A Mansion House New Year

I have been visiting the mansion house for a very long time now, and I've been bringing you stories about it for 1 year 6 months, and 28 days, and I have done it with great satisfaction. It pains me, however, to admit to you or to myself, that I haven't truly cultivated a sense of duty about these reports. I've flitted from topic to topic, and only written on days that I found convenient, meaning almost never. Well no more. I've been awakened to my responsibility by a an ancient and nearly forgotten book in the library.

You see, today, or rather the day which has just ended, is the first one of this year, and last night was the last one of the last year. It's a time of new beginnings, not just for me but for everyone, everything, and particularly for the Mansion House. Every year, as the first light of the new year dawns upon the house, it undergoes hundreds of changes. Some are spectacular, others mundane, some permanent, and others instantaneous and fleeting. This year, for example, one tile of the marble floor of the library gained an extra vein of crystal; a staircase shifted locations; a room appeared and another  vanished (with a beloved family heirloom locked inside of course).

Any dust and grime that had not yet withered at Wadsworth's gaze vanished from existence, and new gargoyle appeared on the southern battlements, and the eastern cellar repopulated itself with various rare spirits - which I do not drink - and a particularly vibrant flavor of root beer - which I savor.

Most of the day, miniature fireworks have been sporadically exploding inside the fireplace; and our perennial phenofuax, a rare red bush, has been exploding in flame, burning to ashes, and growing again from the soot. (It would, of course do this in any house on the first day of the year. The whole cycle takes about one hour, so it does this approximately 24 times before sitting still and quiet for the rest of the year). Even more spectacularly Beezle slept quietly for the duration of the day. (There are some days of the year, like New Years and Christmas, that sap him of strength.)

At about midday, I walked into the library with Wadsworth for a private poetry reading. We had each selected a few verses that we found inspiring, along with one or two that we each had written. I would post them here, but I still find them private and personal. As we finished, the afternoon light spread into the room and little things changed here and there. Nothing major happened, with the exception of Griseus waking.

Griseus is a very old book—not a dusty one, Wadsworth has seen to that—he's full of arcane writings and lost spells and hidden knowledge. At least, that's what he'd like you to believe. Actually I believe quite a lot of it. I just also happen to also believe that Griseus exaggerates more often than he'd like you to believe. Griseus has been deeply asleep for a number of years, but as the light of the new year caressed his black leather cover his pages fluttered open in a wide yawn.

Wadsworth's eyebrows lifted, and so did mine. "Good morning Griseus," I intoned. The book snapped shut, and hovered a few feat above it's pedestal, before turning to face me. Griseus's is blank on his back cover and on his spine, but the front cover is adorned raised silver emblems - the masks of comedy and tragedy that are commonly seen on the walls of acting theaters. The mask of tragedy made a quizzical face and gave voice to the words, "Good heavens. Am I still here? I expected to wake somewhere a little more... prestigious."

I winked at Wadsworth and responded, "Yes, well, I did once consider pawning you a at a gypsy flee market a few years ago, but nobody offered enough to make it worth the trade. I suppose it's for the best. I needed the cash, but you've made an excellent ornament."

Griseus swelled up like a waterlogged journal, and I couldn't help but wonder whether he most wanted to protest the indignity of the flee market or the disgraceful idea of using him as a common decoration. To my surprise he did neither. Instead he compressed his pages, smoothed his cover and icily replied, "I will not dignify that obvious jib with a response. However I suggest that in the future, if you do not wish to find yourself lost in the nether, you address me as is befitting one of my station." Then he turned to Wadsworth and said, "Though the lad has grown older, he's not much more mature, is he."

"His lordship is light of heart, certainly," said Wadsworth.

I smiled wryly. "You're personality hasn't changed much either, Griseus. And that's why I know that when we leave this room for the comfort of the smoking room fireplace, you'll follow, but pretend that you don't like us much."

"There is nothing to pretend. Tombs as old as I have few thoughts to spare on the briefly lived existence of insolent mortals like you."

I turned and walked toward the door. "Then I guess you won't follow me and pester me about what's happened in the last few years."

Gristle sniffed loudly. "Interest in you, and interest in keeping up with current events are two separate and highly dissimilar concepts."

"Yes, yes, of course they are," I grinned.

As we entered the hallway Wadsworth paused and asked, "Shall I prepare a hot beverage and perhaps a light snack, Sir?"

"Yes thanks." I responded. "A cup of hot dark Belgian chocolate would be nice right about now."

"Very good sir," Wadsworth bowed, "I shall rejoin you shortly."

And so it was that I spend the rest of the evening, in the smoking lounge updating Griseus on current events. I told him a few anecdotes, showed him a few objects of interest, and read a few of these blog posts to him.

"How many of these 'blog' postings have you recorded?" Griseus asked, after I read to him from Dumpster Diving and What Bears Say when No One is Listening.

"Well, let's see," I said, and did a quick tally, "Looks like 22 of them,"

"I see. And for how long have you been producing them?"

"Oh, about a year and a half... something like that."

Griseus's tone took on a hint of annoyance, "Do you realize, your lordship, that in one and one-half years there are 78 weeks? That is nearly 18 months, or 546 days. Do you care so little about this place and its happenings that you have only made brief public mention of it on an average of little more than once each month?"

I cleared my throat. But I wasn't quite sure how to respond. I wanted to say, "I've been busy," but as I opened my mouth to say it, the words withered and died on my tongue. I have been busy. But not so busy that I couldn't write now and again.

"I've been writing a book," I hazarded through a tight throat, "It's about the mansion."

"Oh? And how for how long have you worked on it. Is it complete?"

"No." I said, "and I've been compiling it for much longer than it should have taken."

"I suspected as much. What is the last thing you reported about this house?"

I quickly surfed to Crimson Surprise on my laptop and read it out loud, pausing with shame at the incomplete ending.

"Mmm. Yes. This seems like a particularly consequential event." said Griseus, "Where is the concluding entry?"

"I haven't... I haven't quite -" I trailed off, but Griseus finished for me, "-gotten around to it?"

I nodded, and we sat in awkward silence for a short time.

Griseus sighed. Then he hovered in front of my face very deliberately said, "Please listen carefully, Lord Secrest. I believe that you began this project because you believed it was important as well as entertaining. You thought it was worth something, not only to you, but also to others. However, your negligence strips your writing of value and makes a mockery of it's subject. Some tasks are better left uninitiated than having been done the disservice of being started only to be left undone. This project is perhaps a task of that nature. Now, I think I will take my leave. I do not wish to distract you. It seems to me that you will wish to take some time to write before you sleep."

Griseus hovered quietly out of the room. Subdued, I began to write this entry. I have nearly finished, but I haven't written nearly enough. The new year is a time of new beginnings. It's a time for change, so here's my resolution. I will update weekly. Expect it. If I disappoint you, know that I have also disappointed myself along with a very old and very wise friend. But let's not dwell on that. Let's look forward, and raise a glass to the coming year. God bless both my endeavors and yours.

"I Beezle" or "The future is a delicate thing, Sir. Do try not to break it."

If you haven't yet read the previous post, I recommend that you peruse it. It contains facts and terminologies that I are slightly relevant to this post. I've moved the most important fact to this one though. Actually now that it's done and I'm really thinking hard about it, if you get this one fact you may not really need the rest, but maybe you'll understand a few more of the inner workings of the story? I certainly hope so after taking the time to type all that out. There is a story about a fire breathing opossum in the previous post if that's enticing to you at all...

---

I learned a new verb recently through the power of Google. I performed a search on Beezle, trying to decide how seriously people have been taking his newly formed e-cult, and this is what I found:
(http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Beezle). Of course, I took immediate interest. It's important to me to know if the things that Beezle sees on the internet can impact me negatively. As of the time of this posting, the most upvoted definition of 'beezle' on Urban Dictionary is as follows:

Beezle:

This term is used to describe any activity done for its own sake/pleasure. People seeing someone/something beezle will likely not understand why that person/creature/thing is doing whatever he/she/it is doing. Examples include: frolicking, climbing trees, most things done while stoned/drunk. Baby animals (and for some reason, squirrels, dolphins and whales) naturally beezle all the time. It's generally considered complimentary, but just a little confusing...

I had several reactions to this. First I had a good laugh at the image of Beezle romping playfully with aquatic and woodland creatures. Then I realized with shock that the term is accurate. If anyone beezles, Beezle does. What do you suppose he accomplishes by hypnotizing me at night and making me sleep dance? Or by pretending to be "The Mummy" and swallowing me with swimming pool water when I make use of the high dive? (I don't think I've ever mentioned it yet, but I that's actually how the Mansion House Wars started. I nearly drowned. Maybe I'll remember to tell you the story one day.)

