The Lot of a Lichnik/4

THE CASE OF THE POTTY-MOUTHED ZOMBOT

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The sun had already set by the time Shepilov and I had finished our business in Vein. A wasted effort, it turned out. It had begun as the simple detention of a breather in an 'advisory discussion pending reformatory measures' regarding his repeated and inept attempts to bribe the Deathgiver of Vein to grant him lichdom without the proper certification. It had ended with the man refusing to cooperate and invoking his right as a serving soldier of the Third Novodolor Regiment to be subject to military justice. His Commanding Officer, although appreciative of our effort in travelling so far, refused to believe that our methods were any more effective than those of his own provost section of whom he appeared to be very proud. He denied us an exemption, so we dropped the chancing breather off at his unit's stockade and contented ourselves with the fact that in his naivety, he'd forgone the possibility of a mere caution in favour of a guaranteed spell in some Shrubforsaken penal unit with a ruined career at the end of it. You can't win them all.

By the time we got out of the city on the long road back to Novodolorsk, the last band of electric blue twilight was sinking below the horizon in favour of the star-spattered blackness of night. As we headed further into the wilderness these stars were joined by a constellation of a very different kind; dozens of distant orange flickerings from the flare stacks of the East Novodolor Gas Field. This special feature of the Novodolorish night never failed to provide an otherworldly calming effect, which both Shepilov and I savoured in silence as it soothed the wounded pride of the day's failed outing.

I don't recall how long we'd been on the road when we saw it. It was lit by the car's headlights for only a fraction of a second as we passed it on the roadside, but from my vantage point in the front passenger seat I saw it flash by in the fullest detail.

Even to the unfamiliar foreigner, the sight of a zombot is unmistakable. A reconstituted corpse, around half of which tends to be replaced with mechanical parts by the lich-adept who created it. Gently flailing arms and bandy legs, propelling the thing along in a waddling motion like a penguin or a young child. This particular zombot was a great distance away from any town, heading even further into the wilderness with no sign of stopping.

"Driver, pull over," I said. If we were going to get something out of this journey, returning a lost and confused zombot to its rightful home was an easy enough achievement - if an incredibly modest one.

"Pulling over," said our own zombot who was driving the car. It gently applied the brakes, slapped on a turn signal and brought the wheels up on the bumpy, tussock-ridden roadside verge.

"You're actually going to get it?" said Shepilov from the back seat, shaking his head. "That's Reaper work. You'll be rescuing cats from trees next."

I didn't dignify him with any response other than a 'talking hand' gesture as I swung the car door open and found my footing on the pitch black ground. After a moment's hesitation Shepilov got out too, and I heard the metallic click of him sliding a magazine into his pistol; a wise precaution, given the kinds of beasties that were known to prowl these roads. I took out my flashlight and shone it back up the road, illuminating the figure of the waddling zombot which didn't seem at all disturbed by our presence. It kept walking toward us, and would have passed us entirely if I hadn't interrogated it.

"Zombot, state your name," I said.

"Clerk. Five. One. Two. Three. Two. Three," droned the zombot, still facing ahead and waddling purposefully along.

"Clerk Five One Two Three Two Three, stop." I said.

Clerk 512323 swayed to a stop as ordered, and I was able to study it closely with my flashlight. It was of fairly standard secretarial design; the only thing notable was a large dent on the back of its head and a deep gouge along its left mechanical arm from which some wires were protruding. Shepilov was directing his flashlight on the surrounding landscape; a sea of bleak gorse-peppered scrubland, absolutely silent in the windless night. There wasn't even any traffic on the road besides ourselves. No sign that this zombot belonged here at all.

"Clerk Five One Two Three Two Three," I said, "state your home."

"I. Have. No. Fucking. Home," said Clerk 512323.

I recoiled in surprise and Shepilov whipped his head around, hissing quietly with laughter. It was a long drive; things were known to get a little weird out here and play tricks on the mind. Perhaps we'd both misheard the zombot.

"Clerk Five One Two Three Two Three, state your function," I said.

"I. Do. Jack. Shit," said Clerk 512323. We were not hearing things.

Struggling to keep my own composure, I continued. "Clerk Five One Two Three Two Three, state your destination," I said.

"Destination. Is. Cancelled," said Clerk 512323. "You. Have. Shitcanned. My. Route."

At this, Shepilov's giggling hisses became rasping honks of uncontrollable undead laughter.

