, especially when they're hungry."

They looked uneasy. "Sir, you cannot go around pouring boiling lead over people. I think we'd better come inside and ask you a few questions, if that's all right."

"Okay, but make it quick. It's feeding time."

"Feeding time?"

I had no sooner closed the door than little Caligula shot into it at impressive speed and bounced off. He keeps trying to play outside but I can't let him. It's not safe. He might make his way to the village, or worse - he might encounter a Rarely-Glimpsed Slimy Swamp Thing and I have very few of those. Caligula glared up at the policemen and bared his teeth. Both rows. The effect was enhanced by the UV light I had installed to stop him hiding in the shadows, which made him glow a healthy green.

The policemen took a step back. "What the hell is that?"

I raised one eyebrow. "Didn't you just tell me it was illegal to call people rude names? That is my son, Caligula. I have to feed him because his mother is still unconscious after his last nappy change." It was a particularly nasty one. Something moved in it, I'm sure. Just thinking about it still makes me feel dizzy.

"Look, I think we'll need to take you down to the station. That child needs a doctor and we need to know more about what you are doing to those people in the swamp."

I declined. "Why would we go to the station to converse? You won't be able to hear my answers over the noise of the trains. Caligula does not need a doctor because I am one. What he needs is his dinner and I would advise not delaying that any more than necessary."

"Nevertheless, we have to insist." One of them took out a pair of shiny modern manacles. I was about to ask him where I could buy something similar when Caligula lunged.

The policeman with Caligula attached to his leg gave out a scream and then fell over. The second one took out a little yellow gun. I've heard of those. They shoot electricity. He pointed the gun at me for a moment, then at Caligula.

"Get back!" he shouted. "Get away from there."

"I'm afraid he's only five months old," I said. "He doesn't understand you and even if he did, he's not likely to pay any attention." I let out a heavy sigh. "He never listens to me either."

The one on the floor went quiet. Caligula had reached his throat. 

It all worked out okay in the end. Caligula was fed, nobody had to go to the station and no questions were asked. We didn't really need the second policeman so he could have gone off to catch some proper criminals, but he fired that little yellow gun at Caligula.

I'm afraid Caligula became rather annoyed.

Now I have two new plant pots to hang alongside the old one. Senga will be pleased when she wakes up. She likes things to match.

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:11 PM | Permalink

options

I have checked Dumelet's gene-splicings and he does indeed glow a most delightfully leprous green under ultraviolet light. I have therefore installed these throughout the castle, with motion activators because there's no sense spending money on places he's not in.

Senga has been using them to top up her tan. As a result, she now resembles a skinned crab with blisters because these lights are not intended for the purpose she has put them to. It's not such a big deal for me because she looked pretty crab-like before apart from the total whiteness and the number of legs. She already had the propensity for picking slimy molluscs off the walls.

All the same, she insists it's painful and was not amused when I took out my clipboard and requested details. She has taken to sleeping in one of the spare rooms and won't tell me which one. Well, it's up to her but if Dumelet escapes his cot I won't be able to tell where the screams are coming from.

I'm keeping the barbed steel bed-net though. She can take her chances with Dumelet's night hungers.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 03:53 AM | Permalink

options

Senga called me away from a dissection today. I had another travelling salesman and was adding data to my attempt to determine whether intestinal length correlates with selling ability and she interrupted me most rudely.

I had to help her change Dumelet's nappy. I have never seen anything so disgusting in my life. It was my job to hold the muzzle on him while she used the power hose and bleach to clean him, followed by a little baby powder of course, and then she'd strap the new nappy on with cable ties. It would be cheaper to use safety pins but I prefer he's not armed.

I had to carry the bag of evil stench out of the room. I wish I had longer arms. Senga has apparently been throwing these out into the swamp so I'll have to tread carefully next time I go out for a walk. They could mutate into anything out there. It's not so surprising that I've seen little of the Ferals or the Slimy Swamp Thing lately if the castle is surrounded by these little bombs of revulsion.

What a horrific experience. It's over now and I can get back to those intestines.

Tomorrow I'll fix Dumelet's muzzle with something he can't chew through.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:10 AM | Permalink

options

One of the Green men arrived at my door today. They like the swamp. If they didn't, there'd be more of them.

"I work on Global Warming," he said, through an ego so huge it nearly tipped the whole castle on its side.

