The Umpire Strikes Back

OPERATING

INSTRUCTIONS

In this novel there are things to consider so that you, the reader, get the full experience of listening to our heroes and other characters. Much of the dialogue in this book is written in phonetics in order to give certain characters a familiar accent so that you, the reader, will have an easier time hearing their voices as you read. From the stereotypical New York City cab driver to the Russian soldier, the Yiddish Rabbi and even the Jamaican Rastafarian, any humor directed at any individual or group is absolutely intentional and done so with the deepest and most gracious appreciation to those who, in reality, actually are part of these groups and/or individuals, and enrich our society/s as such. I thank you in advance and ask that you forgive any offense this story might cause you. It is certainly not intended.

Indeed these are stereotypes and should be taken with more than a grain of salt.

Common accents were given to the characters so that the reader can feel more familiar with the heroes and relate to them better. Most of the individuals represented in these pages are not human, and it helps us to become involved in their story if a human persona is attached to them.

Likewise, at least one of the characters in this story has a physical handicap that is made fun of. To all of you who may suffer the same disability, NO offense intended. I also do not wish to label anyone or any group as bad, evil or malicious...well, all except the banks.

There are also many cases of ethnic stereotyping and just plain making fun of people. If you are offended by this book I strongly suggest you get some help or smoke a joint or do something that will mellow you out enough to realize that we all have to get along and making each other laugh is better than making each other cry.

I, the writer of the story, love all people as individuals and ask that we all have a good laugh at each others’ expense. Color, gender, and so on are all irrelevant in the long run. It is who we are inside that really counts. I, the writer, am a member of a racial minority group.

So…mellow out and love each other. Don’t stress about the small stuff that doesn’t hurt anyone. There are little babies starving to death in this world so stop worrying about a joke or two already.

An original story written by:

JRR Tokin

Edited by: JK Rolling

Assistant Editor: Lise Boire

Cover Design concept and illustration: Mark E. G. Dorey

Inspired by and written for: Max (god), Peter (Beornag), Steve (Grarr), Ian (Durik), and Roger (Raz)

INTRODUCTION

Hi again, kids! Glad you’re all still with me. You are probably already aware that I ended up having to tell this story in three books.

I know, I know...but hey, listen... if I had done this in one book it would have cost you a fortune to read my story. This way it’s better for everyone. Trust me.

Anyway...where was I?

Oh yeah...

In book one you learned that there was an evil sorcerer looking to conquer the free lands and rule them with an iron gauntlet. His name was Calabac (Gawd, I hate that guy), and he had an army that consisted of undead, giant rat things, lesser sorcerers, evil humans from the ice lands far to the south, Trolls, Goblins, and great machines of war just to mention a few.

Oy!

Musky and I had been captured by the sinister Calabac and his evil minions. The terrible villain was about to interrogate the both of us and there were no means of escape in sight.

Double Oy!

Durik had been magically hootspa’d up and into the great glass monument I named The Bong. Why? Even I still did not know....why it happened, that is. I know why I called it The Bong. It made a ‘bongy’ sound.

The Bong, in turn, was inside of a pocket dimension, accessible only through a magical door that I had hootspa’d to be only one-tenth its normal size. This door I had placed in a magical para-dimensional pocket of reality inside my magical pouch.

You following me?

Really?

Good, I’m impressed.

Inside the pocket dimension was a group of Gnomes that Musky and I (well... mostly Musky) were already in the process of trying to rescue.

Durik, Shiddumbuzzin’s mighty paladin, and my personal protector, was now trapped inside The Bong, and unable to once again come to my rescue. All seemed hopeless.

Grarr, our mighty leader and tactical genius, had fallen in battle against an army of hundreds accompanied by a cloud of shadowy hatred which held magical power over the horde. This shadowy power gave each enemy within its midst mighty powers beyond human norms.

Still, he managed to lure them away while the Troll rescued an entire caravan of Gnome slaves.

Grarr had even cut the enemy down in numbers by at least a third before they had taken him completely.

A magical crossbow bolt that was designed to kill specifically him had pierced his lung and, in the end, had taken too much of a toll on him. He fell in battle, a hero.

Raz had taken his mighty steed Eekadinosaur eastward toward Briarwood, in search of enemies that would scout ahead of the terrible army.