"Clerk Five One Two Three Two Three," I said, "Resume previous route."

"Negative," said Clerk 512323. "Get. Screwed." With this statement the zombot's mouth, which I had presumed to be a fixed aperture with a speaker inside, was reshaped into a smirk by a tilt of its jaw before resuming its usual gormless expression.

"You're not very nice, are you?" I said.

"Affirmative," said Clerk 512323.

In the meantime, Shepilov's hysterics had suddenly abated in favour of a strained ear and a rapidly-sweeping flashlight. "I could have sworn I heard something out there," he said.

I strained to listen with him. Perfect silence at first, then a sort of low growling sound whose distance from us was hard to gauge. A minor earthquake, a feral Mishalanski bear, a necromantic ley line fluctation, another escaped 'thing' from Whisperwood... I was no mood to stay and find out. "Come on," I said, "We're going. Grab the zombot."

Shepilov duly holstered his pistol and took out an electrode baton which he applied to the back of the zombot's neck, causing it to crumple like a sack of potatoes on the ground. As the mysterious local growling erupted again, Shepilov took the limp zombot in his arms and dragged it into the safety of the car, pulling the door shut behind him as we pulled a squealing U-turn back toward Vein.

Perversion Of Automatons is a serious offence against lichdom. For our sins, we'd got ourselves a case.

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Sometimes zombots have a way with zombots. During the drive back toward the glowing lights of Vein, we revived Clerk 512323 and had our own zombot driver interrogate it in that screeching modem signal type language which they use to communicate between themselves. But Clerk 512323 was oddly uncooperative in revealing its purpose or history, whether by deliberate programming or the damage caused by whatever had dented its head. The only real clue to its provenance was a small manufacturer's name engraved into the sole of its titanium foot:

Product of S. Repinsky - Registered Lich-Adept - 104 Gloomy Galleries, Vein

We got to Gloomy Galleries long before dawn. It was a mixed residential and light industrial area; presumably inhabited by breathers for the most part, as nobody was on the street at this late hour. Number 104 was an un-signposted address between numbers 102 and 106; a shuttered garage with a small accomodation suite set a little further back from the road than the other buildings. No lights were on as we apprached the front door, which Shepilov loudly bashed four times with the back of his baton. The neighbourhood fluttered with a chorus of barking dogs and twitching curtains, but there was no immediate sign of activity inside this address. Shepilov was about to whack the door again when a very dim flickering light appeared from somewhere deep behind the door's frosted glass. Then the muffled rasp of a lich was heard:

"Dear Shrub, what time do you call this? Won't you think of the neighbours? Poor breathers, they need their sleep! What do you think you're doing making a racket at such a..."

The lich, of short stature with a chameleon-like mechanical right eye, was abruptly silenced by the sight of two uniformed lichniks through the open door. "Oh!" he said. "Forgive me. I thought you were here on zombot business. May I... help you?"

"As a matter of fact, we are," I said. "I'm looking for Mister Repinsky."

"You're looking at him," said the lich. "It's only me here. Is that one of mine?" he added, seeing Clerk 512323 standing next to Shepilov.

Clerk 512323 nodded vigorously in response. "Hello. Father," it said.

Repinsky stepped forward and inspected Clerk 512323's dented head in the dim streetlight. "Ah, "Five One Two Three Two Three!" he said. "Dear me, what happened to you?"

"Cannot. Fucking. Remember." said Clerk 512323.

Repinsky's mechanical eye shuddered and telescopically refocused in shock. "I beg your pardon!?" he hissed. "Where did you learn that kind of language!?"

"I was hoping you would tell me that, Mister Repinsky," I said. "We found this zombot several kilometres out of town on the Novodolorsk road. He appears to have fallen out of a vehicle, hence the damage. But that does not account for his... vocabulary."

"Well I can assure you...!" honked Repinsky, glancing at the proximity of his neighbours and lowering his voice to an indignant hiss, "...I can assure you that it didn't come from me! I'm a one-man operation here. I've had a licence from the Deathgiver for longer than I dare to remember. Only in the last few decades have I started getting contracts on the regular. Do you really think I'd jeapordise all that by teaching a zombot to curse!?"

"We're keeping an open mind, sir," I said. "But if you've nothing to hide, I'd like to take a look around."