"Really?" I was impressed. "That's quite ambitious. I have trouble keeping the castle above zero in winter. How do you plan to warm the whole world?" I narrowed my eyes at him. "It sounds expensive."

"No, no, you don't understand." He laughed without moving his beard. It had to be seen to be believed but trust me, that thing was fixed in time and space. His head moved up and down over it but the beard never even twitched. "I don't want the world to get warmer. I want to stop it getting warmer."

I considered this. "Well, why don't you leave it alone then? That has the advantage of being effortless and is also the cheapest option, and that's always good."

His head (but not his beard) vibrated. "Don't you know the ice caps are melting?"

There was a long pause while I tried to make sense of this abrupt change of subject. Eventually I ventured an opinion. "Well, you know, if you make headgear out of ice, that sort of thing is only to be expected. Really, it's not a good business plan. Have you considered cotton? Or wool?"

There was another long pause while the hole in his beard gaped at me. His eyes grew so wide I would hardly need a scalpel to get them out. That'll come in handy later, I thought.

"You really don't get it, do you?" he said.

"No," I said. "I'm married." He was switching subjects faster than a group of dowager aunts on unlimited free sherry. "Why not come inside and discuss it in my laboratory? It's not very warm but I gather you prefer it that way."

He moved forward and I admit I was a little surprised to see his beard move with him. I had begun to consider it a mere hallucination.

"Is this place insulated?" He looked at the walls with far more self-importance than could realistically be contained in such a small frame.

"No," I said, "although it has been frequently insulted. Will that do?"

He drew a breath. "I have a lot of work to do here, I can see that."

He didn't have to do very much work as it turned out. Unless he considered screaming as a form of work. Well, I suppose it does take some effort to reach the volumes he managed, although he seemed to find it easy. He did do a lot of it, but not for very long.

Green curry tonight. Senga excelled herself, it was almost edible.

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 01:17 AM | Permalink

options

Especially those whose larders are thinning.

I recently had an infestation of neighbours. At the edge of the swamp is a patch of ground, fairly flat and mostly harmless where some people decided to build a house. Well, that's no problem. Once they hack back the whipweed and the spikebush, assuming they survive that, it'll be a reasonably safe place to live.

However, I have never had neighbours before. Senga has apparently experienced this phenomenon in the past and says I should be nice to them.

I tried. I really did. I invited them round for tea. I showed them around Dume Towers and I showed them the laboratory,

Senga was annoyed at the outcome but that didn't stop her making a very pleasant evening meal of Neighbour Curry. There are some leftovers too.

The house they started is half-built. So it might attract more.

I hope so. Neighbours are very nice indeed.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:51 AM | Permalink

options

 

I am definitely going to find out more about this. It looks like a most enjoyable experiment.

I will, of course, need a volunteer.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 09:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

options

It is vile, tasteless, nasty, heartless and downright inhuman to take a real life tragedy and devise a horror tale around it. So, without further ado, here's one I prepared earlier.

In the UK, body parts have started appearing in fields. Police are piecing together what has happened, but it is clear that someone has been murdered gradually, a bit at a time. Enough there to start a horror story anyway, but it develops. Apparently they can't tell the shoe size of the victim with any certainty, despite having a foot, and can't be sure of the ethnicity. There seems to be some strangeness about the skin.

Body parts, apparently human but with some oddities, collected by authorities like a grisly jigsaw and presumably placed together on a slab somewhere.

Get your writing organs ready - what happens when all the parts are in one place? Who dismembered the corpse and why did they spread the parts so far apart? What are they doing to prevent reassembly and why? Which is the last part to be found? Who has it?

Real life is stranger than fiction, it's often said. It can be more horrific, too.

There's serious competition out there, not from other writers but from reality. Fight back!

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:05 PM | Permalink

options

 

The time draws nigh for the next Alienskin article. I have something rather special in mind for this one, if I can pull it off in time.

It's on there pretty tight. I'll get Senga to help.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:19 AM | Permalink

options

The Ferals were roaming around the castle all last night. It took some effort to rouse Senga and send her up to the roof to heat the lead. I shouted for a while before I remembered that it was futile and eventually had to go and wake her myself.

Well, today she is making unreasonable female-type demands of me. She wants cameras to watch the outside of the castle all the time. I can't understand why. The castle hasn't done anything, ever, as far as I can remember. Watching it do nothing sounds like an awful waste of time and money.