The plan was for him to locate and dispatch all enemies he encountered on his way home. Once back at the city he would alert the guard and the city could make ready its defenses. He had not been heard from since he left Beornag and Grarr’s company.

Thankfully, Beornag had fared better. After rescuing a caravan of Gnome prisoners who were about to be impaled, he parted ways with Grarr - who, by distracting the enemy, gave the Troll the means to make a clean getaway and save the civilians.

Then, after leaving the rescued Gnomes in a safe place in the forest, Beornag returned to where he left Grarr only to find him missing in action.

Not finding his friend, he decided to enter the fortress. Using the power of his faith he not only infiltrated the enemy’s headquarters, he also managed to dispatch a number of them within a few short minutes. Using his arsenal of secret weapons he cleared the entire main entrance to the fortress, sending most of the gate’s defence forces running away, dragging their incapacitated comrades behind them, or simply fleeing in fear and nauseated disgust, traumatized forever by the bio-toxic nightmare he had created.

Yours truly, with the indispensable assistance of my newest friend and companion, Musky Ratlove, had learned that, eons ago, the forces of evil had tried, but failed to destroy the G’nomish empire completely.

Some of my ancestors survived (obviously), yet, even though the evil could not totally eradicate the G’nomes, the damage was done and the entire civilization was sent spiraling downward into a dark age that lasted countless eons and was still in effect ... apparently.

Only the power of the one true G’nome god, Holy Shiddumbuzzin, kept the G’nome civilization from completely degenerating. His last gift (before he was due in court), to the little people he had created and loved so dearly:  The gift of their ancestors’ culture, an intuition and need to keep existing, to remain G’nomish.

These gifts of culture that would endure for many millennia and maintain a people’s civility and unity, through the one hundred eon-long dark age, were the only things that kept the G’nomes from extinction during those times.

My ancestors would remain in a safe place until the great deity could return.

That place was Sensimilia, the fantastical clockwork machine city near the core of the world. Our home and the great Mellow One’s ark. A place that was designed by the old G’nomes to care for the species and cultivate it. To preserve it for all time.

During the absence of Shiddumbuzzin and Krawchich, while the two immortal godlings were battling it out in the court of the gods, an even more sinister evil stepped in and took advantage of the situation. While the lord of evil was being distracted by the legal events that threatened to strip him of his power, he was tricked into revealing his name to a mortal, ultimately becoming the servant of his own creation... Calabac, the evil sorcerer.

Now, kids, let me take you once again on a journey of high adventure.

...

Sorry... If you didn’t read the first book you might wanna grab a copy and read it first.

Go ahead, I’ll wait...

...

You’re back! Nice to see you again. Did you like it?

That’s great.

You’re gonna love this...

Chapter - 1

Lost and Found

The Injoke had taken a few moments to look around the empty shit-covered market he was solely responsible for creating. He had an almost insatiable curiosity for objects, especially large piles of objects thrown around chaotically. There was no box or bag he could resist opening, just to see what was inside.

Of course this often posed issues in public restrooms, my shower, and dead people’s coffins, that sort of thing. Piles of items in vast disorder were like a game for hill Trolls.

This place was like a toy store for this particular one. He rummaged through piles of armor and weapons that were not coated with feces and/or puke, and found enough equipment to arm a battalion, all of which he tossed in his bottomless backpack.

Then, as though placed there by divine intervention, he saw it… a rectangular opening in the wall opposite the shit and puke-covered stairs.

This is when the injoke began to notice a subtle aroma mingled with the titanic stench that permeated the market. It was a wonderful aroma that was vaguely familiar at first, and made his stomach begin to grumble. He began to visually search for the source of this unexpected good fortune. How he had missed this when he had first entered the place he could not fathom.

The opening was a service counter for a kitchen beyond. It was twenty feet wide, four feet tall, and was five feet from the floor. This market was also the cafeteria/mess hall for the entire evil army.

From where he was he could see through the opening in the wall. Beyond were stacks of dishes and stone mugs on counters and piles of pots and pans in sinks that were over-flowing with water, the taps still running. This was a huge kitchen. Large enough to service an army of thousands.