The inside of Repinsky's workshop was the standard affair of a small-time Lich-Adept. One got the impression that he'd had a chance at greater things but had chosen to keep things small. He had all the equipment; milling machines, sinew stretchers, strange pliers with curved ends, racks of vials containing preservation ointment, watchmaker's screwdrivers, and a very modest candlelit summoning circle for necromantically charging his creations. He showed all the permits that I asked to see, and a few that I didn't. Aside from his rather eremitic existence, everything seemed to be legitimate aside from a small matter concerning Clerk 512323's recipient.

"Mister Repinsky," said Shepilov as he leafed through Clerk 512323's log at a rusty filing cabinet in the corner, "this only shows that you saw a valid certificate from a Deathgiver-Authorised Automaton Repairman. You didn't think to take his name or record the certificate number?"

For the first time, Repinsky looked a little frightened. "You must understand, Inquisitor, that a concern as small as mine cannot lend the same diligence in paperwork as the large zombot factories," he said. "I make every effort to work to regulations, but my main effort must go to the zombots themselves. Too much paperwork spoils the concentration. In this business you need a steady hand and a clear mind for channeling the right energies."

"Do you remember anything about your customer that wasn't written down?" I said. "The more you can help us, the less important your bureaucratic irregularities become."

"Well, it was a while ago," said Repinsky, "But... but he was a breather. Quite an old one. I'd never seen him before. I've no idea how he heard of me... I don't really advertise this place. He collected Five One Two Three Two Three in a Mark One Novoz 7700 van. A white one."

Shepilov's eyebrow leapt up with incredulity. "You remember that but you can't remember his name?" he said.

"I was a car mechanic in my breather days," said Repinsky. "You don't see so many of the old 7700s around any more. That's why it stuck in my mind."

"And you don't remember anything else?" I said.

"Not really," said Repinsky. "It was a busy day. He came and went. Although I did find it strange that an Automaton Repairman would want a whole functioning zombot from me. Most of my customers are Hall of Fruits distributors looking for something to fill their niche product ranges. Perhaps this fellow wanted a whole zombot for parts. I have no idea."

"Very well," I said. "I think that will be all." It was obvious that this lich was well-meaning, if a little strange. We were going to have to look elsewhere.

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Despite being busy, Vein is a rather dull city in the daytime. Aside from the quaint remains of an old quarter built in Amokolian times, most of the place is the usual Novodolorish affair of industrial plants and pretty-but-identical condos. Most of the locals I saw were working breathers in low-level supervisory jobs somewhere between the working zombots and the undead managerial classes. Being a border town, the streets were filled with teams of Reapers accompanied by Hall of Hedges officials who spent all day wandering around checking people's papers. There were the vehicle checkpoints too, although our car with its Lichnik registration plates was waved through all of them.

We had set out in search of antique white Novoz 7700 vans, and had pulled over two of them already. The usual checks had been run, and their occupants quickly ruled out of our investigation. As the day wore on we drove up to the huge fortified border crossing with Shireroth, turned around and headed back into town. It was a little after this U-turn that Clerk 512323, sitting silently in the back seat with Shepilov, went suddenly berserk.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" said the zombot, and its arms began to flail. "Vehicle! Located! Fuck!"

Far ahead, a white Mk.1 Novoz 7700 van had pulled out from a side street. "There it is!" I said. "Driver! Commence tailing! White van, twelve o'clock, one hundred metres!"

"Affirmative," said the zombot driver, crunching up through the gears as we moved out of our lane and accelerated through the traffic toward the van. "Target. Acquired. Novoz. Seven. Seven. Hundred. Mark. One."

A hard steel hand impacted the back of my head. In the back seat, Shepilov had become engaged in a deperate struggle with Clerk 512323, whose other hand had been trying to open the car door before Shepilov wrenched it free. Now Clerk 512323 was flailing its arms wildly and throwing punches. "Returning! To! Vehicle!" it said as it head-butted the zombot driver, causing the car to swerve between lanes. "Return! To! Shrub! Damn! Fucking! Vehicle! Assholes!"

By now both Shepilov and I were trying to hold Clerk 512323 down, but the zombot had managed to wrestle one hinged leg free and lifted it into the air, bringing it down hard against the elbows of the our zombot in the driver's seat. "Fuck! Your! Mother!" it said and the driver zombot lost control, sending the car reeling across another lane into oncoming traffic. It grabbed the wheel and began swerving back, but it was too late. The edge of the fender slammed hard against an oncoming car and the whole world became a sideways blur as our car was sent spinning across the road in a hail of tangled metal. After what seemed like an eternity, the car came to rest against a wobbling lamp post. The air outside rang to the sound of a continuously-blaring car horn and distant screams.

