“Hey there pixie. What’re you doin’ way out here this time a night? And this far into the land of Make Believe?” Agent Stiffupperlip chided from his winged horse “A pretty little pixie like you, on the night of the winking moon, it’s like your asking for trouble. Are you askin’ for trouble? Are ya pixie?”
“Just my luck,” she replied. “A girl can’t go out for a stroll without being hassled by a couple a suits. And I know what you’re thinkin’. But I ain’t got no pixie dust.”
“We were never supposin’ ya did there pixie. Heck, a pretty little pixie like you. We was just figurin’ you were lost, bein’ out here all by yourself. We were thinkin’ that maybe you were on your way to the Labyrinth. Providin’ a little protection for them high class wizzers.”
“I ain’t goin’ to no Labyrinth.” She responded trying her best to shake the sheen from her speech. The trouble with being a pixie was that everything you said just sounded so damned cheerful. Like everything was all sunshine and fairies and houses made out of little candies. Maybe it used to be like that, before the Magic Acts. But now, it was every pixie for herself and a run in with the suits was the last thing she needed. It was times like these that she wished she filed for a petition to keep her wings unclipped.
“That’s where me an’ Agent Rackensack here were headin’ before we decided to take a little detour. Agent Rackensack here didn’t think we’d find anything of intrest. But good heck, we found you didn’t we? She’s pretty intrestin’ eh Rackensack?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Agent Rackensack flitted nervously in the saddle of his steed. He was still a probationary suit. A Rental. They called all the new Suits Rentals, because most folks weren’t tailored for the rough and tumble cycles that it took to be a Suit.
“She’s pretty ain’t she Agent Rackensack? I bet you gotta glass slipper you’d like to give her.”
The young Rental’s pega-stallion reared back, asserting it’s dominance over the inexperienced rider. “I don’t go for pixies. Not my type.” Rackensack said, thinking it the safest answer. He didn’t know Agent Stiffupperlip from Merlin and didn’t feel comfortable with his harassing of the pixie. Not only that, he was recently married with a tyke on the way.
“That’s right,” Stiffupperlip grunted. “Ain’t got no use for a pixie with clipped wings.”
She had had enough. “You suits gonna charge me with something?” Honey soaked dissent with tinges of ginger came from her lips. It was the best she could do. “I ain’t got no dust. I ain’t wearin’ no glass slippers either. Just goin’ for a walk is all.”
Agent Stiffupperlip laughed which turned into a cough and then back into a laugh. “You’re right pixie. I s’pose we best be on our way. Y’know off to the Labyrinth. You sure you don’t wanna…interrogate her, Rackensack? We can swing by the dry cleaners ‘fore the big gala.”
“Not tonight,” he responded. Not that it would be any other night either with his newly budding family, but not this night especially. Tonight was the night of the Winking Moon. Usually the moon was content to bathe in the aura of misdeed to brighten its smile, but the Winking Moon was wont to spread a few secrets around just to keep entertained. “We should probably get on to the Labyrinth.”
“I s’pose your right. You Rentals can be so stiff, I forget that sometimes. Give it a few more cycles out here, you’ll loosen up. One day you’ll trade in that belt for some s’spenders and let out the seams too.” Agent Stiffupperlip said, taking his suspenders in the thumb crease of his white gloves. “Consider this your lucky night pixie. Though I will have to take a swath of your cloth.” He reached over and pulled a tattered piece from her ever-shrinking dress. He tore up instead of down and nearly ripped her dress in half. Bundling the swath in his hand, he gave it a long, savory sniff. “Just followin’ procedure. I’m not gonna find anything when I take this to the cauldron, will I?” He smelled it again. “Nah, of course I won’t. A pretty little pixie like you wouldn’t be up to no toil and trouble.”
She felt repulsed by the starch of his white gloves as they brushed against her skin. It wasn’t the first time a Suit took a swath from her. Probably wouldn’t be the last either. A few more swaths that size and she’d have naught but her wings to keep her covered. That or go to the Loom. She shuddered at the thought. As much as the Suits tangled her up, they were nothing compared to the Loom.
“Alright pixie, you be safe now. I wouldn’t head too much farther towards the coast if I were you. Lots of Riff Raff.” Agent Stiffupperlip yanked the reins of his pega-stallion and took flight. Rackensack followed suit and followed the Suit.