Finally, I realized that if anyone else besides Beezle beezles, it would probably be me. I'm easily entertained, and I was actually glad to have a word to put to the group of actions that entertain me. Any word is better than "dinking around." However, to be honest I was a little terrified to learn that I do yet another thing that Beezle does. I don't like feeling similar to Beezle, but as time rolls onward my list of like traits keeps growing. I'm writing them off as meaningless - I'm not damning souls after all, but I've got to watch myself. Having more common ground makes it harder to keep my guard up.

That's not the point of this post though. The point is that I beezle, and that I need to be careful when I do it because there can be consequences. Here is an excellent example:

I rent an apartment in Provo out of necessity. I work and go to school at BYU and there are rare occasions when I can't quite seem to abstract* back to the mansion house. If those moments happen to come at night, I don't much like competing with Riverman Johnson for park bench space (or bridge space when the weather is foul.) I mentioned at one point that he told me he was going to acquire a sword and Chinese stars with which to defend his multiple forms of literature, didn't I? I can attest that he has acquired these, and that he is more than willing to defend his territory. His weapons are of poor quality and very dull, but they still hurt quite a bit when he manages to land a hit.

*(I've covered abstract travel recently, but here's the gist: to get to the mansion house I have to be both distracted and in motion. It's really not that hard, it just doesn't always work as advertised. I don't do magic, remember? It just happens to me when I'm not paying attention.)

I also like warm water. If there is time and hot water enough, I like to take long showers or baths. Even when I don't mean to take a long time, I loose track of time in the shower. It's because I relax and let my mind wander. Since I first came to the mansion house, I've spent inordinate amounts of time in the natural hot-spring cave that the mansion is built around. When I'm stuck in Provo, I can do almost as well at the outdoor hot tub behind the complex's clubhouse. The hot tub in question is large by apartment standards, and can accommodate perhaps twenty people if all of those people don't mind literally rubbing shoulders. When it's empty it feels spacious.

A few weeks ago on a thursday I was stuck at my digs in Provo. Feeling active I decided to have a short swim and to then enjoy the hot tub. When I got out of the pool the tub was empty and I was happy about that. I try not to beezle in public - it feels awkward. I eased into the tub and let the jets work on my back. As always my swimming trunks filled with air and I became more buoyant finding it harder to stay anchored to my seat (I am a very light person.) On this occasion however, I had a beezeling epiphany of sorts. I wondered If I could float on my back and drift about the tub in whatever direction the currents took me.

No sooner did I start my experiment then two very muscular guys and their girlfriends splashed into the pool. (I didn't actually see them because I was staring up at the stunningly clear big dipper. I just heard them through the water.) I sat up quickly to move out the way and to appear less silly. The thing is that sitting up while floating makes a person sink. I sputtered back up to the surface and took my original seat. The other four had the common decency to keep their chortling to a minimum, and for that I was grateful. I wondered how long they would be there and I busied myself by playing subtly with the flat leaf-like elm seeds that had fallen into the water. They floated nicely like little boats and I sent them off on excursions in the eddies.

When I was bored of sea seed missions I had another swim until the group left. I then I hustled back to the hot tub. I laid out on the water, puffing my chest out and tucking in my legs so that they didn't touch the bottom. The currents did the rest. I only bumped into an edge once and I was kept in a continual counter clockwise rotation with my head at the center. It was enjoyable and relaxing. The whole time I watched the crisp stars above me rotating. More than ever, the big dipper appeared to me as the turning hour hand of a giant clock. (It really is one. See the companion guide to this post). I must have made at least three full rotations before I realized that I had abstracted to the mansion house hot tub. (Not the hot springs cave. It doesn't grant an open view of the stars. There is an actual man-made hot tub outside, close to the pool and conservatory.)

Pleasently surprised and done with sailing about on my back, I toweled off and went into the kitchen through the servants door. I grabbed a roll from the constant supply Wadsworth keeps there, and pulled on the light fixture that opens the hidden door to the hidden passages behind the walls. (I like using the secret corridors every so often despite the fact that the standard hallways are much more comfortable. It's a beezle thing.) I walked happily toward the Master's Chamber until I heard Wadsworth's pleasant voice saying, "Will take your supper here or in the dining room sir?" I stopped dead in my tracks. I was at that point, just above my study. The secret passages are designed for eavesdropping (hence the clarity of Wadsworth's voice) and I unstopped a peephole in the floor. There was Wadsworth, and there was me. I was saying "No, the dining room will be fine. I'm nearly done reading this entry in Uncle Nick's journal and then I'll be in. What's for dinner?"

"A salmon steak with steamed vegetables, sir. What would you like to drink? I suggest that something citrus would complement the fish very well."

"What about that lemon orange concoction you put together? I like that."

"An excellent choice sir. May I help you in any other way, sir?" As he made this last remark Wadsworth's eye roved up to my peephole, and I had the distinct impression that he was talking to me, besides talking to me. Nothing gets by the man. He's as much ninja-sleuth as he is butler. I stoppered the hole and tried to comprehend what I had just experienced. Seeing myself wasn't totally new. I'd seen transparent and barely detectable versions of myself in many places in the mansion, doing different things without acknowledging me. I'd also seen gruesome figures in my image march happily to a joyful death in Beezle's fireplace. (These later were a demonstration to show me how easy it would for me at payment time, if I ever felt I wanted to buy something with my soul.) I had, however, never seen Wadsworth offer dinner to one of my  dopplegangers, and I was heavily disturbed that he should do so now. And hungry. It didn't help that I remembered having a similar meal three days earlier. It was phenomenal - the fish was moist and flaky with subtle interplays of spices and herbs.

As I thought longingly of the meal and made way for the kitchen to intercept Wadsworth I had a sudden more revealing insight. In the many years that I have eaten at the Mansion House, Wadsworth has never repeated a meal exactly except by special request, and he has certainly never cooked the same kind of fish twice in the same month. He would probably faint at the thought of it. I'd been reading my uncle's journal three days ago too. I had traveled time! I yanked the door open and launched into the kitchen.

"Good evening, Sir." said Wadsworth. To someone who didn't know him, he would have looked and sounded like nothing but pleased to see me. I've known him for long enough that I could tell he was annoyed as he continued, "Will you also be having salmon this evening? I regret that it will be a duplicate of something that you have presumably already consumed. With more notice I could have easily compensated."

"The salmon was excellent three days ag-- er.. today, I think it will be just as good.. um.. today. So, I'll just have what he's - er... what I'm having."

"Very good sir."

"I'm sorry about the short notice. Is there enough? I didn't exactly realize that there would be two of me today until just now."

"I am always prepared for unexpected guests, sir. There is always enough. May I offer a word of advice about your current adventure, sir?"

"Yes, please. That's why I came down."

"It is not well known what happens when one's past self comes into contact with one's future self. Theories range from nothing to a universal Armageddon. The current middle ground of the debate is that the person fades from existence. While scientists and pranksters alike might appreciate one's rushing in headlong to see the look on one's face, I suggest that the action would be inadvisable at best, Sir."

"Right. Well. I guess I'd better stay out of sight then."

"In that case, sir, I suggest that you make yourself scarce. I think I hear you coming."

"Oh. Distract me." I said, and I dived back into the passage way. I went up a floor and unstopped a peephole for the kitchen. I really didn't need to. I remembered the upcoming conversation, now that I had a clear picture of the day. As I'd placed a bookmark in my uncle's journal, Beezle had announced that, "THERE IS SOMETHING VERY INTERESTING TO SEE IN THE KITCHEN. I THINK YOU'D BEST HURRY OUT AND SEE WHAT IT IS BEFORE IT'S GONE."

Normally, I wouldn't pay much attention to something like that coming from Beezle, but the kitchen is next to the dining room and I happened to know that Wadsworth was there, so I didn't even feel the need for too much caution, just a bit of caution. I watched through the hole as I entered the room and said, "Looks like the kitchen, Beezle. An interesting kitchen, to be sure, but nothing I haven't seen."

"LOOK IN THE HIDDEN DOOR. IT WILL BE FUN."

"Have you seen this interesting thing, Wadsworth."

"As far as I can tell, sir, there is nothing out of the ordinary behind the afore mentioned door."

I can't help but marvel sometimes at Wadsworth's ability to misdirect without telling lies. I've only witnessed it on a handful of occasions, but I still marvel. On this occasion I wondered if he meant that I shouldn't be behind that door anymore, or that it wasn't out of the ordinary for me to be behind it. Knowing Wadsworth he probably meant both.

I watched myself open the door, see nothing, and say, "Nothing to report here."

"GO LOOK AROUND. IT'S IN THERE."

"If you will pardon me sir. Your salmon is approaching its optimal temperature for consumption. You may either have a meal that boarders on perfection or go chasing 'interesting things' through the passage ways; possibly with apocalyptic consequences, given Beezle's definition of the word 'interesting.'"

"I choose dinner," I said happily and I strode into the dining room with Wadsworth close on my heals.

I, the me upstairs, went back to the kitchen and waited for Wadsworth.