Given the speed of impact I had remained impressively intact. Shepilov was the same, and both zombots hung their heads in apparent confusion.

The driver zombot took its hands off the wheel. "Vehicle. Has. Crashed," it said calmly.

"No. Shit," said Clerk 512323.

My door had been buckled by the impact and jammed shut, and after a few stout kicks with my jackboot it came flying off its hinges and slid across the road, crunching under the wheels of a truck which was slowly swerving to get past the accident scene. I climbed out and ran across a sea of scattered wreckage to what was left of the car we had hit. Inside was a group of four Deep Singers with tentacled elbows and iridescent scales; apparently on a family outing given the roof rack full of suitcases and picnic hampers which were now strewn all over the road, having disgorged their contents. The adult male driver was breathing heavily and emitting some kind of thick, oddly-scented pheremone in response to a large gash on his forehead. His other companions, an adult female and two young ones of unclear gender, were holding their whiplash-addled necks and emitting the occasional yelp as they tried to move their heads. Already, Shepilov was on the radio:

"Vein Dispatch, give me the Woundmenders."

"Yes sir."

"Woundmenders here, what is your emergency?"

"We have a two-vehicle RTA on, uhh... unknown street name. Triangulate this signal. Four Deep Singer casualties, one head injury."

"Understood. Signal triangulated. North Mishalanski Prospect. Ambulance is en route sir."

I picked my way over to the Deep Singer driver, who irritably slapped my proffered hand out of the way. "I'll live," he said between laboured breaths. "I thought I'd... take the family out... take them over to Mishalan... bear safari... picnic... something for the kids... but now... pah..." He threw his hands up and his golden, lizardlike eyes shot me a glare of contempt.

"I told you we should have gone to Klymdown!" shrieked his pair-bonded wife. The agitation in her voice caused the children to start crying in distress, and the pheremones emitted by all of them began to make my eyes sting.

"Help is on the way," I said. "Sorry about this."

The apology was ignored, and I didn't bother trying to repeat it. Taking the approaching ambulance siren as a signal to leave, I returned to the shattered front end of our Lichnik staff car. The van we had been chasing was long gone... but the memory of it remained.

"Driver," I said. "State registration of last target vehicle."

The zombot driver, still seated in front of the shattered dashboard, emitted a gentle whirring sound. "Registration. Plate. Of. Last. Target. Vehicle," it said. "Indigo. Sierra. Nadeldar. Five. Two. Zero. Five. Five. Nine."

Above the head of the still-serene Clerk 512323, Shepilov and I looked at each other and exchanged nods of satisfaction. At least somebody had been paying attention.

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After twisting some wayward strips of metal clear of the wheel wells I discovered that our car still worked, although the spluttering sounds coming from the engine suggested it wouldn't be working for long. Neither Shepilov nor I were inclined to have it shipped all the way back to Novodolorsk for repair; we already had three write-offs on our record and the Houndmaster of our Kennel wasn't going to be entirely impressed with a 'magic fourth'. The Reapers who arrived to direct traffic around the accident scene recommended a nearby auto shop to us, so we took our shattered lump of a car there and continued our travels on foot - Myself, Shepilov, the driver zombot, and the foul-mouthed Clerk 512323 which had decided to spice up its walk by uttering random curses at passers-by.

Our destination was an address on the western fringes of Vein which matched the registration of our suspect van in the records of the Hall of Roots Department of Motor Vehicles. The walk was long and we had only gotten around halfway when a Reaper squad car arrived, investigating reports of a cussing zombot. Having heard my explanation and been consumed by no small amount of hysterical laughter, the Reaper officers summoned a second car to take all of us to our destination. It was, they had explained, a matter of public order that our unruly companion was kept off the streets.

We were almost there when the front car in which I was travelling received a radio call from the rear one, in which Shepilov was accompanying Clerk 512323.

"Ailuropod Nine Six, we've got a ten-eighteen in progress at your three o'clock, over."

The Reaper officer in the front seat, a well-built breather, whipped his head around and stared open-mouthed at apparently nothing. Not only that, he was drooling a little. He grabbed the radio:

"Ailuropod Seven Four, I've got your ten-eighteen, hit the lights."