She's not going to shut up until I at least look like I'm doing something about it so I have rooted out a potential camera housing. Something inconspicuous that nobody will notice. I'm sure she liked it because she screamed louder than ever.

Now I'll have to fit a camera into it. Perhaps I should rinse it first.

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:13 AM | Permalink

options

I visited the dolls in the dungeon recently. It wasn't too bad. Most of my fingers are working again and my eyesight is almost back to normal. I won't bore you with the details here because it's all in the article I've sent to Alienskin.

I've been sending articles since November 2003 and not one has been rejected. None. Yet every time I hit 'send' I get that writer's version of stage fright. Is it okay? Did I catch every typo this time? Does it make sense? Is this The One that will come back with the big red 'No'?

I don't know yet.

I don't suppose the feeling ever goes away. I can't imagine ever confidently sending a story, article, or novel out and being certain it will be accepted. Does that happen to people like Stephen King? Does he still clutch his lucky goat's pancreas, as I do, in blind terror of having to do it again with ten minutes to spare?

I don't know that either, and probably never will.

I do know those dolls are up to something down there. Jugular the Clown is the ringleader and he's always been sneaky. I'm going to send Stumpy down to watch them tonight. He can pretend he's come to dust them and iron their clothes. It's time they were valeted.

Maybe it'll improve their mood. If they trust him, they might even tell him what's going on.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

options

Stumpy failed. He fell asleep and tried to fob me off with some rapid fakery involving steam and a bloodstained lightbulb. I have given him a preliminary beating while I consider what punishment he deserves.

I was distracted from this by a visitor. Upon opening the door, I faced a grinning beard who made a bizarre statement.

"I am green," was what he said.

There was a long and pregnant pause. In due course it gave birth to another pause, also long but mercifully not pregnant. When it ended I cleared my throat.

"I don't know what you've been told," I said, "but you are not green. From where I'm standing you are a sort of wan...beige...ashen kind of colour. Definitely unhealthy, but not as bad as green."

He laughed, a sound that found a reaction in me similar to that of a bottle breaking (yes, a simile! It even has 'similar' in it so it's a similar simile. If you've heard it before it's a familiar similar simile. Say it five times fast. No reason. It just keeps you busy).

Well, what was I talking about? Oh yes, my visitor who thought he was the Green Man, when in fact he looked more like a beard on a stick (another one, even if it is tenuous).

"You don't understand," he said through a mouth with far too many teeth. "I mean I'm environmentally friendly. I use little electricity or gas, most of my power comes from free, natural resources and I never eat animals killed in abbatoirs."

Well, thought I, a kindred spirit. I had no idea a refusal to part with cash was known as 'being Green'. I am also environmentally friendly even though the local environment is the most unfriendly imaginable. I never eat anything killed in abbatoirs. With Stumpy's cooking, I wonder if many of our meals have been killed at all. So I invited the walking beard inside.

Then he produced glossy brochures extolling the virtues of his Green agenda. As with all glossy brochures, they involved the separation of money and me.

I called Stumpy and asked if he knew how to cook beard.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:05 AM | Permalink

options

Over the centuries, successive Dumes have tried and tried to photograph a lunar eclipse. None have succeeded. Well, there's another one tonight, so the Professor tells me. The trouble is, it's best viewed from a place called America which isn't on any of my ancestral maps. Somewhere beyond Eire, I think, and probably very close to the edge of the world if not over it.

The Professor describes it as 'the other side of the world' but I think he's making that up. What does he mean? Underneath? Everyone would fall off.

Right. The eclipse. It's going to be visible from here but we might not get the full effect this far north. There's also the matter of our mist, which never breaks. And there's the small matter of timing. The eclipse is at 3 am, PBT (Proper British Time). I think I have a solution to those last two problems.

I've instructed Stumpy to stay on the roof and take pictures. That way, I get pictures taken above the mist and I stay warm and asleep. It's a win-win situation.

Stumpy doesn't see it. I think he just likes to grumble. As long as he does it quietly and in between photographs, he can grumble all he wants. It keeps him happy.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 10:17 PM | Permalink

options

Lately I have experienced a few aches and twinges in my hands and forearms. For a writer, this is terrifying. It's the equivalent of a long-distance runner going lame.

I read that magnetic bracelets can help with this sort of thing so I rooted out a few broken hard drives. They have magnets inside. Powerful ones. More is better, I reasoned.

