Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Lumpomancy?” cried Gregor. “What can I do with lumpomancy? I want the gift of a cooler -mancy. What about pyromancy?”

“I’m sorry, Gregor,” Counselor Iort said. “Your Magical Aptitude Score in pyromancy was only 17. That’s not even enough to prevent you from working in a match factory.”

“How about technomancy?” Gregor said.

“15. Don’t fool with any complex machinery unless you have the proper tools and two years’ technical training.”

“…and my score in lumpomancy?” Grego asked, miserably.

“97. Since the scores are based on percentiles, this means that you are better than lumpomancy than 97% of the magically-gifted population. I think you should seriously consider it as a career.”

“Doing what,” Gregor mumbled.

“Well, most lumpomancers work in ore processing, identifying and moving lumps of raw ore. If you were a bit more gifted in life magic, there might also be room for you in a magical oncologist.”

“What’s my life magic score?” said Gregor.

“10,” replied Counselor Iort. “Frankly, any lower than that, and I’d expect you to be dead. No, my boy, I’m afraid it’s ore processing or nothing for you.”

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“Stripe Wiggly T is the real breakout character from ‘The Wibbly-Wombles,’ so he would be a perfect spokesman for your product,” said Mr. Cabinet, the network executive man. “The word ‘tea’ is right there in his name, after all. Shall we start the negotiations at, oh, say a million?”

The high-backed chair, which had been facing the window, swiveled to reveal the enigmatic Mr. H. M. Wigglesburgh, Esq., the mysterious, reclusive, and eccentric founder and owner of Wigglesburgh Teas. “So allow me to summarize the proposed transaction,” Mr. Wigglesburgh said, his long gloved fingers steepled, his face unreadable beneath his bright top hat and above his ruffled ascot. “Based on some perceived similarity of name, you wish me to hire your children’s television host—and actor—to peddle your wares. To children.”

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Cabinet. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”

“Here is what I understand,” said Wigglesburgh. “Children are not an ideal market for tea. It is often too hot for them; they might injure themselves. They prefer it cold, with milk and sugar, all of which are anathema to my fine teas. Now, this is not the children’s fault, Mr. Cabinet; rather, it is yours for having the temerity to suggest such a matchup in the first place.”

“Come now, Mr. Wigglesburgh,” said Cabinet. “Perhaps we could knock the price down to half a million, on account of your moral objections. But I’ll have you know that Butterglut Tea is on the hook as well, and if Stripe Wiggly T isn’t working for you, why he’s working for them. The children will burn their poor little tongues no matter what.”

“Butterglut,” said Mr. Wigglesburgh. “Tell me, Mr. Cabinet, have you ever seen my magnificent vats of Earl Grey, our best seller?”

Without waiting for a response, he touched a control at the arm of his chair that abruptly clamped Mr. Cabinet to his chair and tilted him forward, even as a trap door opened to reveal the steaming vats of Earl Grey below, worked by the tireless Tea Weasels.

“Okay, okay! I take it back! My client is not for sale to teamakers!” Cabiner shrieked.

“Are you sure?” said Mr. Wigglesburgh, examining his nails. “Even Butterglut? I’d hate to be accused of unfair practices.”

“Yes, of course, please!” Cabinet howled.

“Very well.” The trapdoor shut, and the testraings vanished as the chair tilted back. “But do remember the agreement we have made here today. If you do not, the price will be…steep.”

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To have followed such a trajectory, on purpose, would have required a team of physicists and engineers working around the clock for two years. Every variable seemed accounted for, from the ambient temperature and humidity to the gentle west-southwest wind. The slight spin that had been imparted was perfect, enough to keep the lightly irregular object stable but also compensating for its irregularity.

It was, in short, an aerodynamic miracle, the like of which few had ever seen and fewer still would ever see again.

It was almost a shame that such kismet had been used—wasted, one might say—to guide a mushy potato from Jimmy Panfield’s hand directly to the head of his second-period teacher, Mrs. Petersen.

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“Have you decided what you’re going to do with this disco roller rink?” said Sam, running a finger over the dusty railing separating the roller floor.

“Dunno,” Chris said. “On the one hand, the land is in a decent location. I could sell it and even after taxes. “On the other, there might be just enough demand for something this retro.”

“The chance for a disco turnover, and you’re thinking of throwing it all away for a few bucks?” Sam said, incredulous.

“It’s not my time, it’s not my dream, and it might suck every ounce of life from my body,” replied Chris.

“But on the other hand, it might not,” Sam countered. “Do you think your Uncle Harvey was all-in on disco at first either?”

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“Oh no, m’lord,” the peasent said. “You must not take that road. That path will take you through the Forest of Swingles, and you will surely not emerge unscathed therefrom.”
“Nonsense, simple farmer,” said the duke, “that route may mean death for you, unarmed and untrained, but my sword is keen and my armor strong. I fear neither death nor injury.”