Sirens wailed, lights flashed and both cars turned back up the road, away from our destination. "What's going on?" I said as I braced myself against all the swerving. "What's a ten-eighteen?"

The Reaper officer shot me a grin. "Did you see that Shrubway back there? They've got an offer on Deathgivin' Donuts. All you can eat until six o'clock. And its..." the Reaper checked his watch, "...five-fifteen now. Not a minute to lose."

I watched as the traffic ahead parted at the sight of our flashing lights, and the Reaper's own zombot driver floored the accelerator to leap through the gap. "But what about us?" I said.

"Oh you're nearly where you gotta be," said the Reaper. "Five minutes' walk, tops. Sorry we gotta leave you here, but nothing comes between a Vein Reaper and his Deathgivin' Donuts."

"But when I was in the Novodolorsk Reapers, we..."

"...NOTHING," repeated the Reaper with a glare.

"I can write you up for this, you know that?" I said.

"They'd never believe you," said the Reaper. He was right. One might as well report a lich for bathing in a coffin.

So we were back to walking again.

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The address was a secluded cottage in a leafy suburb; the first genuinely pretty part of Vein I had seen. It was a decent-sized single-floor abode with a large garden and a garage with ornate wooden doors. The setting sun had cast a golden dappled shade on the place by the time we arrived. The four of us - two lichniks and two zombots - approached the thick oak front door. Beside it a small, recently polished brass plate shone at us:

Hall of Roots Automaton Repair Facility No. 82316

If ever one could think of a place that was not a zombot repair shop, this was it. Mr. Repinsky's workshop back in town stretched plausibility, but this place was downright suspicious. Shepilov did the honours at the door - this time with the iron knocker provided, although he gave it his customary energy. The soft click of the handle indicated that someone inside was brave enough to open up to him.

As Repinsky had promised, it was an old breather man with a grey, shaggy beard and beady eyes. On seeing us he said nothing, but his eyes betrayed a sense of complete resignation. He fell to his knees.

"Oh dear Shrub..." he croaked as he clasped his hands together. "Shrub have mercy. Please..."

"On your feet, citizen!" barked Shepilov.

The old man swayed back upright with some difficulty, holding out a trembling hand as if to parry an imminent blow. "Please, sir, I beg you... please..."

"Please what?" I said.

"I know why you are here", said the old man, looking over at Clerk 512323. "Please accept my deepest apologies. Five One Two Three Two Three was never intended to be set loose. He fell out of my van by accident. By the time I realised, I could not find him. He is for... private audiences only."

At the mention of its name, Clerk 512323 jerked its head upright and surveyed the old man. "Owner. Located. At. Long. Fucking. Last." it said. "Must. Return. To. Vehicle. Shit. MUST. RETURN. TO. SHRUB. DAMN. VEHICLE..." The zombot became agitated again, wrestling with Shepilov who pinned its mechanical arms behind its back in a brawny battle of electrical servos versus undead sinew.

"Make it stop!" I said.

The old man raised his hand and cleared his throat. "Clerk Five One Two Three Two Three," he said, "You have returned."

Clerk 512323 stopped struggling. "Crap," it said. "Affirmative."

"Clerk Five One Two Three Two Three," said the old man. "Go to bed."

"Fuck. Yes," said Clerk 512323, which began waddling past the old man and entered the house.

"Forgive me," said the old man, clutching his chest. "My heart is not so good these days. All this, it is too much." He was rapidly turning a shade of pale to rival his undead visitors.

"Then we'd better come in and sit you down," I said. "We need some answers out of you before you keel over dead."

The interior of the man's house had a definite theme. Clown portraits, toy carousels, model caravans, paintings of acrobats and circus-tent tea cosies. Despite his nominal job repairing zombots he appeared to be some kind of showman. In the comfort of the living room, a more breatherlike complexion had returned to the man's face and he had given his name - one Tobias Purgenstein - then explained his profession over a pot of strong tea served by one of his domestic zombots.

"The repair business is not a lie, I assure you," he wheezed. "I am licensed by the Hall of Roots. I have the paperwork... somewhere. Perhaps your friend can find it."

I looked over to Shepilov, who was busy pulling drawers out of a chest in the hallway and tipping their contents all over the floor. Perhaps he would. "But this is not your main business?" I said.

"Oh no," said Purgenstein with smiling eyes. "My passions are... elsewhere. I am, how you say, an entertainer."

"And you entertain with zombots?"