"HOW DOES HE DO THAT?" Beezle asked. He sounded genuinely interested. I could also hear him pleading me urgently to come back into the kitchen from the other room. I knew I was safe. I remembered being annoyed and shutting the dining room vents three days earlier so that I could eat in peace.

"Do what?," I responded, "Look so good? It's because he's me."

"HOW DOES HE LIE SO WELL?"

"He didn't lie. He told the truth."

"I'M AWARE. MAYBE I SHOULD TRY THAT SOMETIME."

"Wouldn't that be nice. The problem is that you'd start by telling me to come look at something that might make me fade into oblivion, and I would believe you."

"LIFE IS UNFAIR. I'M GOING TO GO ENLARGE SOME INSECTS. CARE TO JOIN ME."

"No thanks. Knowing you they'd probably try to eat me."

Beezle sighed loudly and added, "TELLING THE TRUTH GETS ME NOTHING. YOU WIN. YOU SHOULD REWARD YOURSELF BY TAKING DESERT INTO THE DINING ROOM EARLY";

Wadsworth came back and put together a to go box for me in preparation for driving me back to Provo. (Even distracted, Wadsworth is a competent and safe driver.) Before we left I had a final epiphany.

"Wadsworth, I failed a cleaning check tomorrow because I couldn't get a stain off of a wall. Do you have anything that might work?"

Wadsworth handed me a spray bottle of something green that smelled like minty lemons and said, "Try this Sir. And do be careful, Sir. The future is a delicate thing. Do try not to break it."

That was that. I left the bottle in a conspicuous place with the label, Care of Wadsworth, and avoided myself for three days. I passed my cleaning checks without breaking the future (finding myself 20 dollars richer in the process) and made sure to position myself for watching Jones crash into the conservatory. I figured if someone was going to demolish the side of a glass building I owned and I wasn't able to stop it, I'd at least better watch.

-Jason

Reading Day

Today I was reading through one of my journals from a summer I spent at the Mansion House when I was very young. I found an interesting entry that I thought you might enjoy. Of course, I won't be posting the entire entry, but the rest of it will be found in my novel, should it ever be published. Enjoy.

~

[date unreadable]

I woke up yesterday to early morning sunlight streaming through my bedroom window. It offended me greatly. I groaned and rolled over, shielding my eyes from the brightness.

I was not surprised to hear Wadsworth’s soothing voice waft through the air from the direction of the light. He said, “You may be interested to learn, young master, that

‘Angels, in the early morning 

May be seen the Dews among.
Stooping – plucking – smiling –flying—‘

And one can’t help but wonder, Sir,

‘Do the Buds to them belong?’"

“What?” I moaned groggily.

“It is nothing of great import, Sir. I merely noticed that a poem by Emily Dickenson is being enacted outside of your window. And if I might dare to hope that anything is at all inspiring to your young self at this early hour, I would hazard that it might in fact be the stooping, plucking angels on yonder lawn.”

“What time is it?”

“It is nigh unto six o’clock am sir.”

I closed my eyes again and covered my face with my hands and groaned, “It’s before six? I’m going back to sleep. Come back in a few hours. ”

“If I may quote William Wordsworth’s observation, Sir,

                ‘Time was, blest Power! When youth and maids
                At peep of dawn would rise,
                And wander forth in forest glades
                Thy birth to solemnize.’”

“What are you talking about Wadsworth? I can pray at nine o’clock just as well as I can at five. Why are you in here? What’s with all the poetry?”

“Forgive me sir; I am merely trying to keep with the spirit of the day. It is, after all, Universal Reading Day today. This is also why I have intruded upon your most sacred morning hours.”

“You woke me up because it’s reading day? Leave me alone.”

“Perhaps you would reconsider, Sir? The books won’t respond well to neglect today.”

“What are you talking about? The books don’t care. They’re books. Come back at nine.” I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow.

Wadsworth hesitated for a half second before he responded, “Very well sir, I shall do my best to see that you are allowed your usual morning indulgences. Rest well while you can, Sir.”

I yawned a half hearted “thank you” through the pillow, and was asleep again in no time.

I don’t think that it was more than a half hour later, probably around 6:30, when a racket from outside my room woke me. I heard menacing growls that made me think of rabid dogs and an unending fluttering of paper. Above it all, I heard Wadsworth’s voice ringing out clear and commanding, “Back fiends! The young master needs his rest! He is a growing young man with less than efficient energy expenditure. You must be patient!”

I threw off my covers and ran to the door, throwing it open. The corridor was filled with books from wall to wall, and from floor to ceiling. They flapped open and shut in the most menacing way possible. In the narrow gap between the door and the books stood Wadsworth, faithful and stalwart, broom in hand, defending my position.

At my appearance the noise intensified, and a book from the top of the stack launched itself from the pile. It was so fast that didn't have time to react, and it would have hit me in the head with force if it hadn’t been for Wadsworth. He swatted the book from the air with the broom. It yelped loudly and fell to the floor whimpering and crying at his feet. Wadsworth raised the broom in defense once more, waiting for another attacker. There was a kind of anguish in his face though – a horror filled regret.

I looked down at the book. It sprawled across its pages with the spine upward. The title was printed boldly on the spine. “Lyrical Balads.” Poetry. I’d made Wadsworth hit a poetry book. I felt awful. I felt even worse when I picked it up and saw the author, “William Wordsworth.”

On the upside, the second I had the book in hand the room fell instantly silent. The books were merely books again – inanimate and voiceless. Wadsworth turned to me and said, “I’m sorry to have woken you, Sir. I did my best to hold them off at the bottom of the staircase, but alas, there were too many of them and I steadily lost ground.” Wadsworth’s tone was composed as usual, but there was a slight waver to it, surely suppressed pain over what he had been forced to do.

“Wadsworth,” I said, “You’re a true friend. I’m sorry.” My voice broke a little on the “I’m” I don't know if that was because I felt so sorry or because my voice has been cracking a lot lately. Either way, I really did mean it.

“Perhaps it was for the best, Sir. That book was already in need of repair. Now that it is further damaged, I will more easily justify taking the time to attend to it. Will you be returning to bed, Sir?”

“Um, no,” I said, “I’m not very tired anymore. I think I’m ready to start reading.” I glanced at the enormous pile. Do you think they can wait for me to put on some pants?”

Wadsworth took a defensive stance and brandished his broom again. “I will see to it that they do sir.”

Riverman Johnson

It is with great sadness that I announce that the epic struggles between Beezle and I, now commonly referred to as The Mansion House Wars, have not ended. They are getting worse, and I’m not coping as well as I would like to. The new semester is starting too, with all of the stresses of a new school year; but I am also finding that there is a measure of relief that comes with it. You see, I spend many more hours at the university than I do in my study. I like my study, but I’d like it more without Beezle’s constant interruptions.

I usually take the bus to school; I have many reasons for doing so.  First and foremost is parking. There is no special parking for owners of Mansions believe it or not, and generally speaking, those without assigned or privileged parking can expect to take longer to find a spot than they spend in class.  The second reason that I bus is that I save money. Last month I saved enough to pay Stan for his work on the grounds, and to eat out a few times. Finally, I like to ride the bus because of the environment. I can read on the bus. I can doze on the bus. I can watch quirky people, and eves drop on their phone conversations. (Please don’t think ill of me, but listening to people talk on the phone in public is a great way to stimulate the old grey matter for the invention of characters, plots, and settings. Knowing this, I stick to texting.)

On my way home yesterday, I wound my way to the back of the bus, stepped over the top of a beaten looking pack, and sat down. The seat next to me was vacant, so I dropped a sheaf of papers on it between me and a ragged looking man, presumably the owner of the pack. “Hey,” he said, looking out the window.

“Hello,” I responded cheerfully. He looked like the type of man who talks non-stop on a bus, and I was in a mood to listen, so I waited for him to continue. He didn’t. He only stared out the window. I shrugged and pulled out a book to read.

Without warning he leaned in close, overpowering me with his potent body odor, grinned, and said, “Hi, I’m Johnson!”

“Um… Hello,” I choked out. He leaned back again, and I caught my breath as tactfully as possible.

“I’m going north,” said Johnson. “I was going to go south, until I changed my mind.”

“Ah,” I said, “And what are you going to do when you get where you’re going?”

“I’m going to get some beer.”

“Oh?” I asked. I don’t drink, but I’m fairly certain  that there is beer to be found at every gas station in any direction so I probed a little further, “And what will you do then?”

“I’m going to drink some beer.” Johnson nodded profoundly.

I mirrored him seriously and said, “I see.”

“Then,” Johnson added, “I’m going to buy a two hundred dollar bike for thirty dollars.”

“That sounds like a great plan,” I said, “This is a nice time of year to spend some time on a bike.”

“Yep. And it’s good, because my last bike got stolen.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah! And would you believe they stole my bible too?”