“Nay, m’lord, the Forest of Swingles offers peril not to one’s body, but one’s soul. It tempts them with pleasures of the flesh, and few who travel through it are able to stay true to their marital vows.”

“Oh?” the duke said.

“Aye, m’lord. To come out of the Forest of Swingles without a dryad side chick or a centaur himbo is exceedingly rare.”

“I thank thee for the warning, simpleton,” said the duke, flipping a coin to the peasant. Then, to his horse: “Onward to the Forest of Swingles!”

“But m’lord! What about the duchess?”

“What about her?” the duke, already half a league away, called over his shoulder.

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“It’s over, Brineman!” howled Collier, president and CEO of Broccoli Barn. There was nowhere left to run, atop the giant lit broccoli beacon that advertised the latter’s business. The next step would lead to a terminal decline, and the beach a thousand feet below.

Mr. Brineman turned to his erstwhile nemesis, smiling even in the face of Mr. Collier’s unsheathed broccoli blade. “I know,” he said. “But we’ve had us a merry chase, haven’t we?”

“At least you’ve a modicum of dignity when you’re beaten, here at the end,” Collier said. “And now, I will do what that fool Harold Brassica never could, and lay the Pickle Beacon low forever! Would you rather plunge to your death, as Brassica did, or will is be a more classical end for you at the end of my sword?”

“I think a fall is in order, don’t you?” said Brineman.

“After you, then,” Collier said, gesturing with his broccoli blade.

“No, I insist,” Brineman said, bowing. “After you.”

“Wha…?” Collier said.

“NOW!” cried Brineman, into the hidden mic that his confederates Elle, Janice, and Quentin had been listening through.

A second later, on their signal, the Pickle Beacon hail mary streaked through the skies. The final project of Dr. Cukemann, the mad vision that had taken his life, rose up and streaked through the skies toward the giant broccoli crowning the Broccoli Barn.

The Pickle Dragon seized Collier in its briny claws, dashing part of the broccoli beacon to bits, before flinging the unfortunate CEO, howling, to his doom on the rocks below.

“Jarring,” said Brineman, adjusting his tie in the wind and snacking on an emergency pocket pickle. “Very jarring.”

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“Considering what is required for ghostly high tea,” inquired the shade, “what confluence of unfortunate circumstances might have to transpire for a ghostly soup?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the old man said. “Would you like some? I have oodles.”

“But…but why is soup so easy, if tea is so hard?” the shade said.

“Simple,” the old man said, “soup will vengefully resent being served at anything other than the perfect temperature, and any old ghost bowl will contain it. The aether is full of unsettled ghost soups. We practically swim in it.”

“Then…perhaps ghost stew?” the shade inquired.

“Now I’m afraid that is quite impossible,” the old man said. “For reasons best not gone into. But if you must know, here’s a hint: gelatin.”

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The mirrormoth, Anklodytes swingerii, is so named because of its curious habit of being attracted to mirrors. In the presence of a mirror, a mirrormoth will continually bump against it, ignoring all other stimuli if possible and failing to eat or drink, until it dies from exhaustion.

The mechanism for this behavior is believed to be related to the also poorly understood attraction that most other moths have to lights in the dark. Mirrormoths ignore lights in favor of mirrors, though there must be at least some light–they will ignore a mirror in a totally dark room, as proved by Forrestal et al. in 1987. Mirrormoths also display a marked preference for silver mirrors made prior to 1900 for unknown reasons, gravitating to them 97% of the time when offered a choice.

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“The blood test confirms that it’s a genuine Aptenodytes forsteri, an emperor penguin. Adult female, probably less than ten years old, somewhat dehydrated and malnourished but otherwise in good health.”

“That is a spectacularly unhelpful answer.”

“What more do you want? They were kind enough to send along some dietary tips for addressing the dehydration and malnourishment.”

“I mean, yes, that is very helpful, but what does it do to answer the question of what this impossible penguin is doing 1000 miles from the coast, 2000 miles from the nearest zoo that breeds them, and 10,000 miles from its native habitat?”

“Not a lot, yeah.”

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“You’ll be of no use, Vespertillus, once my new minion is released!” cackled The Twiddler.

“You’re insane, Twiddler!” cried Vespertillus, readying a gas grenade from his megabelt.

“Am I?” The Twiddler said. “Reserve all judgment until you see the fruits of my early-bird investment in GigantoCorp: an absolutely massive bat!”

From its hidden perch up above, the absolutely massive bat stirred, raining guano down upon the combatants below.

“Oh. Ew.” Vespertillus said.

“That’s just the beginning, Vesperterriblus!” shouted The Twiddler. “To my absolutely massive bat, you’re just an insect snack! It will devour you whole!”

The absolutely massive bat stirred again.

“Kill him!” The Twiddler barked.

Nothing.

“Wha…?”

“Foolish Twiddler,” Vespertillius said, hurling his gas grenade. “It’s two-thirty PM. This chonkster won’t be ready to eat for hours.”

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