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... merde, my head...

... where's my hat...

... merde.

We have to raise a pumpkin?

This is not medical science at all!

Investigation #13 - Subject: Hamburger (Lunch Special):

Subject contained a number of organ strings in addition to the usual condiment gland structure. I suspect that these are vat-grown, but not with any sort of scientific rigor. Too much variation...

In addition, met a young ghost-woman by the name of Ziyah. A pleasantly curious sort. I must invite her to observe future experiments, see how far her interest goes.

The subject matter intrigues me, yet... this meeting was all introductions. How completely boring. I do hope that further class meetings are more intellectually stimulating... otherwise I may be forced to despair.

Why was it doing this?

It was basically the Battle of the Bands all over again - Gargantuan had sent a note, and suddenly the plague doctor was on the stage with the spotlights on with very little memory of exactly what had transpired to get it there.

Merde.

The production, at least, was familiar to Malodore; it definitely did not want a starring role, so had chosen Lock, as at least Lock wore red (like Malodore) and had a hat (very important).

Trying to make the best of a bad job, Malodore cleared its throat. "I am, ah, L.C. Malodore, auditioning for the role of Lock. My prior stage credits include... guitarist in the smash hit band Barbed Doctor and the Organic Nation." That, at least, was true, even if Malodore's definition of 'smash hit' might be a bit more literal than the gnomes'.

"Ahem."

Malodore crumpled the script a little as the music began to play; its tail-tip flipped back and forth, keeping in time with the beat of the music. When it opened its beak, its voice was surprisingly clear and on-pitch, if a bit lacking in emotional oomph... and a bit heavy on the Italian...

"I've got something, ascoltiamo ora,
This one is molto bene, you'll see
We'll send un regalo to his door
Upon there'll be a note da leggere
Now, in the box we'll aspettare e nascondere
Until his curiosità entices him to look inside..."


... Was it Malodore's fault that it had seen productions only in its native language?

The plague doctor bowed and shuffled offstage, rather nonplussed with the whole endeavor.

Mr. Blobby disappeared for quite a while -- and when he returned, it was clear where he had been. Bedecked in Christmas spirit, several elves still churning about in the pit of his stomach, half-decayed bells jingling every time he rolled over, he found his way back into the School Store.

He'd been visiting his neighbors.

Now, sitting in the pit of his gelatinous goop [which, for the moment, was filled with white glitter and sparkly flecks, transforming him into a giant snowglob] were some fresh supplies. In Christmastown, they had probably been regular old books and pens, scissors and staplers. Time spent in Mr. Blobby had...transformed them.

Still in the holiday spirit, all he really wants now are Christmas Carols. Students must step in and sing him a tune -- and all the better if it's been changed in some way. A song and a dance, a charming refrain of "Jingle Bells, Hellma Smells..." and he will jiggle joyously along with the tune.

And spit out one of his spirited supplies.

- no.

No, no, no, no - Malodore did not want to tangle with the School Store again. But the plague doctor could not deny that, as it slunk past Mr. Blobby's haunt, the jingle-jangle of 'festive' bells and the muffled screams of... what were those?

... fascinating new subjects.

Thus, Malodore approached Mr. Blobby with restraint and poise, ready to do whatever had to be done to get the gelatinous cube to regurgitate an elf for its experiments. It cleared its throat and began to sing...

"Spoo~oky night~
Groooo~ody night~
All is foul, filled with fright~
Wait for Sandy Claw's fur-covered face~
Grab his gifts and va~nish with no trace~
Shriek and sha~atter all pe~eaaace...
Shriek and shatter all peace."

... school supplies?

How completely not what Malodore wanted. The plague doctor returned, beak clenched stubbornly, absolutely determined to extract some elfin goodness from Mr. Blobby this time around. Perhaps if it mentioned its desire for elves in its 'festive' song?

Malodore came to a halt directly in front of its target. Wasting no time, it opened its beak and began to sing:

"Come, they told me, boo-rum-ka-poom-tomb~
Half-eaten elves to see, boo-rum-ka-poom-tomb~
Eaten by Sir Blob-by, boo-rum-ka-poom-tomb~
Spit one out just for me? Boo-rum-ka-poom-tomb~
Rum-ka-poom-tomb~
Rum-ka-poom-tomb...?"

Worth a shot.

"We three creeps
Of Halloween are!
Scaring kids,
and egging cars!
Foul and rotting,
going haunting,
dripping bad blood and tar!"

Malodore stared at Mr. Blobby when it had finished its impromptu concert, hoping... praying... for delicious elf.

Last time had not only resulted in no elf, the gelatinous cube hadn't even had the decency to give it a conciliatory school supply! This time would be different. Yes indeed.

"Creepy bells,
their toll tells,
of lives taken away,
Children cry,
they scream and hide
from the bogeyman today, hey!
Creepy bells,
their toll tells,
of lives taken away,
Children cry,
they scream and hide
from the bogeyman today!"

Malodore just stared.

And stared.

And stared some more.

"...."

The staring contest hadn't worked. Mental note: never have a staredown with something that didn't really have eyes... it never worked out well, even if you personally were unblinking.

Instead, Malodore lugged in an ancient Stalkman it had 'rescued' from the lost-and-found, complete with rattly old 'Happy' Hallow-Days! tape. It stood in front of the blob and pressed play, listening to the hissy, staticy sound of great harrowers of old...

... and staring longingly at the half-digested elven matter inside.

This was not working. NONE of it was working.

So it was time for a new tactic. Perhaps inducing vomiting? Malodore had laced a small dead rat with something it hoped should produce the desired effect, though without having performed experiments on Mr. Blobby already it had no idea if it had correctly estimated its physiology.

It put the rat on the floor as the Stalkman played its rattly Creepy Carols.

I suppose they meant it when they said the train would definitely stop... fortunately, Luce and I were uninjured.

This place festers (and not in the good way) with festivity. Merde. At least Luce tresorina is ready to go...