“Oh, that’s terrible. I think I could get you another, if you need one.”

“Nah, I got another one, but it makes me mad.  They stole my dumbbells, and my bike, and my Bible and my nudie magazines! I just got some new ones today.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” I said (I was thinking mostly about the new purchase when I said it), “but I’m glad that you got another Bible. Where are you living?”

“Down on the river. I don’t like the homeless shelters here. I said some pretty rude things to them because they deserved it and they put me on suspension. I haven’t had a shower for three months! Can you believe that?”

 I nodded emphatically with overwhelming belief. “Yes, that’s really too bad. So, where on the river are you living?”

Johnson’s leaned in, bringing his three month old ambiance with him, and scowled, “I don’t tell people that.”

I put my hands in the air nervously and said, “I don’t blame you, after all that you’ve had to deal with.”

He leaned back again and said, “Yup. But the next time they come I’ll be ready for them. I went to the pawn shop and bought a sword and some Chinese Stars. They weren’t very sharp, but I’ve got them so sharp now that I can chop your head off, well maybe not all the way off, but most of the way. I’m gonna get a pellet gun too.”

The bus stopped, and Johnson stood up. As he walked forward he kept talking, and the further he went the louder he raised his voice so that I could still hear him, “Believe me, you don’t want a pellet in your ass! My cousin shot my ass with a pellet gun once and the pellet got stuck in there, I had to go to the -”

The doors closed, and I chucked, before offering a silent prayer that Riverman Johnson be safe from harm and theft. As an afterthought I prayed for the people that got too close to his possessions. I got off at the next stop walked leisurely to the Mansion and Promptly threw my stack of papers down on my desk. I withdrew to the smoking lounge and put my feet up for a few minutes. (I don't smoke, but honestly,  a non-smoked-in smoking room is a really cool room. Mine is furnished with overstuffed beige couches, chairs, a fireplace, a bar that I keep stalked with smoothy ingrediants, and several stuffed and mounted heads that once belonged to big-game animals that I never hunted. Sometimes I even put on a smoking jacket because those are also pretty fantastic.)  

I would have enjoyed the casual, restive silence but death metal was blasting through the vents. Honestly, I don’t think that Beezle likes it either. He just likes that I don’t like it. Before the Mansion House Wars he seemed to lean more towards classic rock and show tunes. (One time I was pleasantly surprised to walk in on him singing “Portobello Road” from Bed Knobs and Broomsticks. The pleasant ended when he started substituting torture instruments, pickled organs, and other gruesome items for the usual wares of the famed street market. I have to hand it to him though; he’s got a pretty spectacular voice.)

After a short break I shuffled back into my study, put in some earphones and started on my homework. I finished it, and tossed my folder of school papers to the side so that I could do my writing (This is “finish a book” month for Nathan, Derek, and I.) Instead, I was startled to discover the image of a busty and scantily clad woman gazing lewdly at me from my desk. She lounged seductively over a magazine stamped with the emblem of the Playboy Bunny. There was something else under it. I gingerly shifted the Playboy and found a Hustler. With a groan I realized that they must have been under my papers on the bus. I had unwittingly stolen Riverman Johnson’s replacement “nudie” magazines. I gingerly hefted them. I wasn’t sure what to do with them, but there was no way that they were staying on my desk.

I reached for my trashcan but then I remembered that as far as garbage is concerned, all roads lead to my dumpster – the magical home of a developing teenager. Not a good plan.  My cheeks were growing hot and my heart rate was rapidly climbing. I didn’t want to leave these out, and I didn’t want to conceal them anywhere, for fear that someone might find them and get the wrong idea.

Then I thought about Riverman Johnson, and remembered my prayer for those that touched his possessions. When I offered it I had no idea that it might touch this close to home. I prayed it again with twice the fervency. What if he suspected me? He might confront me loudly on the bus. I could already hear it, “YOU STOLE MY NUDIE MAGAZINES!” I flushed harder and tried to think. "Maybe," I thought, "I can avoid a scene if I just put them in my bag and hand them back discreetly tomorrow." Then I realized that such an action would necessitate bringing pornography to and from a campus where it is strictly prohibited upon pain of expulsion until Riverman Johonson decided to go North instead of South again. 

"Maybe, I thought, "It would just be better to find a safe place to burn these and then hand him a ten dollar bill discreetly." Was there such a thing as discreet with Riverman Johnson? Would he make less of a deal about it if he got the original merchandise? I swiveled in my chair and hovered the magazines over my backpack, trying to make a decision.

 “Pardon me, Sir, but -“

“I jumped and shouted, throwing the magazines across the room. One of them landed, open to the centerfold I might add, at the highly polished feet of Wadsworth. He glanced down, then quickly up at me. His eyes riddled me with accusation, but his tone remained polite and respectful as ever as he said, “Please excuse the interruption, Sir. I did not wish to infringe on your… personal time. My intentions were to announce my return, but I have just remembered an important item of business that I have neglected. Perhaps it is for the best; my absence will give you time to conclude your indulgences.”

“No, Wadsworth, I’m not –“

William appeared next to Wadsworth holding a McDonalds soft-drink and said, “Hey, I heard a scream, is everything – is that a Playboy?” Without looking, and with great speed, Wadsworth flipped the offensive material shut (cover side down) with the toe of his shoe.

I was finding it difficult to breath. I leaned back in my chair, covered my face with my hands and groaned, “It’s not what you think!”

“Well,” drawled Will, “I think it’s a Playboy Magazine. Am I wrong? Is it Penthouse? Hustler?” He sucked at the straw of his drink, getting mostly air.

                “I HAVE RECENTLY LEARNED OF A WONDERFULL GAME CALLED TWENTY QUESTIONS. MAY WE PLAY IT?”

                I feebly wondered how I’d missed the moment when the blaring music had shut off, and Beezle had tuned in.

                “Look,” I said, issuing a silent command for my cheeks to lose their blush, “These aren’t mine! I accidently stole them from a homeless man -”

                “IS IT JUST ME, OR DOES THAT SEEM BOTH IMPLAUSIBLE AND CRUEL?”

“- and I was trying to figure out how to get rid of them before something like this happened.”

                “Why didn’t you just throw them away?” asked Will, and he took another air filled pull at his straw. I narrowed my eyes at him, but Wadsworth did better. He shot his hand out to pinch the air, on the way he clipped Will’s head with force.

                “Owe!” said Will, putting his hand to his head, “What was that for?”

                “I apologize, young Master William. I spied a small insect, and thought to escort it from the building.”

                Sure enough, there was a fly squirming in Wadsworth’s fingers. Will’s expression said that he didn’t know whether to be annoyed or in awe. I settled on both satisfaction and awe and said, “Take Will with you. When you’re done, come back and help me get rid of these things.”

                “Very good, Sir,” said Wadsworth, but Will protested, “Hey! Who’s gonna watch him. We’re just going to leave him in here by himself with those?

                “THAT’S A VALID POINT. STUFF THE FILTH DOWN THE VENTS IN THE FLOOR, JUST TO BE CERTAIN.”

                Wadsworth scooped the magazines up and held them under his arm saying, “If you don’t mind, Sir, I shall remove you from suspicion.”

                “Please,” I said, waving him away, “get them out of my study.”

                He marched out with Will and I flopped back in my chair.

                “WHO KEEPS TABS ON THE BUTLER?”

                “Some people don’t need to be watched, Beezle.”

                “NOT ACCORDING TO JUVENAL, OR ALAN MOORE FOR THAT MATTER.”

                I glared at the vent and changed the topic, "How did you mange to pull this one off anyhow?"

                “SURELY YOU DON'T SUSPECT TO PASS THE BLAME FOR THEFT FROM THE HOMELESS TO ME? PERHAPS YOU SHOULD TAKE A LITTLE BIT OF RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR ACTIONS. YOU MIGHT START WITH ADMITTING TO THE CHARACTER FLAWS AND JEALOUSIES THAT LED TO THE REVOCATION OF MY INTERNET PRIVILEGES.”

                “Jealousies?”I roared, "What could I possibly be jealous of? Devious nature? Unabashed destruction of lives? Living damnation?"

                “YES, AMONG OTHER THINGS, THOUGH I'M SURPRISED THAT YOU FORGOT TO MENTION RAW POWER, DEVILISH CHARM, AND IMPOSSIBLY GOOD LOOKS"

                I stood, prepared to ream Beezle throughly, but at that moment Wadsworth returned, and said, "Arguing only tends to encourage him, Sir, I would advise against it." I wanted to ignore him, but I knew he was right, so I riped the cover off the vent and stuffed a jacket inside. I slumped back down in my chair and sighed before explaining the complexity of the situation to Wasdsworth. He listened carefully before saying, “Perhaps it would be best if I return these directly to Mr. Johnson, sparing your Lordship both an embarrassing encounter and the burden of storing these… distasteful publications.”