Anyway, I dismantled the drives and removed the magnets. I secured them to my left wrist with a steel band, thinking that if it worked, my left wrist would get better while my right would stay sore. Once proven, I could then attach more magnets to the right.

There are a couple of things to note here. The first is, if you secure the magnets with a steel band, be sure to carry a pair of cutters with you at all times. Alternatively. install some kind of release mechanism.

Secondly, and most important, never open the fridge with the hand that has the magnets.

Spending two days as a fridge ornament is no fun at all.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:25 PM | Permalink

options

Right, I'm leaving out the invocations this year. All I ever get is that red guy with the horns, and never Santa. This time I'm trying a more direct approach.

Every chimney is fitted with a grille that falls into place when someone passes it on the way down. He won't get back out that way. There are nets, crossbows on tripwires, and the lights on the tree have bare wires. All the doors will be locked and I have bear traps on the roof to immobilise the reindeer. I think of them as self-attaching wheel clamps. The stockings above every fireplace are filled with scalpel blades and I even have Father's old blunderbuss loaded and ready.

This time, Santa's going down. If he has an eye-pod in his bag, Stumpy is in luck, even though I intercepted the greedy little bastard's letter and sent him a suitable reply. Well, there'll be no Santa next year so it's only fair he share in the spoils.

I'm ready.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 02:19 AM | Permalink

options

Today is my birthday. It’s not such a big deal. Every Dume has the same birthday. I’m told Uncle Silas tried to buck the trend by emerging on the 30^th, but his mother tied her legs together with barbed wire until after midnight. So tonight is the Birthday of Dume, worldwide. If there are any others left. I hope not – they might want to move in.

I had hoped to have all my old friends present but Stumpy failed to find them. He did find the cosmetics saleswoman who visited two years ago, but there wasn’t much left of her. She didn’t smell as fragrant as I remembered, either. I told Stumpy to put her back into the swamp and settled down for a quiet night of sulking, just me and Mother. Mother doesn’t say much anymore but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

After the incident with the dodgy shelf, I’ve taken to fitting the old family members with head-ropes so I can hang them from the ceiling. They look very festive, and free up a lot of space that way. I took Mother into the laboratory where she could watch me work, but left the others on their ropes.

I had settled in for a dull evening but I had forgotten something – trick-or-trickers! Few of them venture out to the castle these days, which might have something to do with the fact that of those who do, even fewer make it back to the village. I had to scramble into action when the doorbell tolled. I sent Stumpy scurrying to the roof-cauldrons, even though he wouldn’t be able to get the lead hot enough for this first batch.

My best smile in place, I opened the door to two of the village’s cockiest teenagers. It’s always teenagers who get it in the horror films, so I invited them in. I had a special treat in mind.

They were a scrawny pair, but I did get a few bottles of fresh, warm drink from them and a finger-buffet too. I left Stumpy to deal with subsequent trickers and returned to my laboratory.

It’s going to be a fun night, after all.

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 05:24 PM | Permalink

options

This morning I opened the door to a charming young lady. Her charm faded when I discovered she was there for one reason only. To sell me a fitted kitchen.

“Thanks,” I said, closing the door, “but my kitchen fits.”

“Oh, but—” She did that foot-in-the-door thing. Now, I have a particularly heavy door. It keeps out Ferals and the Slimy Swamp thing and is more than capable of crushing a kitchen-seller’s foot. It was such a dainty foot that I held back.

“Really, my kitchen fits perfectly. It doesn’t need adjusting.”

Her face dimpled. “That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about a new kitchen. All wipe-clean melamine and stainless steel.”

“I like stains.”

She was undaunted. “A brand new cooker, too. What kind do you use now?”

I had to think about that one. There might once have been a brand name on that cauldron, but centuries of accumulated grease have obscured it. I can’t even tell where it might be.

“An old one,” I said.

“So wouldn’t you like a new one? With a double-oven, fan-assisted, integral grill, timer, and maybe even a rotisserie?”

“What’s a rotisserie?” I didn’t understand the rest of it either, but thought it best to deal with one thing at a time.

She opened her little bag and took out shiny brochures. I hate shiny brochures. They’re a sure sign someone wants your money. I still live by my grandfather’s code: the best way to make sure you always have money in your pocket is not to spend any of it. She held out the brochures. I ignored them.

