Preface
The youngish, intelligent, suave and handsome man was unhappy. He was now a dropbear. Suffice to say that a run-in with a wizard can be a brutish experience. And in this case, the experience was not only an unpleasant one, but also unexpected. Chris had been hanging around the Skowbo swamp tavern with Wombie, watching the orderly departure of marching sheep phalanxes and dropbear parachute squadrons, when with a zapp he was in his current hairy form. Indeed, his hairiness in particular places particularly made him fret. With the dropbear squadron, he had been mistakenly frog marched onto the transport and, much later, parachuted onto Wardell III: the Switzerland of the Galaxy.
A Change of Name, a Change of Fortune
Chris realized he was now likely to be called Drop Bear. Only those few people who knew his real identity would ever realize he had been transmogrified, or still cherish the memories of his once sparkly exterior. He had to get back to civilization. Not for the first time that week, he wiped away a tear. He looked around. Nothing was as he remembered it.
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly Pirates
Or at least, there was one constant. The fearful pirate ship was moored at Pier One of the docks, still flying its red skull and crossbones somewhat jauntily. He ground his large, flat teeth in exasperation. Groups of impoverished desperados were milling around, eyeing the ship jealously. A very large troll overbalanced and fell in the water, never to reappear. Tinkering with the engine was a tall, handsome, well-defined man in the prime of his years with Gunner insignia on his shirt. A group of young women were gathered close by, coyly trading glances with the Gunner and tittering. The Gunner looked like a nice enough chap, and he spoke well most of the time. At other times he sounded common. But Chris sensed it would be a foolish bear who said that to his face. A rather interesting black faced man with an evil countenance lounged at the gangplank. But in pride of place, on the Bridge was a lanky, scarred Captain with a shaved head and a sharp look about him that screamed ‘don’t mess with me bud’. Chris shivered and cringed as a ripple of fear went down his backbone. His four paws scurried him away.
The Many-named Council
The sun had set, and he had a long walk from the docks into town. On the walk into town, Chris came upon a burnt out shell of a once-tall White Tower. The gibbous moon shone on a group of people who were dancing maniacally around the tower base. Chris stared in horror at the motley collection of hippies, druids and very short people with beards or hairy feet, swigging from wine sacks and singing in high-pitched elfin tones songs that sounded like ‘RayChua in the Sky with Diamonds’ and ‘The Yellow Brick Road’. “Um” Chris said softly, so as not to startle the rather odd bunch of lunatics, “what happened here?” An old man, sporting a rather home-made multi-coloured tye-died smock, with a stick, limped up. Chris thought he recognized the old man. The old man tapped the cringing dropbear a couple of times, and said “Where have you been, you silly bear? This used to be the home of the oh-so-good White Wizards. Of-course after we found the One Ring we were consumed with evilness and this week we now call ourselves, ah, The One Ring or the Many Coloured Council or The Fellowship or something like that”. Chris knowingly nodded. The old man chuckled disturbingly: “All are welcome to join us”. He lifted his smock from the ground and ran off to rejoin the mad frenetic dance. Chris ran away as fast as his stubby legs would carry him.
Just Deserts
On the barren, wind swept plains to the midwest of town he met a traveler from an antique land who said: “Just near here, two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, a shattered visage lies, whose frown and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command tell that its sculptor well those passions read which yet survive. The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: ‘My name is MWC, king of kings: Look on my works ye mighty and despair!’ Nothing besides remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away”. ‘Cool’, thought Chris, and he continued walking.
The Faceless Town
The town was nestled on a cold, chilly, bleak hill. The Northern Lights sparkled above. Yet the town seemed to be populated by zombies and faceless men, swathed in clothes, who without a glance scurried to their destinations. Not a sound was heard or a word spoken. Chris hurried to the ticket office to buy a ticket back home. In the ticket office was another faceless person, its gender indeterminate in its thick, bland clothes. As the ticket-seller listlessly answered his questions, Chris detected an American accent. “Is this an American colony?” he asked, innocently. The ticket-seller became furious and threw the ticket on the floor. “We are not American, this is not America, we have nothing whatsoever to do with America, they are evil, we are good, our accents are sooooo different to American accents” and so on. Chris hurriedly picked up the ticket and left, thinking ‘Well it sounds American to me’.
The Bickering Boys
At the spaceport Chris watched a crowd of bickering boys with amazement. At the heated argument over the effects of clause 30b of article 20.632, Chris shook his head in amazement, and boarded the corvette.
The Prodigal Returns
Back on Skowbo, Chris aka Dropbear walked from the corvette. The party was in full swing, as always. PCs sat around with empty chairs. Tipsy or almost tipsy blokes and shielas chased each other hopefully. A large, cute creature waddled up to Chris and they rubbed noses. “G’Day Wombie” he said, “It’s good to be back”. Wombie nodded and showed Chris his bleeding paws. “Me and the snake tried our best, with Hurley and Ralegh and bakka and Cotal, but (he shook his large head sadly) you know”. Chris looked around at the cavorting crowd, barrels of beer being rolled here and there, the occasional man trying to hide a bottle of pinot. “I know, I know. Nothing a bit of discipline wouldn’t fix. Quack not around? Oh well, I understand he will come back a sergeant-major after his latest training: that should help. Let’s start by getting this crowd into line”. Wombie nodded vigorously and they walked towards the electric prod shed, paw in paw, happily.
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