Once the two pega-stallions were out of the way, the tears stared coming. “My name ain’t pixie, you filthy suits.” She was right, that wasn’t her name. Her name is Pixanne. She fumbled in her satchel for a small vial and pressed it to her face, making sure to catch every last drop. As much as she hated it, pixie tears was one of the only legitimate ways she had to make a little dough. And legitimate was subjective, harvesting your own tears wasn’t legal anymore, they were all supposed to be harvested by the Bees and processed through the Hive. No one could tell the difference though. No one checked either. It was one of the few magics that you could carry without a permit.
Holding the vial up to the light of the Winking Moon, she measured how much she got. Not even enough for a hit of dust. She grinned, causing her nose to involuntarily twitch. She hated that damned twitch. Even when she was beyond angry she couldn’t help but to be adorable. Pixanne walked down the empty street. Contrary to what she told the suits, she did indeed have a destination in mind: the abandoned Fantasy Factory.
Meanwhile, up in the Heavens, Agents Stiffupperlip and Rackensack cruised the skies. Stiffupperlip grabbed a dozen smokes and lit them with a lighter shaped like a tiny revolver. He put it back in the holster, next to the gun that shot a ‘bang’ banner, next to his Closet-issued six shooter. Taking a puff off of the bundle of smokes, he said “You did good back there, Rackensack. I know you know I was only testing you with all that glass slipper jibe. You know that don’t you.”
“Of course, Agent Stiffupperlip,” he answered. It was the only answer. “I know.”
“Gosh darn right you do Rental. Gosh darn right,” he coughed, but instead of taking the smokes from his lips, he took another drag as though he was trying to teach his double-breasted vest a lesson. “You’re okay Rackensack. The wardrobe needs more Suits like you.”
“Thank you sir.”
“You can loosen that tie kid. Call me Fupper.”
“Alright, Fupper.” Rackensack answered. He was grateful to be on Stiffupperlip’s good side, though he couldn’t help but feel that this was more of a test than their meeting with the pixie. “So we heading to the Labyrinth?”
“Never did care much for them wizzers. Spellin’ was never my strong suit,” he laughed and coughed and laughed and coughed. Then there was a moment where he didn’t laugh or cough. And then he laughed and coughed. “That one never gets old.” Little laugh and little cough.
“Me neither Fupper, but orders are orders, right?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. C’mon,” he tilted the reins of his pega-stallion and started his descent. “Let’s take a look in on and see what these wizzers are up to.”
Rackensack knew what he was supposed to do. But he also knew what he was supposed to do. As much as he didn’t want to, he knew he had no choice. “You know what, Fupper?” He said, corralling his pega-stallion to a halt. “That pixie might be in trouble. Maybe we should go and check out by the docks. Just a quick fly-by. No one’s gonna bother them wizards.”
Laughing and coughing. Stiffupperlip threw his bundle of smokes down and watched the shooting-star embers of amber fall to the ground. “Just a quick fly-by. I like that. Let’s go Rackensack.”
Rackensack could only hope that the Winking Moon had better things to be watching right now.
“What’s the password?”
“Just let me in Ballord.” Pixanne said. Her orders sounded so sweet that she might as well have the Abeetees.
Ballord the Balrog stood aside and let her in. He wasn’t the best guard, but he was loyal and he was scary. Even if he was nothing but a huge leather-skinned forged-from-the-lamentations-of-the-innocent softy.
“Your late Pixanne,” Highwayman said. His face was obscured by the wide brim of his hat, but even without the hat on the brightest of days he would still be cloaked in shadows. The darkness followed Highwayman like Samwise followed Frodo. Highwayman was so villainous, that even his speech didn’t follow the rules. “U were supposed to be here at 10 after 11teen. Do U no what time it is?”
“I’m sorry Highwayman. I got stopped by a couple of Suits. Had to make sure they didn’t follow me.” Pixanne said.
Highwayman’s mile-wide mischievous grin flattened to match the horizons of the Wasteland. “Soots? Wut R U doin’ that attracts all tehm Soots? You llookin to get a few galss slippers on the side?”
“No, no I wasn’t.”
“♪Pixanne! U don’t have to put on the red light. Pixxxxannne♪!” Highwayman sang. Even the music notes. He knows how to pronounce them, they kind of sound like ‘aaeyy’. “You better B write about given them the shakes.”
“They didn’t follow me, they said they were headed to the Labyrinth,” she answered, fishing through her handbag.
“The Labyrinth?” he tilted the horizon of the Wasteland back to its normal ‘U’ shape. “Perhaps we will be seeing your Suits this evening after all.”
Arnie the Armadillo couldn’t help but hear Highwayman’s supposition. He scrunched into a ball and rolled over. “Tonight Highwayman? We’re not ready.”