“Well, it’s like a spike you stick through your meat, and it rotates as it cooks.” She waved the brochures. “You can read about it in here.”

I thought it best to change the subject and hope she forgot about the brochures. “Does it have a little clock on it?”

“Why, yes. A digital one, with an alarm.”

“Everything has a clock on it. I don’t need any more clocks.” I started to close the door. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I have to work on my novel.” I knew that was a mistake as soon as I said it. Her eyes lit up and she did the foot-in-the-door again.

“You’re a writer? How exciting. It must be wonderful to just sit around all day, making up stories and getting paid for it. What sort of things do you write? I might have read some of yours.”

“I doubt it. I’ve only just finished the first one and it’s not published.”

“Oh, but it must be a wonderful life, just writing away all day long.”

I shuddered at the thought. All day, every day? I could do that for maybe a week before I went over to YouTube to watch all the Rex the Runt videos again. Which reminds me, I haven’t looked in on Rex for some time.

“I don’t write all day long. I have serious research work to do, and… other things.”

“Research? Really? You have such a busy life, it sounds like you’d really benefit from one of our labour-saving kitchens. What kind of research do you do?”

She opened one of those shiny brochures. Deep in the bowels of the castle, I knew my vaults of doubloons and groats trembled with the movement of the pages. I couldn’t put my money through any more torment.

“Why don’t you come in and see for yourself?” I held the door open.

Her smile was so wide as she crossed the threshold I had to stop myself shaking my head in disbelief. It’s rare to find an experimental subject who enters so cheerfully, and with no sedation at all. Later, I had Stumpy take her to the kitchen. Well, the meaty parts, anyway.

I used tongs to transfer those shiny brochures to the furnace. She had a lot of them in her bag. It gave me a warm feeling to know I had saved a lot of people from the terrors of spending money.

In the depths of the vaults, I felt the doubloons sigh with relief.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 12:39 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

options

I had an interesting Beltane ceremony last night. After much chanting and shouting at Stumpy to keep the candles lit, I once more failed to materialize the Rabbit That Gives Eggs.

 

Instead, I was again visited by the red man with horns and a tail. He really is becoming something of a nuisance. He said his name was Stan, I think, but I didn’t quite catch it because every time he opens his mouth, flames come out. His hooves made more dents in my floor, too.

 

Anyway, Stumpy went off somewhere to sulk while I argued with Red Stan about his appearance. Stan insisted I called him again. I pointed out I had no idea who he was, and had never called him. He said I forced him to appear. I said I hadn’t even invited him to appear, and asked, quite politely I thought, if he wouldn’t mind just clearing out of the way so I could get on with calling the Rabbit. At this point, he produced a hat then pulled a rabbit out of it.

 

“Here you are,” he said. “I can get as many rabbits as you want. How about we make a deal?”

 

I eyed the rabbit. It looked perfectly ordinary to me. “Does it lay chocolate eggs?”

 

His eyes bulged. “Eggs? Flaming Hell, you don’t want much, do you? Okay, I’ll make it lay chocolate eggs. Now how about that deal?”

 

“I told you at Christmas, I never enter into any business arrangements with anyone who has a tail,” I said. “It’s unseemly.”

 

Stan pressed the rabbit back into the hat, which burst into flames and vanished. He’s good at those tricks, but overdoes the fire aspect, I think.

 

“So what do you want?” He placed his hands on his hips and glowered at me. I considered this very rude behaviour for a guest, especially an uninvited guest. I picked up my book and sought out the most powerful banishment spell in it. A few words later, and he was gone.

 

I sent him to the lowest depths of Hell. That’ll teach him.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 08:58 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

options

Romulus visted again. This time he was elated by gadgetry. He loves all that sort of thing. I was interested in his idea of a solar-powered train, but at the same time I was a little miffed.

Solar power is a wonderful thing. Free electricity is not to be scoffed at. I try to use as little mains power as possible, but from this month's bill I suspect Stumpy is tapping in somewhere. But that's another story.

Solar power needs one vital component. Sunlight. Dume Swamp has little of that. I can tell when it's daytime, most days, but there's never enough to make any solar-powered thing worthwhile.

I go for wind power. There's a lot of it here, and I've even fitted a little turbine into Stumpy's favourite chair. I can power a small town when he's eaten beans. There is another alternative that occurred to me recently.