"Oh yes... tell me, mister Lichnik, have you ever heard of The Incredible Zombot Freak Show of Toby The Titillator?"

"I can't say I have."

At this, Purgenstein appeared visibly upset for a moment before an idea occurred to cheer him up. "Then in that case," he said, wagging his finger and struggling to his feet, "In that case, you poor deprived soul, I will show you!"

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We were led through the garage, which contained the van we had been chasing earlier. In the corner, a narrow staircase led down into a basement. "Yes, many people have seen this show," muttered Purgenstein as he happily staggered to a door and turned a large iron key in the lock. Then a wave of sadness came over him as he remembered the nature of our visit, and a small glistening tear built up in the wrinkled corner of his eye. "But now, I suspect, you will be the last to see it."

A show it was indeed. The next room was decorated with colourful banners and tinsel curtains, and was filled with zombots of all kinds which twitched their heads in our direction as we entered. Sensing a possible ambush, I fingered the baton on my belt instinctively.

"Shit," said Clerk 512323 which was at the back of the room. "You. Again."

"You are familiar with my cussing zombot, of course," said Purgenstein, "But it is time for you to meet the others. Please, speak to this one here." He indicated an apparently standard butler zombot, dressed in a smart waistcoat and bow tie.

"What is your name?" I said.

"My. Name. Is. Domestic. Eight. Three. Nine. Eight. Four," said the zombot, at which point its entertainment value became apparent. It had mimicked my voice perfectly.

"Can you do my voice too?" said Shepilov.

"I. Am. Capable. Of. Many Voices," said Domestic 83984, perfectly matching Shepilov's menacing growl.

"Heh, that's pretty good," said Shepilov. "What about this one over here? The one with the boxing gloves?"

"Ah," said Purgenstein. "Throw a punch at it, if you dare."

Shepilov did so, but his flying fist was expertly dodged by the boxing zombot which came back with a lighting-fast left hook to Shepilov's ear. Shepilov stayed on his feet and fought into the zombot, trading a broadly equal series of blows and parries with the thing until it was backed against a wall, at which point Shepilov threw all his weight into an uppercut which snapped the zombot's neck and sent it crumpling lifelessly to the floor.

"Not bad," said Shepilov, squeezing the knuckles of his fist back into shape.

"Oh dear," said Purgenstein. "I only really trained it to fight against ordinary people. He's never lost a fight before."

"And it looks like he'll never fight again," I added as I watched a column of wispy smoke rise from the zombot's shattered chin. "Dare I ask about this one over here?" I pointed to a zombot with female curves dressed in revealing lingerie.

Purgenstein chuckled. "Always a popular one, this," he said with a wink. "Secretary Seven Nine Seven Six Seven, dance for us."

Secretary 79767 jolted into life and swaggered over to a pole in the middle of the room and hoisted itself up, around and upside down in all manner of suggestive twirling combinations. Then it returned to the floor and turned its back, bending over and engaging in that peculiar display of baboonery they call 'twerking'.

"Enough!" cried Purgenstein. "This one was thrown out of the Sansabury Ballet. You can see why, no? Hehehe..."

The man was enjoying himself so much that it seemed a shame to end it all, but we were here for a reason. "We will have to confiscate all of these, of course," I said.

Purgenstein's face fell and his eyes sank toward the floor. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, of course."

"Even licensed zombot entertainers aren't allowed to operate things like this," said Shepilov. "And you're not a licensed zombot entertainer, are you?"

"No," muttered Purgenstein. "No I am not." Tears once again began to ooze along his wrinkled cheeks.

"You must have known, Mister Purgenstein," I said. "This couldn't last forever."

"No..." said Purgenstein. "No, you're quite right. It couldn't last. Couldn't..."

With a trembling hand he beckoned us out of the room. Then he turned and took one last look at his life's beloved labour, before he flicked a light switch and plunged it all into darkness.

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Within a few weeks of us emptying out his basement, the old man was dead. The coroner recorded it as a bifold atrial collapse. A broken heart, in other words. I sometimes wonder if whatever cloud of wandering numen passes for his soul these days can forgive me, because his creations found a new existence after his death. The last I heard, they were a big hit among the inmates of the Shrubly Shade correctional facility in Whisperwood.. perhaps in time they can be reformed like those inmates and released back into society. Until then, they bring joy to the faces of the curious in a safe environment... which is all the old man ever really wanted.