“How? He wouldn’t tell me where he lived.”

“I have seen his place of residence in my morning walks along the river.”

“If you could do that, it would be fantastic, Wadsworth.”

“Then I shall deliver them shortly.”

“I can come with you.”

“Alas, Sir, I regret that you may not accompany me. It would be dishonest for me to reveal the location of Mr. Johnson’s residence after he has purposfully withheld that knowledge from you.”

“Right. Well then. Cary on Wadsworth, and be careful please. He has a sword that he claims is sharp enough to decapitate you half-way.”

“I shall be cautious, Sir. Will that be all?”

“Before you go, I’d like you to tell me one thing. How did you get a fly to line up so well with Will’s head?”

“I regret to inform you sir, that the fly was a deception.” Wadsworth retrieved something small from his pocket and placed it in my hand. It was a rubber fly.

“But it was wriggling and buzzing between your fingers.”

“The ‘ACME Ninja Fly’ comes equipped with an electronic device that activates when the wings are pressed together.”

I picked the fly up by the wings, holding them firmly together. It sprung to life, buzzing angrily and fighting to get away.

I smiled and said, “This is great! Where did you get it?

“It was a gift from my niece.“

And so it was, that between light conversation and the ensuing light refreshments that Wadsworth again saved my bacon. If I had any money to spare I’d offer him a raise.

Dumpster Diving

From my first night in the mansion I have known that it has various secrets. Some I’ve discovered with little effort (Beezle made his presence known speedily), while I have probed at others with very little success. On rare occasions I stumble into something unexpected and surprising. Whether I am pleased by such surprises has been widely varied. For example, I recently stumbled upon a secret compartment containing a sum of money large enough for me to pay my tuition for one semester (have I mentioned that I’m a poor college student?). On another occasion, I discovered carnivorous toilet. I barely escaped with my life and gained a new resolve to pay better attention to phrases like, “Perhaps this restroom is best avoided, Sir.”

This week I made an entirely new discovery, and I’m not certain what to make of it. It’s got to do with the dumpster. You see, I was thinking about my recent troubles with William. I chronicled them for you last week, but let me briefly refresh your memories.

I took issue with Will’s evening bathroom habits. He took issue with my existence as an authoritative figure in his life. Changing the topic, he requested that a door be added to the dumpster to improve his access. I suggested that he take a room in the mansion. He took offence and left me wondering what was so compelling about living in a dumpster. I ended my thoughts by asking you, my readers, for your thoughts.

Nathan Major, a good friend and associate suggested, “When life gives you a kid in a dumpster, buy a new dumpster.” Beezle heartily agreed and promoted swift action on my part.

I appreciated the humor from Nathan, and ignored the sincerity from Beezle, and went on with life a little less stressed for a few days. However, I kept thinking about the conversation and Will and the things he’s dealing with as a teenager. I was a teenager a short time ago… I’d never go back to it – not if you paid me, not for the world. I remember having some weird notions and strange feelings about things; and how nice it was when somebody who knew better would just nod their head and go along with me for a little while.

I remembered Will’s birthday too, so I started making some phone calls to welders to see about getting a door on that dumpster. The first guy said, “you want what?” and wouldn’t quit laughing long enough to talk business. The next one was serious enough, but he also said that “it is a violation of state and federal law to modify a dumpster in a fashion inconsistent with its original design and/or intended purpose.”

Finally I ran across Stan of “Stan’s Odd Jobs and Custom Welding.” I asked for an estimate on cutting a door into the side of a dumpster and braced myself for another disappointment. After a long silence he drawled, “Wellllll, I guess I’ve been asked to do stranger things. I’ll jus’ come down ‘n’ take a look right now, if that’s ok wi’choo” (“wi’choo” translates from redneck to “with you” in standardized English).

Stan’s base of operations is close and I had just enough time to shove Will out the door on a fake errand and wheel the dumpster into the garage before Stan knocked on the door. I let Wadsworth get it, but I stood back in the hallway and watched the exchange (I enjoy watching Wadsworth work, it’s inspiring.)

Stan is average in height but stocky.  He has a dark tan, a wind worn face, and sandy brown hair that usually stick out in every direction. He had it covered it with a well used cap, but it didn’t help much.

When Wadsworth answered the door I watched Stan remove his cap respectfully and say, “This the place that wants a door in the dumpster?”

“Yes, Sir, Lord Secrest is expecting you.”

“And you don’t want me to do nothin’ in the basement, right?”

“No, Sir. That will not be necessary.”

“Good, ‘cause I’ve been here before. You know you got a monster or somethin’ down there? ‘Boilzees’ or ‘Beezus’ or somethin’? Worst customer I ever had.”

“IT’S BEEZLE, YOU TWIT, AND I DEMAND A REPLACEMENT OR A FULL REFUND FOR THE IRONWORKS YOU INSTALLED TWO YEARS AGO – YOUR ARTISTIC RENDERING OF ‘IMPALED SACRIFICES’ ISN’T NEARLY AS SATISFYING AS I ONCE FOUND IT.” boomed the vent in the great hall.

Stan jumped and his eyes widened. He whispered behind his hand, “Does he do that all the time?”

Wadsworth nodded and said, “Frequently, Sir, yes.”

Stan licked his lips and raised his voice, “Now, Mr. Beezus, you agreed in writing that I don’t replace nothin’ ‘less I put it in wrong or it broke.”

A loud snap cracked out from the vent, and Beezle said, “OH DEAR, SOMETHING SEEMS TO HAVE DETACHED FROM ‘IMPALED SACRIFICES.’ THE POORY INSTALLED IRONWORK HAS GONE AWRY.”

Stan scowled. “Also, I inspect carefully for signs of intentional vandalism.”

“OH. DAMN.”

After a short silence Wadsworth said, “I trust that your business with Bezel has concluded. May I show you to the garage.”

Stan nodded, and I spoke up, “Thank you, Wadsworth, I can take it from here.”

“Very good, Sir.”

While I walked with Stan, his eyes wandered everywhere and he did a half turn every time he took a step. He caught sight of a particularly dazzling chandelier and let out a low whistle followed by, “What’s a place like this cost anyways?”

“Not much, surprisingly,” I said, “But that’s probably got something to do with the tenants.” I pointed to the basement. Stan nodded severely.

“YES,” Beezle piped up, “BETWEEN THE DUMPSTER-DIVER AND THE WOULD-BE SOCIALITE AUTHOR, THE ESTATE IS TRULY GOING DOWNHILL.”

“The little son-of-a-gun’s got a mouth on him don’t he? He’s worse than my sister. ”

“YOU PROBABLY FORGET HER NAME TOO, DON’T YOU?”

Stan shrugged, and we kept moving.

In the garage he spied the the dumpster up and said, “Well, let’s see what we got here… looks pretty standard.” He opened the lid and peered inside, “Metal’s in good condition; don’t see any corrosion at all. Should make for a pretty clean job. I think I can get ‘er done pretty quick. I think I’d charge you, oh…” he named a price, and I frowned at it.

“Stan,” I said, “This may surprise you, considering that I’m living in a mansion, but I not so well to do. I was basically given the place. Can we work out something a little cheaper?”

Stan scratched at the scruff on his chin and gazed at the dumpster. He folded his arms and worked his tongue around in his moth for a while. Finally, he looked back at me and asked, “You got yourself a Gardner?”

I shook my head. “Had one for a while, but I could afford to keep him on. Will’s been mowing the grass and Wadsworth handles the flowers.”

 “Well, I’ll tell you what: I’m lookin’ to pick up an extra job or two. You let me handle your grounds and call me first on any maintenance you need done an’ I’ll throw in the dumpster for free.”

 “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Stan,” I said, “but I doubt I can offer you enough money to make it worth your time.”

Stan thought for a little longer and said,“Well, how about a cook? You got one of those?”

“Wadsworth does most of the cooking around here.”

“He any good?”

“I’ve never eaten better.”

Stan grinned widely, “Well I can’t cook to save my life. You have your Man rustle somethin’ up for me a couple time times a week and I’ll do your grounds for next to nothin’.”

I grinned, “I think we’ve got a deal.”

We shook on it, and he set up his equipment to work on the dumpster. Then he lifted the lid and said, “This’ll work best if I crawl inside. That way I can make the door flush with the edge of the floor.” He scrambled in. He let out a low whistle again and shouted, “Holy Moses! Wasn’t expecting that! This is some dumpster mister.”

Puzzled, I looked inside the dumpster. Stan was looking around him with the same look of bedazzlement that he’d displayed inside the mansion, but I didn’t see anything special: there were a few old suits, old news papers, yesterdays light refreshments, and that was about it. Everything looked standard.

“What’s so special about it?” I asked.

“Well Gee Wilikers; you ever been in this thing?”

“No.”

“Then I think maybe you should get in here. This thing’ll shock you better’n a cattle prod.”

