You've Got Another Thing Coming

If you’ve ever stepped out of a magic swirling hole full of colours, then you ought to know what I was experiencing as I fell head first from the passage Aberton Olav Pears had created in order to get to his house in a very quick instant.

In case you felt inclined to believe the wizard’s obvious bragging, which I at the moment did not; then he’d tell you how it usually took about fifteen years to reach his house from the place he had found me.
Or, the place where I had tripped over him, if you so will.

As I tumbled out of the collection of magical colours Aberton Olav Pears was already strutting away. He did not even look back to see if I was okay.

“What a gentleman he is,” I droned sarcastically. “I bet the ladies must throw themselves at him the way he behaves.”

Without even turning back, the wizard monotonously responded: “Actually, they do throw themselves at me. I suppose it is all because of my rather grey and hopeless personality. Apparently they are attracted to that. Women always seem to think they can ‘fix’ me.”

At the word ‘fix’, Aberton Olav Pears swung his staff and a sort of hologram of the word appeared in the air, alongside with a pair of bunny ears that wiggled as he spoke said word.
I merely shrugged at him (as good as you can shrug if you’re lying on the ground), his bunny ears evaporating with a slight ‘poof’ by another swing of the staff.

I got to my feet, dusting myself off ever so slightly, before hurrying after the wizard who was now bending over a shrubbery and a white picket fence, muttering ominous-sounding sentences that actually did not make much sense.

“Three little piggies went to the market place; three little piggies took the bus. Three little piggies rode the cowboy’s horse and another decided to combust,” he stated gravely as he moved his hands in strange patterns over the poor picket fence.

“What are you doing?” I asked curiously, always ready to learn more about this world that held no logic that I could comprehend.

Aberton Olav Pears started when he realised I was by his side. He apparently felt that close contact was not to his liking, and he side-stepped as my arm grazed his.

“I’m reading the note,” he told me and pointed to a piece of paper taped to the fence.

Someone had scribbled all over it with a handwriting that much resembled that of an old blind lady, or someone who was trying to write a letter on the sea during a storm.

“Ah,” I said tediously. “I thought it was actually something interesting.”

The wizard’s eye grew to the size of saucers. “Oh, but it is!” he exclaimed with more passion than I had even imagined he could conjure over world peace. “It’s a code, you see!”

He tore the piece of paper off the fence and shoved it in my face. “This,” he said and wiggled the paper. “This means that Samantha Tarivole has once again fought off the warthogs and suricats, and finally managed to sweep James Dean off his feet!”

I stood there, speechless for a second or two. “Does it really say that?” I wondered sceptically.

Aberton Olav Pears started again, and looked over the piece of paper.
“Well, I think it does,” he stated, now unsure. He glanced at me. “What do you think it says?”

“I think it’s a stupid nursery rhyme that someone decided to mutilate,” I narrowed my eyes at the piece of paper. “There’s no code whatsoever.”

Aberton Olav Pears stared glumly at the text. He seemed to me, suddenly, somewhat like a deflated balloon.

“No fun, then,” he said, and his already gloomy appearance turned even…well, gloomier.
With a flick of his wrist he tossed the now crumbled paper over his shoulder and opened the wicket in the picket fence.

Together we approached a small cottage-like house, built out of gingerbread and frosting with small M&M’s sprinkled over the slates, which were made entirely out of toffee.
Around the windows and doorframes someone had decorated with beautiful patterns made out of all-coloured sprinkles.
It was very lovely to look at – but I was rather certain that this place was a bitch to live in during the winters; the gable ends looked drafty.

“So, Mr. Pears,” I said politely, brushing off my shoes at the somewhat shaggy door mat that briskly spelled out ‘Oh, no! Not you again!’ “Your house looks very interesting. Have you captured any chubby children lately?”

The wizard did not care much for my attempts at a civilized conversation, but merely flung the door open in my face and rudely shoved me inside.

“Straight forward to the main room. Kitchen’s on the left,” he grimaced as if he’d tasted something cooked a few centuries ago. “Your friends ought to be in there, if they’ve not decided to bash my living room as well.”

I followed his miniscule directions and ended up in a bathroom, a storage room, and something that looked eerily alike a scene from The Little Mermaid.
Finally I ended up in a room that held a stove, a refrigerator and a table. The reason I decided that this indeed was the kitchen, though, was the fact that – atop of the cupboards – there crouched two black, strange-looking creatures.

One was slight and thin with tall, dusty-grey hair that stuck to its cheeks and its thin arms solidly crossed over its chest.
The other was, judging by the way it was cramped between the ceiling and the roof of the cupboard, tall and uncomfortably perched in its position. Its shaggy greyish hair hung in its eyes, but it was these green, haunting eyes that were the reason I joyously cried out:

“Where the fuck have you two been?”