As he approached the window, he was careful not to step on any of the bodies, or in any of the puke or shit that was all over the place. Someone really outta clean up ‘round he’uh. Geesh, whatta sewa! He chuckled as he bent down and looked inside.

Beyond the canteen window the cavernous kitchen looked like it was evacuated in a hurry. Many pots still boiled and bubbled on the stoves, smoke was leaking from a few oven doors, several grills were working and a few spits had meat on them, sizzling and slowly rotating around a series of trays over hot coals.

He peeked over the edge to see an assortment of bowls filled with vegetables and other things in sauces, trays of different meat loaves and jars with tantalizing pastes and jellies in them, a large pile of those weird bread-like circular animal hides, as the Troll described them (or, as you may know them, flat bread) sat on a table just within his range of vision. Among it all was a bowl filled to the brim with those wonderful balls of yumminess...falafels.

"Feel awfuls! Ize looooves feel aaawfuls! he almost cried. Oh and is dat what Ize tink it is? Is dat…Oh! Yes it iiiis; ho geese! He was elated as he noticed the long loaves of bread sliced in two, lengthwise, next to several bottles of sauces, and everything else needed to make ho geese".

Wait for it.

He dropped to one knee and gave thanks to Ulm. He also gave thanks to all of the prostitute waterfowl who perished in the creation of the delicious meat loaves for the three dozen ho geese he was gonna make as soon as he found the entrance to the kitchen.

I know. I know. Don’t ask.

The window was far too small for anything more than his head or arm to fit through, and although he could have easily reached much of the food, he was on a mission to save his friends- annnnd wouldn’t it be great to have some nice ho geese and feel-awfuls all ready for them (and still warm) when all that happened?

Coincidentally enough, at that very moment I had been talking to William in his lab, only three hundred feet below the Troll, and it was at that exact same moment that I was feeling hungry for no reason. I had left the exact area he was presently in only fifteen or so minutes before he started tossing bags of feces all over the place.

Kinda cool... Right?

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah...

He soon realized that the kitchen was accessed from a different part of the fortress.

He took a moment to elate in what he had created in the name of Ulm and laughed as he looked around at the biohazard he had created.

Beornag later swore, when asked, that the feel awfuls really didn’t make you feel awful unless you ate too many. It’s all about knowing your limit. His was one hundred eighty-three.

His friends were hungry. This was fact. How it was fact remains a mystery, but as the Troll has also said many times: "It’s all about believin."

He searched the market with keen eyes, looking for the right exit. There he stood trying to choose between two large exits that led to where he had not explored yet, the one he came in from and four smaller ones he would have been forced to crawl through.

The one he came in from was at the top of a non-navigable shit-covered staircase with too many pools of vomit to count, so he decided to pass on that one. Instead he threw a whole bunch of things toward the top for people to trip on, because otherwise it would be a sacrilegious waste of all that wonderful crap and barf, of course.

Oy.

His stomach began to rumble after that as his hind-brain kicked in and delivered the memory of the kitchen aromas a second time.

He could hear the sound of guards coming from the upper level beyond the stairs and he decided to take the middle of the other two exits.

He half-wanted to stay and watch them all trip and fall over each other down the shit- and puke-covered stairs, but, as previously stated, he was on a mission.

After scratching his head for a moment and trying to decide which one was the middle, he opted for the right one because it would then be the right decision.

In fact they both clearly led to the same courtyard. But he wanted to be sure he did everything right. He was down to his last bag of crap and it was almost one hundred percent Eek poop. He was saving that one for a special occasion.

He wandered through the courtyard and eventually exited through a tall arched tunnel. The same tunnel I had earlier traveled through, following the Talotian, when I was disguised as Musky’s cousin, Vermin...remember? In that other book?

Really?

Well, okay then...

He lumbered down the huge corridor in his great ape-like fashion, with his Maul of the Mountain in his left hand.

He passed by several small portals that he could not fit through before he came to what appeared to be a set of huge loading doors.

Outside were several large barrels and crates. He lifted the lids and inside was wet garbage of all descriptions. He deduced that this was the waste dump for the kitchen, more because he wanted it to be than because he had actual evidence.

It’s all about believin’....

After digging in the dumpsters for a good ten minutes and having several appetizers from the bountiful harvest he had discovered (to him this stuff was all gently aged, seasoned to perfection so to speak – once you pick the pieces of napkin out of it, that is. Hey. It’s just packaging), he took a long look at the huge loading doors.