I heaved myself over the edge and in the process started saying, “Now, what’s so –,“ I had planned to say “special,” but I was stunned speechless. I found myself standing in a ten foot by ten foot by ten foot room. The décor was as just as grand as in the mansion. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. The walls and floors were polished, white, and sparkling. I wasn’t sure if they were stone or metal or some sort of wonderful mixture. The room was fully furnished with a large wardrobe, an unmade bed, a messy desk, several tables and stands of various types, and a set of ornate furniture. The newspapers that as viewed from above had been ripped and strewn about were now precisely folded, stacked, and organized by date on a short round end table in the corner. Yesterday’s refreshments sat invitingly on a silver platter on a cherry wood coffee table. I turned around in a daze to find that the wall behind only remained vertical till just below my shoulders, after that it took a sharp me angled upward until it met with the ceiling. A large window was set in at exactly the same height that the dumpster lid would be, in fact I could see the hinges on the upper sill. On exactly the opposite wall was a softly glowing silver door with an engraved golden handle. I walked to the door and reached out to finger the handle.

Stan grabbed at my hand and growled, “You got bolts for brains? Who knows but that it opens into that monster's fireplace? When I installed that ironwork, I saw more’n one door just like it, an all of ‘em were in nasty places, so you just keep your hands to yourself until I’m out’a this dumpster.”

I stepped back quickly, thinking shakily of the twenty foot flames I’d seen in Beezle’s suite. I walked to the window, put my hands on the seal and looked out. Will was standing in the garage and he looked angry.

To make a long story short, Will was fairly upset about the invasion of his privacy. The phrase that best sums up his side of the conversation was, “I asked you to put a door in, not have a party in my bedroom.” I however, am proud to say that I remained relatively calm, and after many apologies from both me and Stan he finally let it drop. He was also very pleased with the door. Stan welded installed in from the outside by cutting a hole and installing a latch. Will let us check it out from the inside. Inside the dumpster the door formed as intricately carved oak set into a crystalline archway. Stan kept walking inside the dumpster and back out again inspecting his work. He’d swing the door from side to side on other side and more than once I heard him mutter, “How the hell did I do that?”

Will still won't tell me what the silver door is for, but if I ever find out, I'll fill you in.

-Jason L. Secrest

An Interview

I've finally got my backbone in working order, and I am posting from my study again.  Then I'm off on a camping trip with my family, and won't be posting for a week.  This is therefor a longer post to tide you over.

My basement, and Beezle's home, is separated from the rest of the mansion by a set of stairs and two doors, one on either end of the staircase. Tt's little wonder that knowing what inhabits my basement, I had never been down to it before Wadsworth and I went down to interview Beezle. I was expecting  a dark dank pit with dripping stalactites above, or at least an unfinished basement full of spider webs and large rodents. I was totally unprepared for what what I found on the other side of the lower door.

Beezles living space is stunning and shockingly tasteful (all things considered).  The floor and walls are lined with black rough cut stone. The ceiling is sixty feet high at it's pinnacle. (I know that you, dear reader, are smugly saying that this cannot possibly be true because beezle lives in my basement. That shows just how much you know about multiplainer physics.) The room is long and rectangular; the door we entered from is on one end wall and at the other there is a twenty foot fireplace, shaped like one of those rounded triangular alcoves found in ancient cathedrals. Along it's sides are larger than life statues of wreathing human forms, and grate within it resembles the burning skeleton of an enormous man.  The bonfire held inside rages like a furnace, though the air in the room is unnaturally chill.

Beezle sat, smiling politely, in a plush overstuffed chair in front of the fire. Beezle too, was far different from what I imagined.  In my mind I had conjured up a multi-headed dragon with at least two heads reserved solely for poking into the vents to annoy me. Instead, Beezle is almost human in form. His appearance is elegant, powerful, and morbidly fascinating. He has oily jet black skin and thick short black spines that run from the base of his scull to the tip of his tail. At the tip of his tail, three jagged pearly white spines jut straight out. The claws on his hands and feet, as well as his jagged teeth, share the same pure color. The color contrast makes him look bizarre and frightening.  Beezle has no gender defining features, though his a deep resonating voice suggests that he is male.

As intriguing as I find Beezle's form, he has one physical feature that keeps my attention: his eyes. They are as dark and deep as the night sky and perfectly round. Golden flecks float through the eternal darkness within. They are hypnotic and captivating.

As we got closer to Beezle, my thinking became foggy. By the time we stood before him I couldn't remember why I was there or what I was doing. I was alright with that though.  All I thought I needed or wanted was to continue to look into the deepness of his eyes.

"WELCOME TO MY LAIR," said Beezle, standing up and gesturing.

"Thank you," I said, "what can I do to make your life more comfortable?" The worst part is that I ment it.

"I CANNOT THINK OF ANYTHING AT THE MOMENT, THOUGH I WILL BE SURE TO LET YOU KNOW.  FOR THE MEANWHILE YOU MAY CONTINUE TO ADMIRE ME."

There was silence for a space of time until Wasdworth coughed loudly.

I turned startled to face him.

"If you will excuse me, Sir. I suggest that it would be wise to look anywhere other than directly into Beezle's eyes."

"YES, THEY DO SEEM TO HAVE THAT STUPEFYING EFFECT ON PEOPLE DON'T THEY? I CAN ONLY ASSUME THAT IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH MY DEVILISHLY GOOD LOOKS."

I frowned and said, "Wadsworth," I said, "if I start doing anything rash, you have my full permission to strike me."

"Noted, Sir."

"And by the way Beezle," I added, turning back to look at his chin, "Isn't the vacant space above us right about where my study should be?"

Beezle looked anoyed, "THAT GOES TO SHOW JUST HOW MUCH YOU KNOW ABOUT MULTIPLAINER PHYSICS.  I WON'T TAKE THE TIME TO EXPLAIN IT TO YOU. I HAVE SOME DREAM PLAYING I'D LIKE TO GET TOO SHORTLY. NOW, YOU SAID SOMETHING ABOUT A SACRIFICE?" Beezle looked at me greedily.

"Yes, right."  I gestured to Wadsworth, who lifted the lid on his tray, displaying the contents.

"This sir," he said, "is Cognac dated to the year fifteen thirty-seven, sir. And this," he continued, "is goat blood."

"HOW OLD WAS THE GOAT?"

"Three hours old, sir."

Beezle grinned widely and rubbed his hands, "I THINK WE CAN DO BUSINESS THEN. FOR EVERYTHING ON THAT TRAY I WILL VOW TO ANSWER ONE QUESTION TRUTHFULLY."

"One question?" I asked incredulously, "That's not even worth our time!"

Beezle scowled, "I WAS BEING GENEROUS. I REQUIRED THE WIFE OF THE LAST PERSON WHO ASKED ME FOR THE TRUTHFUL ANSWER TO A QUESTION."

"Then I'm sure you won't have any problem finding blood somewhere else."

Beezle squinted at me, "TWO QUESTIONS, BUT THAT'S ALL"

"Wadsworth," I said flatly, "we're done here. Let's go."

I could feel Beezles eyes drilling holes into my back, and it was unnerving.  it was the best I could do not to flinch. When we were half way to the door, Beezle called out after us.  I was suprised to here a hint of desperation in his voice.

"I CAN GIVE YOU THREE. THAT'S MY FINAL OFFER."

I looked to Wadsworth for approval.  I'm not up to date on the street value of goat blood.  He nodded, so I turned and said, "Then i think we can do business."

Wadsworth and I returned to the fireplace and Wadsworth rested the tray on an end table next to Beezle's chair. It was dark granite with a polished black marble inlay. Beelze immediately poured himself a glass of Cognac and splashed some goat blood into it. He drank deeply before sighing with satisfaction. Then he eyed me and said, "YOU'RE TAKING ADVANTAGE, YOU KNOW."

"And you're congesting my basement."

Beezle sat down and crossed his legs "POINT TAKEN."

"By the way," I asked, "How do you keep from poking holes in your chair."

Beezle shrugged, "KEVLAR UPHOLSTERY. SHALL WE BEGIN?" Beezle cleared his throat and said,"I SWEAR BY THIS ALCOHOLIC GOAT'S BLOOD THAT I WILL ANSWER THREE QUESTIONS TRUTHFULLY." He raised the glass like he was making a toast, then took a sip.

I was suprised, I'd expected something a little more archaic, so I asked "That's it?"

Wadsworth winced.

"I'M ALL OUT OF CEREMONY. WHAT'S QUESTION NUMBER TWO?'

"You mean question one."

"I MEAN QUESTION TWO."  Beezle perfectly imiated my voice and said, "That's it?"

"That wasn't a question!  It was a statement of disbelief!"

"YOUR INTONATION CLEARLY IMPLIED A QUESTION."

"Perhaps sir, it would be wise to instruct him not to answer questions that you haven't specifically made official.", said Wadsworth.