Rain. I'm in Scotland, and rain is one of our greatest natural resources. We have a lot of it.

Dume Towers has a lot of roof area too. All that rain is collected in gutters and sent into downpipes. So, what if every downpipe had a water wheel connected to a generator?

Don't get hung up on thinking green. Think 'free' instead. Why pay for someone else to provide power when there's so much of it available for nothing? Rain power is certainly the way forward for where I live. Energy that literally drops from the sky.

So, next time that smug Professor visits, I'll take him outside and show him the Rain Train.

Weather permitting, naturally.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 10:47 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

options

Ah, it's wonderful to be visited by escaped convicts. There's no need to be concerned that someone might know where they are. It's certain they didn't leave a note of where they were going when they escaped unless they're exceptionally well-trained prisoners.

One of them was tall enough to provide a good base for the Tall Man sculpture. He was rather heavyset though, so I'd have had to carve away a fair amount. Rather than waste all that flesh, I decided to build a Hellboy instead. I hope this one will animate. The Pinhead didn't work last time.

The other convict was a scrawny specimen, useful only as a base stock for soup. I'll have Stumpy deal with that when he wakes up. He's slept all day, just because I asked him to stay up to work my trap. Well, escaped convicts don't catch themselves, you know.

These two had the good manners to bring the file and the knife along with them. That saves me having to use another set when I bake a cake for next visiting day. I wonder who I should visit next time?

Posted by Dr. Dume at 10:18 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

options

Scientists out in the Conventional World have, at last, made the first steps to creating a material that makes whatever it covers invisible.

About time. I invented an invisibility suit a long time ago. As I told the sneering Stumpy, my assistant, I created a suit which made the wearer completely invisible. I even used it to visit the village a few times.

"Oh, really?" Stumpy curled the still-working part of his mouth. "Let's see it then."

"You can't see it. That's the point." Sometimes I despair.

"Where is it?"

"Damned if I know." That's the trouble with invisibility suits. Once you take them off, it's very hard to find them again. Stumpy says he's going to look for it. Sounds like a futile endeavour to me.

 

 

Posted by Dr. Dume at 07:50 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

options

I've been watching the Phantasm films again. They have some atrocious acting and some of the links between films are wince-inducing, but I keep watching for two reasons - the Tall Man and the spheres.

I haven't yet managed to find a suitable base for a model of the Tall Man, but the spheres are another matter. I've made several, but can't get them to work properly. Those that work are hard to control. There's one loose in the castle somewhere, which means I have the inconvenience of wearing a steel helmet all the time until I find it.

What I need is bait. Wait, is that the doorbell?

Posted by Dr. Dume at 11:40 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

options

I was pottering about in the laboratory today, under the watchful eye of my father. Just the one, since the other is in the kitchen, in a jar of its own. So I was a little irritated when the doorbell rang, mainly because the lab is in the top room of the highest tower. It has to be there so that I don’t have to raise the table so high during thunderstorms.

Anyway, I made the long trek downstairs in no particular hurry. Usually the Scaly Swamp Thing deals with unwanted visitors before I get to the door. It’s less active in the winter, so my doorbell pealed another three or four times before I reached it.

On the doorstep was a very earnest-looking chap with a beard and entirely unsuitable sandals.

“What?” I said, because I was feeling charitable.

He held out a leaflet. “How do you feel about experiments on animals?”

I rubbed my chin. I hadn’t thought of that, and said so.

“Well, it happens all the time,” he said. “Animals are put through terrible procedures in labs all over the country.”

“Really? Where?” I was beginning to like this visitor, even though I thought it sounded like an awful waste of a good terrible procedure. Still, perhaps they were just practicing.

“All over,” he said. “I’m trying to put a stop to it.”

“Quite right.” I took his pamphlet and tossed it aside. Why would anyone waste a good experimental procedure on an animal? I smiled, but without showing my teeth this time. I didn’t want him to run like the others. “Would you like to see my laboratory?”

“You have a laboratory?” He seemed surprised. I could not see why, since from what he was telling me there were people with laboratories everywhere. He pursed his lips. “Do you experiment on animals?”

“Oh, goodness, no,” I said. “Do come inside.”  I admit to being a little taken aback when he did, without all the usual yelling.

It’s been a long time since someone walked into my lab. Usually I have to sedate them first.

Posted by Dr. Dume at 03:28 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

options