The Vulgar Gnome of Kettle's Knob
Ziggy Tausend
Clandestine Tales
presents
The Extraordinary Adventures
of
Captain Tripp Vaguely
and
The Vulgar Gnome of Kettle's Knob
By
Ziggy D. Tausend
Book Two of the Fascination Chronicles
The Vulgar Gnome of Kettle’s Knob
All artwork and writing:
copyright Ziggy Tausend ©2012
Links to more stories plus extras at:
www.clandestinetales.com
For Jeremiah Thaddeus Kavos from whose warped mind gnomes began cussing.
And to Kat Bedrij whose words of advice and correction keep my abuse of semi-colons at a minimum; my most favorite $h^t-wh@re.
CHAPTER ONE: ARCADIAN HOSPITALITY
“I'm looking for the fellow who made this.” Below his luminescent smile, the Captain held in his palm what seemed for all intents and purposes to be a tiny brass cannon on a small wooden carriage. At its trunion, where the barrel met its swiveled base, soldered on either side were two miniature mechanical arms. The Captain understood that one hollow brass tube of an arm was intended to powder the pan and the other to apply a lit wick. He also knew that were it connected to a specifically gauged power source, be it electricity or primordial pan-dimensional radiation, quinta essentia if you will, the little marvel was quite functional. Several bloody bandages back home could attest to that.
Alas, the pixie hovering before the Captain from amid the thick green fronds of an exotic fern did not understand any of this. Rapidly fluttering its dragonfly wings, it only gave the brass creation an indignant look. The diminutive being then turned its disapproving eyes on the Captain and replied quite smugly, “What do I know of gnomes? They all look the same to me.”
“A gnome you say?”
“Who else is going to waste their time making a machine in a realm of magic?”
“I see,” the Captain grimaced and nodded. This was Arcadia after all. An artificer of such caliber and warlike inclination would have to be a gnome… or a dwarf. Or perhaps a Red Cap who stopped reaping mayhem upon man long enough to study physics. But now that it was pointed out to him he had to agree. He was looking for a gnome. “Well then, my fine flying friend, where might I find a gnome?”
The pixie shot him the look one gives to a bothersome tourist; its antennae curling backward irritably. With a slight chuckle, a widening of his stance, and an adjustment of his hat so as to offer a better view of his universally accepted good looks, the Captain quickly amended, “That is to say, in which subterranean realm might I find the gnome smithy that made this fantastic ordnance?”
When in doubt add superfluous verbiage.
The pixie considered the Captain a moment longer, adjusted the coiled flower that was its cap and said, “You should ask the Gurglesplat.”
“The Gurglesplat?”
“Mhmm. The Gurglesplat.” The pixie pointed back over the Captain's shoulder across the slough in which they spoke and told him, “Go that way for a very long ways and look for the ugliest mountain you’ve ever seen. At the foot of that mountain, there is a cave. You’ll find the Gurglesplat inside that cave. And if anyone knows anything about gnomes, it’s the Gurglesplat.”
Ghost-Tongue leaned in from behind the Captain and suggested, “You're being given directions from a trickster spirit.”
The Captain nodded. “Very well,” he answered. “The Gurglesplat it is! Thanks so much for all your help. Um. Here. For your trouble.” With his empty hand, the Captain began to rummage through the pockets of his dungarees. A moment later, the Captain produced a butterscotch candy wrapped in waxed paper. The pixie beamed and though the candy was the size of its own head, it snatched it up quickly and darted away lest the pesky human demand more information.
“So where to now?” Ghost-Tongue glumly asked.
“What do you mean? You heard the little fellow. We're to see the Gurglesplat.”
The Captain turned to find his best friend and spiritual guide looking back at him as incredulously as a wife with a lipstick-stained collar in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. As such he quickly explained, “Well he said the Gurglesplat lives in a cave.”
“He said we’ll find the Gurglesplat in that cave.”
“Well, in any event, gnomes live in caves. The little fellow said if we want to know about gnomes, we should ask the Gurglesplat. It makes sense that one would know about the other. And while I'm sure the miniature rascal would like nothing more than to watch us get gobbled up by this troglodyte, I think there might just be the slightest hint of truth to his words. So...” The Captain shoved a hand into a pocket, though not one in his dungarees. Instead he went for a very specific pocket, which was more of a pouch; one of the Portable Transmundane Pockets of Quasi-Reality ™ attached to his belt.
In total there were six such pockets on his belt but the first on his left hip was perhaps his favorite. Reaching his hand and then his arm down into it up to his elbow, though in the perceptible reality the pocket was but four inches deep, he rooted around for a moment and then with a solid “Aha!” he pulled forth a concoction of weaponry otherwise known as the Pan-Calamitous Portable Arsenal™.
To call it a rifle would be like calling a saber-toothed tiger a kitty. Set upon its stock were several barrels fit into a neat and perfect brass ring as wide as a large man’s fist. This ring, and its twin nearer the dangerous ends of the barrels, encircled a central horn-like barrel or blunderbuss, good for launching any sort of debris in moments of makeshift combat. Beside, around, and even distant to the crank used to spin these barrels were a number of nozzles, gadgets, gears, and even an electrical prong, prepared to cause just about any sort of damage one might request on a cosmic battlefield. The Captain simply called her, Marybelle. And though her impressive if not dangerous appearance was a statement unto itself, the overly verbose Captain was inclined to opine, “I say we make with hummingbird haste to find this unattractive peak so that we might have several words or more with the altruistic and wise Gurglesplat about gnomes and foundries.”
Ghost-Tongue looked in the direction the pixie had pointed. “I bet you five dollars it tries to eat us.”