I glared at Beezle,"Right. Those are the new rules. Now, officially tell me about that evil entity that you're so afraid of."

"THAT'S A NON SPECIFIC STATEMENT. I NEED A QUESTION."

I sighed. What did I really need to know for the book?

"First of all, what is it's name?" I paused and thought carefully then added, "offically - and I want the answer to include the reason for it's name"

"IT HAS NO NAME. THIS IS SIMPLY BECAUSE IT PREFERS THINGS THAT WAY. THEREFORE IT HAS BEEN CALLED MANY THINGS, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO: THE VOID, THE DARKNESS, THE DARK ONE, AND SHORN - THAT LAST ENTRY WAS WHAT THE LAST SOLAR HIGH PRIEST USED TO CALL HIM. HIS FOLLOWERS THOUGHT IT WAS BECAUSE HE WAS SHORN, AS IN CUT OFF, FROM THE LIGHT, THOUGH I HAVE IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY THAT SHORN WAS EXTRAPOLATED FROM SHARON - THE NAME OF THE HIGH PRIEST'S EX-WIFE."

Somehow I didn't feel as dissapointed as I should have.  I can work with something nameless.  Something without a name can't protest when I give it one of my own.

"Alright, official question number two: Why are you so afraid of him?"

Beezle took another casual sip from his glass and said, "IT IS BECAUSE HE IS FAR MORE POWERFUL THAN I, AND I BETRAYED HIM."

"Why?"

Beezle smiled smugly, "I'M AFRAID YOU'RE OUT OF QUESTIONS. IF YOU WILL EXCUSE ME, IT IS TIME FOR MY DREAM PLAYING."  He snapped his fingers and the door to the mansion flew open.

I sighed, frustrated, though I tried to be optimistic.  I had something new to work with for a little while.  Maybe after writing more I'd come up with better questions and a better way to ask them.

And there you have it, my interview with Beezle in full.  I'll see you again in a week.

-J. L. Secrest

Things that speak through vents in the night:

I'd like to apologize. I know that there are many of you who are upset that I didn't post yesterday about my interview with Beezle. It's because I've been a little shaken. I signed off after my last post so disturbed about the interview that I couldn't quiet fall asleep. When I did, my dreams were dark. As I slept, they became increasingly frightening. Among other things, I dreamed that I was on fire, drowning, about to be hung, and being chased by rabid wolves.  Finally I woke screaming, when I dreamed that all of the editors and publishing houses world wide had blackballed me.

When I stopped screaming and calmed myself down Beezle's voice boomed down at me,"I WISH THAT YOU HADN'T WOKEN UP YET. I WAS GOING TO MAKE YOU DREAM THAT BRANDON SANDERSON EMBARRASSED YOU ON HIS PODCAST WHILE DANGLING YOU OVER A PIT OF VIPERS. I WAS ALSO TRYING TO WORK IN AN IRON MAIDEN."

I wasn't mentally ready to comprehend that Beezle was admitting to something. Therefor I made an accusation, "Beezle! You were messing with my dreams, weren't you!"

"WHY YES. HOW DID YOU GUESS?  UNFORTUNATELY, BECAUSE I WAS WORKING THROUGH HYPNOTIC SUGGESTIONS, I WAS UNABLE TO EXPERIENCE THE FULL MAGNITUDE OF YOUR DREAMS. PLEASE TELL ME, WERE THEY HORRIFYING?"

"What's wrong with you," I bellowed,  "Why would you do that?"

"I WAS BORED."

"What do you mean you were bored? You said you were bored when you hustled us out of the basment this morning! You said that you wanted to dream play!  How can you be bored already?"

Beezle does something that he calls "dream playing." It lets his consciousness enter "the revelry" and and take an active part in peoples' dreams. Apparently he can't control who's dreams he arrives in, but when he does, he enjoys himself thoroughly.

"YOUR SNORING INTERRUPTED MY CONNECTION TO THE REVELRY. IT COULDN'T HAVE COME AT A WORSE TIME. I WAS ABOUT TO SCORE THE WINNING GOAL AGAINST BRAZIL IN A BOOKIE'S NIGHTMARE. BECAUSE OF THE TERRIBLE NOISES YOU KEPT MAKING, I COULDN'T GET BACK IN. THEREFOR I MADE DUE WITH WHAT I HAD AVAILABLE TO ME."

I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, so I stormed from my room, made some hot chocolate, and sipped on it by the fireplace. My hope was to calm down so I could sleep again. To my great anoyance, beezle followed me from room to room, and I did my best to keep my cool. The last thing I wanted was to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.

From the ensuing conversation, I've come to the conclusion that Beezle sufferes from Attention Deficit Disorder. He kept changing the subject rapidly. He told rude jokes, told bone-chilling stories about his favorite evil dictators, made the worst puns I've ever heard, asked inappropriate questions, told me about people he'd driven to suicide and gave all gory details about how they did it. Finally, I was so sick of him that I resolved not to respond any more. That didn't phase him in the least. I remember the end of that one-sided conversation. After a long bout of silence he started asking me questions. I never caved. Finally he said,"ARE YOU SILENT BECAUSE YOU ARE CONTEMPLATING, OR BECAUSE YOU FEEL INFERIOR AND DON'T WANT TO EMBARRASS YOURSELF?

JUST A FEW HOURS AGO YOU WERE FULL OF QUESTIONS. UNLIKE NOW, YOU SEEMED TO WANT TO TALK TO ME THEN.

 I THOUGHT YOU LIKED ME, MAYBE EVEN LOVED ME. WHAT WOULD IT BE LIKE, TO BE LOVED, I WONDER.

MAYBE TO BE LOVED, ONE MUST FIRST LOVE. MAYBE I SHOULD GIVE LOVE A CHANCE. LET ME SEE NOW... A LOVING ENTITY OF EVIL WOULD BE KIND AND THOUGHTFUL. A LOVING ENTITY OF EVIL WOUD CONSIDER YOUR FEELINGS.

ALRIGHT, I SUSPECT THAT YOU, PANSY THAT YOU ARE, ARE TERRIBLY SHAKEN BY THE HORRIBLE DREAMS THAT YOU JUST HAD. I SHOULD MENTION THAT IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT YOU SCARE SO EASILY. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, I WILL CALM YOUR NERVES WITH A HEARTWARMING ANECDOTE FROM MY PERSONAL LIFE. I WILL CHOOSE ONE THAT IS INSPIRING, YET REVEALING, THAT I MIGHT ENDEAR YOU TO ME BY MAKING MYSELF VULNERABLE. LET ME SEE NOW, AH! YES, I'VE GOT JUST THE THING:

WHEN WAS COMPLETING MY FOURTH YEAR AS AN UNDER-DEMON THERE WAS A DAY THAT, FOR ME AT LEAST, WAS BOTH AWKWARD AND EMBARRASSING. WHEN I LOOK BACK ON IT NOW, I JUST CAN'T HELP BUT LAUGH AT MYSELF. I WAS PRESENTED WITH A HUMAN PAWN THAT HAD SOMEHOW DISPLEASED THE DEMON I WAS APPRENTICED TO. I WAS TOLD TO SKIN THE CREATURE ALIVE, BUT NOT TO DAMAGE THE HIDE. I WASN'T QUITE SURE HOW TO START, SO I EXAMINED HIM CAREFULLY, WHICH WAS DIFFICULT BECAUSE HE WAS KICKING AND SCREAMING THE WHOLE TIME. FINALLY, I DECIDED THAT THE BEST ENTRY POINT WOULD BE -"

That was when I finally made it to the back door and shut it behind me. A few hours later Wadsworth came out and found me in the garden. I was hungry, due-covered, and shivering; but I try to be an optimist and I was pretending to enjoy the sunrise.

"Good morning, Sir," he said, "I have brought breakfast, if you are hungry."

I was. When he lifted domed the lid from the silver plater, and I saw the steam rising and smelled the subtle spices, I almost passed out from desire. I tried not to look like a ravening wolf when I took the tray."Thank you Wadsworth," I said,"How did you know I was up? I'm usually not awake for another two hours."

"I have been subjugated to the laments of a bereft and broken hearted demon since rising this morning, Sir. Apparently you spurned his tender advances, and threw his metaphorical arm of comfort and support from your shoulders. He is quite bitter, and has sworn off love forever."

"He knows that things would never have worked out between us," I smiled, "On a completely unrelated note, I would like you to stuff the ventilation shaft in my bedroom."

Wadsworth smiled slightly, "I have already taken the liberty, Sir. I have also turned down your bed and drawn a hot bath for you."

"Thank you Wadsworth," I replied,"I don't know what I'd do without you."