“No. Ure not ready.” Highwayman picked up the ball that was Arnie the Armadillo and shook him as though he were a crystal ball that someone forgot to pay the premonition bill for. “I’ve been E since I sat on this plan and hatched it myself.” That ‘E’, it was really red—he can actually speak in color. A red ‘E’ as in ‘red-E’, as in ‘ready’. Perhaps now you are beginning to understand just how villainous Highwayman is. “The Winking Moone is watching. Eye don’t want 2 let him ⇓.” Highwayman dug his fingers into Arnie the Armadillo’s rolled up body and with his best water buffalo Fred Flintstone impersonation, he bowled Arnie the Armadillo like a bowling ball.
Speaking of villainy and Flintstones, Highwayman was the mad man behind this:
Gasp!
Arnie the Armadillo toppled into a conveniently arranged array of bottles and came to with a circle of blue jays circling his head. “It’s a living,” he said compulsively.
“Get back 2 work!” Highwayman demanded.
The rest of the henchmen, who may or may not receive names later, followed their orders. For they knew that as long as they remained unnamed that they were expendable to the narrative. But as much as they were worried, none had as much to lose as Enrick Schmidt the duck-billed simian who was only moonlighting the henchman gig to put himself through conductrician school. The only thing worse than being an unnamed henchman was being the a named henchman with aspirations beyond the life of henchmennery.
Highwayman has over one hundred teeth. He licked the back of every one of them with his slimy tongue. The ninety-eight gaps between his teeth were as sharp as razors from decay and gingivitis caused by his complete refusal to floss. His habit of tracing the valleys with his tongue gave it its callousness and poor spelling. “Besides knews of the Suits, what else dew U have 4 me?”
Pixanne rifled through her satchel and presented the half-filled vial of pixie tears. “I got some tears.”
Highwayman snatched the vial. “Yesss. Wut else?” the tears were hardly of value, but that was all he could expect from a clipped-wing pixie. Perhaps his henchmen could make some use of it.
“I know it’s in here,” Pixanne said, now elbow-deep in her handbag. She found what she was looking for and let out a sigh of relief. “Here it is: the low spark of the High-Heeled Boys.”
Highwayman was pleased.
“I don’t see anything Fupper,” Rackensack said, glad to not actually be seeing anything rather than seeing anything and saying otherwise. “Maybe we should head over to the Labyrinth now. We’ve been looking for a while and haven’t found any traces of wrongdoing.”
“Think about that for a tick Rackensack.” Agent Stiffupperlip said. “No traces of wrongdoing is the first sign of wrongdoing. Especially in this neighborhood. Now be on alert.”
They flew their pega-stallions over the abandoned docks. On first inspection, Rackensack was right: there was no activity. Pirate’s Cove was completely empty and not a single Leviathan was docked on the pier. The fringes of Make Believe were awfully quiet tonight, though it wasn’t that out of the ordinary on the night of the Winking Moon.
Agent Stiffupperlip pulled out another dozen smokes and reached for his light. As usual, his grip went from his six shooter to his ‘bang’ shooter to his novelty lighter. No matter how many joke guns a Suit had holstered, he was always trained to pull the real one first. Fingering the trigger, Stiffupperlip couldn’t get it to light. The lighter sparked but there didn’t seem to be any go-juice. He shook his lighter, and in the flutter of his pega-stallion’s wing he caught a glimpse of another type of spark. It came from the abandoned Fantasy Factory.
“Did you see that?” he asked, the unlit smokes still pursed between his lips.
“See what?” Rackensack answered.
“The Fantasy Factory. I think it might be open for business. C’mon Rackensack. I think we might get to see some action tonight.”
Landing over a block away, the two Suits left their pega-stallions and headed over on foot. Stiffupperlip walked in front with his ‘bang!’ gun readied. He found it to be the most effective of the novelty guns. It was silent but also deadly—at least to the literate. Rackensack followed closely behind, he held his closet-issued six-shooter just like he learned at the academy.
By the time they reached the Fantasy Factory it was obvious. The Suits wrinkled and creased. Static electricity was in the air and there was only one explanation. The low spark of the High-Heeled Boys. Whoever was in there wanted to make sure that the Suits would have plenty of static to deal with.
“That’s the low spark, isn’t it?” Agent Rackensack asked, lifting the flap of his jacket with a gesture of his glove. “Should we call for backup?”
“No way Rackensack,” Stiffupperlip shot back. “Do you wanna call the Iron in here and mess up our crime scene? Those guys make the worst kind of wrinkles: creases.” He carefully unloaded his novelty gun and sprayed fabric softener over the ‘bang!’ banner. “You ready Rackensack? This might get sticky.”
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