He then realized that he not only was not qualified to form an opinion about the skill with which they were created, but that he was supposed to be trying to figure out how they opened.

After another few minutes of careful study he concluded that he had no idea what he was looking for and, as such, pulled the doors off their hinges.

Inside was a large storage facility where crates and boxes of all sorts were stacked in rows. Sacks and barrels were everywhere and filled with…you guessed it...stuff! So . . . much. . . stuff!

He entered the warehouse and shoved the doors back into the portal behind him, forcefully jamming them into place by adding a chair and table that he found next to the entrance. Then he lit a lantern that he had found sitting on a crate.

This took him well over 20 minutes to achieve, despite having a flint and steel. Hill Trolls are not very tech savvy, I am afraid. Yet he was successful, and soon had an aura of light surrounding him so as to allow a better look around the place. His friend, Grarr, had taught him that skill. Grarr, he whispered under his breath as he smiled.

He held the lantern up to just above his eye level, around fifteen feet, while he took a look around.

This was a massive warehouse filled with crates and barrels and a menagerie of other containers.

Huge groups of antique furniture were placed together here and there, covered in dusty drapes.

Stacks of crates, too many to count, were everywhere. Some of the crates were piled twenty feet high and were filled with everything you can imagine.

After several seconds of just standing in silence, struck stupid so to speak by what he had uncovered, he pulled his own finger and lifted his left leg slightly. This was his silent prayer of gratitude to his deity, Ulm.

Then he commenced rummaging and looting through the seemingly endless supply of stuff in boxes and crates and things! Oh my!!

He was so excited! He frolicked and danced among the aisles and aisles of shipping containers, elating in the beautiful mystery of each unopened package of instant gratification.

After another thirty minutes of searching around, opening everything he could open to snoop inside (and singing a song about navel lint), he remembered he had forgotten something again and stopped in his tracks.

He was a mighty hero!

Nah, that wasn’t it...

Scratching his head, he stood there for a few minutes, and as he did so he allowed the quiet of the place to surround him.

…

‘Perfect silence,’ he thought, ‘except f’ da gentle sobbin’ in da distance.’

…there it was again!

Please… a small voice from somewhere among the many crates he had not yet opened, whimpered.

Hey! he thought out loud. Whooz is doing all da cryin’ and why don’t dey shut up already? Ize is tryin’ ta tink here. He was quite annoyed.

He sat down in the middle of a four-way intersection, admiring his work- boxes and crates to all sides, most opened with stuffing and packing materials scattered all over the floor.

Urns, towels, plates, soap and a vast menagerie of mundane items placed carefully in bizarre feats of balance and abstract art, all in the way of anyone trying to move in the room.

There, he sat for several moments as he tried to gather his thoughts and remember what he was supposed to be doing.

Despite all the whimpering and crying in the distance he was still able to form most of a thought over the next few minutes, but in the end the noise was just too much for him and he lost concentration again.

Frustrated, he moved to another area where he sat down on a priceless, one-of-a-kind divan (destroying it in the process) and thought some more, scratching his head to get the "Brain Juices" flowing.

He was, just then, starting to remember something about a kitchen and ... FEEL AWFULS!!

However, looking around, he was once again almost instantly distracted by all of the crates and boxes still to be opened.

This only sent him on another tour of the warehouse looking for clues about what he had forgotten.

He had uncovered a collection of antiquities that were each priceless beyond compare. Paintings, antique furniture, rare and valuable clothing made from exotic materials, silver and porcelain wares of the finest craftsmanship, obviously the fruition of countless centuries of stealing and banditry.

Many times he was tempted to go and see who was crying and bawling and sobbing in the distant shadows like a little elf girl and give them a piece of his mind for being so inconsiderate. ‘Geesh! People was tryin’ ta tink. Have some common coytesy!’

Then it hit him: the kitchen! Ho geese! Feel awfuls! It was time for some real thinking now.

‘If Ize came frum dat way… and Ize went dat way… and den dat way ...’ The sobbing distracted him once again and he lost his train of thought.