Wadsworth nodded in acknowledgement and returned to his duties in the house. I finished my breakfast and truly did enjoy the sunrise for a few minutes. When I entered the house again things were blissfully quiet. I relaxed in the bath and slept for the rest of the day and through last night. Now I'm posting from the kitchen. Between the interview, the dreams, and the way I keep thinking about how Beezle's "heartwarming anecdote" might have ended, I'm still fairly jumpy. I'd rather not be alone right now if I can help it. Therefore I am posting from the safety of the kitchen table. I told Wadsworth that it's because I want to see how he runs his kitchen. He has had the decency not to expose the obvious. Thankfully, Beezle isn't so chatty today - either I've offended him and he's not talking to me anymore, or hes taken advantage my newly muffled snoring to get some good dream playing in.

I know I still need to post about the interview, but I can't quite handle that just yet. Give me another day, and I swear that I'll satiate your desire to know what happened.

-Jason

There's a Beezle in my Basement

Today was fairly uneventful until about 11:30 pm. That was when Wadsworth entered my study carrying a silver tray. On the tray were a corked bottle and a small glass stoppered vile.

"What's on the tray?" I asked.

"Five hundred year old Cognac, Sir."

"Wadsworth," I chastised, "You know I don't drink."

"Yes, sir.  The alcohol is not for you, sir.  It is for Beezle."

"I LIKE YOUR BUTLER. HE CAN STAY. YOU ON THE OTHERHAND..."

"What's wrong with me?"

"YOU DON'T DRINK."

"That means more for you."

"A VALID POINT. YOU MAY STAY IF YOU STOP SNORING. AT THE VERY LEAST, STUFF THE VENT IN YOUR BEDROOM."

Deciding to ignore the last comment, I turned to Wadsworth and said, "Wadsworth, I've been meaning to ask you something about the pool. Will you please follow me?"

"Of course, sir."

"DON'T FORGET, YOU'RE DUE TO OFFER SACRIFICES TO ME IN TWENTY MINUTES. DON'T BE LATE. I HAVE A VERY TIGHT SCHEDULE."

I guffawed. "Filled with what?"

"BEETLE FIGHTING. THE FINAL ROUND IS TONIGHT AND I ANTICIPATE WINNING LARGE QUANTITIES OF BEETLE BLOOD."

Outside, I spoke very quietly, "Wadsworth, is there any way that Beezle can hear us out here?"

"There is a possibility, Sir, though it is unlikely. If you wish to speak unheard, I suspect that the garden would be a more private location."

I nodded, and we quietly changed venues.  When I was satisfied that there was no possibility of being overheard I said, "Wadsworth. I'm not so comfortable offering a scarifies to an unholy being. It goes completely against my grain."

"If it will ease your conscious sir, you may think of the offering as dinner by another name."

"A thorn by any other name is just as sharp, Wadsworth."

"Please sir, allow me to explain the nature of the offering. Beezle thirsts for blood. It need not always be human blood, though he would prefer it. Like a wolf or a vulture, he is merely hungry.  I assure you sir, that by slacking his thirst with a small quantity of goat blood, we shall not in any way worship him, or enter any unholy contracts.  We merely offer him a highly desirable snack, for which he will make a temporarily unbreakable vow of honesty."

I still felt uneasy about it, but I said, "Well, alright, if you're willing, I guess I am too. At any rate, I've always heard that you have to sell your soul to make a living as an author."

"Quite so, Sir. Shall we proceed?"

"After you Wadsworth."

"Very good sir."

And so it was, that at midnight last night I found myself in my basement, face to face with one of the most frightening things I've ever seen. I'll fill you in on a the details of the interview tomorrow.

-J. L. Secrest

Me VS Wadsworth

This morning was good one. I got up at a decent hour feeling well rested. Wadsworth made a fantastic omelet for me and at my request drizzled Hollandaise sauce over it. It's so hard to find good Hollandaise sauce these days, but Wadsdworth's could kill you by sheer force of it's unadulterated goodness. After breakfast he also called in a master masseuse at his own expense. It's worth mentioning that Wadsworth is beyond a master in the art of massage, but he's also not a pretty girl, and for unexplained reasons he seemed to think I was deserving of one of those today. Between her pretty face and how relaxed I felt after she worked the knots out of my shoulders I fell into a really wonderful mood. After she left, I gave Wadsworth the rest of the day off. Now I'm starting to wonder if he planned it that way. I think he remembered that this was the day that I'd planned to go through my notes for Solar Flare.

Solar Flare is a fantasy novel I'm writing. Beezle is in it and so is Wadsworth. Infact, the novel is loosely based on true events involving both of them. Despite having a basis to work from, the plot became so convoluted and tangled that I got frustrated and put the manuscript down for about a year. I'm starting it up again and trying to remember where I left off, what to add, and where to slash. It has been a painful process. I think Wadsworth doesn't think it's redeemable. Yesterday he was strongly urging me to let the project die peacefully.

Well, one can't be a slave to their valet. I'm not that type. While he may make recommendations on the right business suit to wear to a meeting, or suggest the kind of beverage that would best compliment my dinner, it's not his place to go killing off my novels before they ever see the light of day. I told him as much and made it very clear that he would be helping me organize my notes today. I'd also hoped to get him to write a few autobiographical chapters that I could include at the end of the book. Unfortunately, a pair of soft feminine hands on the back of my neck made me forget about all of that.

The rest of the day has been a mess. I spent most of it just trying to find my notes and previous chapters. Now that I'm sorting through the mess I can't make heads or tails out of anything. Besides that, Beezle has been singing songs that are so graphically violent, they make "Saving Private Ryan" look like an episode of scrubs. Besides being disturbing, it makes it hard to concentrate.

It's a beautiful day outside, and the pool is calling to me. Maybe things will make more sense after a dip.

~

I'm ashamed to say that a dip led to sunbathing and sunbathing let to a nap. My pasty white skin is a touch burned, and I'm congested because the Gardner cut the grass while I was sleeping. (I've got mild hayfever). By the time I got back to writing again, I'd lost all my energy and the desire to do anything. On the upside, Wadsworth got back from wherever he goes on his days off, and we reached a compromise. He agrees to keep his opinions about whether or I'll ever get published to himself and help me keep myself organized. I promise to limit his involvement in the project to a bare minimum, though I may ask him a few questions about the events that took place.

With Wadsworth's help things sped along quickly. When he had me in working order he promptly left for the kitchen to start work on dinner. As I worked through the material, I found some places where I was lacking large pieces of information, some of them vital to the area of the book I was currently plotting. I tried to move on, but was so bothered that I couldn't think to write anything else.

In my study there is a long chord that I can yank on to call Wadsworth. I think it rings a bell or something. I gave it a few tugs and drummed my fingers on my desk while I waited. I also watched the second hand on the clock. Wadsworth walked in exactly thirty seconds later. That was ten seconds slower than usual. He must of had his hands in something.

Wadsworth bowed slightly and asked, "Yes, Sir?"

"Wadsworth," I said, "What do you know about that evil entity that Beezle's so terrified of?"

"I FEAR NOTHING!" said the ventilation shaft above my head.

Wadsworth glanced at the ventilation shaft. His expression said nothing, but I could tell he was annoyed. I've been around him for so long that I can just tell.

"If you don't mind me asking, Sir, is there any particular reason that you called me from my duties rather than asking the resident poltergeist?"

"IT IS BECAUSE HE FEARS ME."

"It's because I want true information."

"ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?"

"Only in the narrowest interpretation of the word."

"THANK YOU, I'M FLATTERED."

"Despite the untrustworthy nature of the entity in question, it is likely that he will be able to shed more light - "

"DARKNESS"

"-on the subject than I can, Sir."

I'm not sure exactly how to describe it, but I got the distinct impression that the vent was grinning at me.

"So, just how do you propose I separate the fact from the fiction?"

"AREN'T YOU WRITING FICTION? I'LL WAGER THAT THE LIES THAT I TELL WILL SELL BETTER THAN THE LIES THAT YOU TELL"

I hope that facial expressions transfer both ways through the vent, because I scowled heartily at it.

Wadsworth cleared his throat to regain my attention. "Demons, like most multiplanear apparitions must abide by certain rules sir. There is a kind of oath that Beezle can make that will force him to speek truth."

The vent boomed with deep laughter.

"AND WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I WOULD MAKE THAT VOW TO 'LORD' SECREST?"

That was my question too. I thought Wadsworth had finally lost his marbles. I was convinced when I heard him say,"He will bring a sacrifice."

"I CAN PENCIL YOU IN FOR TOMORROW AT MIDNIGHT."

Wadsworth looked pointedly back at me and said, "Will that be all, sir?"

I was still fairly stunned to have heard Wadsworth proclaim that I would be offering a sacrifice to an entity of darkness, but I decided that it would be best to talk to him later out of the earshot of Beezle.

"Yes, Wadsworth. That's all."

"Very good sir. Dinner will be served shortly."

That was half an hour ago. The smells wafting in my direction are overpowering every other sense I have, so I bid you ado.

-J.L.Secrest