"Will yooz please keep it down ova dere!? Ize is trying ta figya out how ta find da kitchen, and den rescue my pals frum da evil wizid an ‘is rat…tings…creatures, tank yooz very much!" He was getting quite frustrated at that point.

Please help me, came a whimpering voice from the shadows. It was female and spoke those few words with careful eloquence. The language was humanese, so the Injoke was able to understand. I am in the dark. Please … I am alone.

The voice was magical. Musical to his ears. He was unable to not be interested in it.

Yet...

Beornag suddenly came to his senses; he could make feel awful- ho geese! What an EPIPHANY!!

... And he could follow the sound of this well- spoken feminine voice to its source and help the poor woman. ‘Ize should probly do dat first,’ he thought. ‘But man … feel awful ho geese. Now dat’s genesis!’

Hello? Is anyone there? the voice came again.

He stopped in his tracks, placed his cupped hand sideways next to his ear (so his voice would carry) and whispered loudly: Yes, O damsel in desperate despair. Ize is Beornag, Injoke of Ulm da Freakin Hilarious. Ize is looking for da kitchen. Do yooz knowz where it is? He then cupped his mouth so as to hear better.

I am sorry. I do not, came the reply. I am a prisoner here. Please help me. Will you please help me?

Okay. No prob. Yooz want a feel awful, or maybe a ho geese sandwich? He asked his hand over his ear. As soon as Ize find da kitchen Ize is gonna make up a bunch. Ize could make ya a few and drop back dis way or maybe…"

"I need to be rescued. I am trapped in darkness," she interrupted.

"Okay, okay. Ize is tryin’, he lamented. It’s not like Ize got Grarr here ta tell Ize what ta do ‘en stuff. How can Ize find yooz?"

Follow my voice, she replied.

What’s it look like? he asked.

Hunh? she replied.

Ooooh…ya voice…ahahah…yeah…I knew dat. Follow ya voice…ha-ha yeah, he said.

She sang a beautiful elfish song about two sisters and their heroic father who had fallen victim to malice. Her voice was very low in volume, but high-pitched and sweet to hear.

She sang this way for several minutes and then the song ended. Did that help, sir? she called.

Brought my spirits up. Tanks. Ize truly appreciated dat. The Troll had forgotten to follow the sound and took the moment to relax and clean his toenails. Keep singin’, Ize is sure Ize is close now.

He got up and she sang the song again. This time he did follow the sound to a large group of containers. There he discovered a massive wooden shipping crate at the bottom of a great stack of smaller crates of all different sizes.

Starting with the smallest boxes, about eight inches across, he began opening the containers–and, when there was no woman inside he simply tossed them away, regardless of the contents..

You must be close. I can hear you, I think, she said hopefully. Her voice was magical; there were powers at work that the Injoke was not aware of. She was casting a spell on him.

He continued searching the containers, working his way toward the largest at the bottom. Are yooz sure yooz don’t know da way ta da kitchen? Still, the aroma of ‘feel awfuls’ lingered in his remarkable sinuses.

I do not know where I am now, she replied.

Well dat makes two ‘a us ... Right? Ain’t it always dat way? Yooz knowz? When ... No, wait. He counted using his fingers, and then double-checked his math. Then he looked around to see if anyone else was lost. Yup, just two of us. See? It’s just like what Ize was sayin...

It was a good twenty minutes before he finally reached the last box. Wow, lady. Yooz must be huge! Dis is da biggest box in da pile. I am guessin’ yooz is in here.

He slowly pried open the crate, which was in fact a ten-foot-long shipping container. As the side came loose, the creaking of the old nails against dry wood echoed throughout the warehouse. Then he took a peek inside.

What he saw within was a pleasant surprise. Lillia? How’d yooz get in here? he asked in disbelief as he finished ripping open the side of the crate.

Chapter - 2

An Elf is an Elf is an elf

The following wildlife vignette is brought to you by;

Murray’s Cat Dairy and Boot Factory

The fine dairy products you can expect to be packaged in boots good enough to eat out of. From our feet, to your kitchen. It’s Murray’s

Try the new Athlete’s Paté with ginseng and wild leek

Elves come in three varieties and are all among the longest-lived and the oldest of the sentient species in the empire. They have many gods whom, it is said, care little about them.

The elves, in turn, care little for their gods.

Elfish gods are not and never have been elfish.