Some really awful male singing began to emanate from an adjoining room. “Magical Karaoke is an extra fifty dvorkins,” Yvonne explained.
“Dandy.”
“Listen, maybe I've been dropped on my head too many times this week, but I'm going to trust you. I'll leave my door unlocked after I go to sleep, and one hour from now you and your friend can come in and do what you need to do.”
“Thank you!” said Randall. “You're a true heroine.”
They returned to the waiting room, where Jack was encouraging the dance hall's mascot seal to balance a ball on its nose to the delight of the patrons. “We're all set,” Randall told him.
“I could get used to a life like this,” Jack said. “Watch, he can even bounce the ball up and down! Hee- hee!”
“Maybe I should arrange a chaperone for you guys,” said Yvonne, uneasily.
* * * *
ONE HOUR later, Jack pocketed the tips he'd made as a hostess and walked down the hallway with Randall. Elizabeth, the Employee of the Month, had been kind enough to give them a jar of pickled bananas, which Randall had emptied out onto a section of the floor that was already pretty dirty.
Very slowly, so as not to awaken Yvonne, Randall pushed open the door to her room.
“Huh? Who's there?” said Yvonne, sitting up in bed.
“Sorry,” said Randall. “We'll come back later.”
Later, Randall and Jack came back. After oiling the hinges of the door with some oil that Randall suspected was not intended for hinges, he pushed it open.
“Darn you!” said Yvonne, sitting up again. “You interrupted an impure dream! Those things are few and far between!”
Later, they returned. After removing the hinges of the door and silently leaning the door against the opposite wall, Randall and Jack entered her room. Yvonne lay there, sleeping soundly, snoring like an angel.
“She's beautiful,” Randall whispered.
“A-yup,” Jack whispered.
Randall removed the lid to the jar. “Here goes,” he said, bending down next to her. Suddenly he recoiled. “Oh my gosh!”
“What's wrong?”
“Her breath. It's horrible!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm sure! I didn't notice anything while we were talking before, but now it's like she's been gargling compost!”
“I wonder what she ate before bed?”
“No mere food could produce mutant breath like this! Maybe her status as Yvonne the Pure isn't wholly by choice!”
Yvonne stirred a bit, but didn't wake up. “Well, get the breath so we can get out of here,” Jack urged.
“Maybe I shouldn't. This breath could very well cause the resurrection spell to malfunction! Princess Janice could come back as a really dead skunk! I say we find ourselves another maiden.”
Then the loud buzzer sounded again. “We have a code red, ladies and gentlemen! Code red!”
Yvonne sat up, panicked. “What does that mean?” Randall asked.
“It means Madame Taylor is coming for a visit! Hurry, we have to go to the waiting room!”
They hurried out of the bedroom and back into the waiting room, where the employees and customers were seated, open books on their laps. Yvonne pulled a book from underneath the cushion and motioned for Randall and Jack to sit on each side of her. “Pretend I'm teaching you how to read,” she said.
The front door opened, and Madame Taylor entered. She was a short woman that could be described as “pleasantly plump” unless one was an insensitive cretin, in which case “mobile lard lump” would be used.
“Hello, Madame Taylor!” said Yvonne. “How nice of you to pay us this visit! We're giddy already!”
Madame Taylor beckoned for Yvonne to come over to her. As Yvonne did, Madame Taylor lowered her head in an attempt to speak confidentially despite the thirty people hanging on her every word. “I think we have a problem,” she said.
“Oh no! Problems are bad! What kind of problem?”
Madame Taylor hesitated, as if uncomfortable speaking the words. “I've heard a persistent rumor that there's...” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “...
“Don't be ridiculous,” said Yvonne. “This place is here to promote literacy in the commoners, just as you requested.”
The patrons and dancers all nodded vigorously.
“Are you sure? The rumors are very persistent. They say there's even bumping! And grinding!”
“No, no, that's preposterous.” She pointed to one of the men. “Albert, tell her how much you've learned here.”
“When I first came to Madame Taylor's Hall of Supreme Exotic Dancers, I couldn't even read the letter
“See, Madame Taylor? You have nothing to worry about.”
“But I've been told by several sources that a ‘Hall of Exotic Dancers’ is a place where the dancers aren't wearing any clothes! Or else they're wearing terrible, terrible things!”
Yvonne smiled reassuringly. “Honestly, Madame Taylor, if there were something bad going on here, do you really think we could hide it from you?”
“I guess not. I'd just hate to have my name so prominently displayed over a wicked place.”
“Of course. But thanks for stopping by. We're all better people for it.”
“I know
Madame Taylor started for the exit, then abruptly turned around and walked over to Randall. “So ... Yvonne has been teaching you to read, huh?”
Randall nodded.
“If that's true, then you won't mind reading a page from your book there, will you?”
“Of course not.” Randall looked down at the book and read. “
“I knew it!” shouted Madame Taylor. “Smut! Filth! You people have pulled the black-webbed nylon over my eyes for the last time! This place is now closed! You're all fired!”
Heads hung, the employees and clients began to file out of the building. Yvonne burst into tears.
“I'm sorry,” said Randall. “I just read what was in front of me.”
“It's not your fault,” sniffled Yvonne. “But what am I going to do now? The other women can get hired at Madame Trixie's Hall of Ultra-Supreme Exotic Dancers, opening next week, but there's no job for a chaste hostess! I'm doomed!”
“Well,” said Randall. “This might not be the most thrilling option in the world, but you could join us in our quest.”
“You mean it?” asked Yvonne. “I've never been on a quest before. I'd be happy to join you.”
“Great!” said Randall. “We'd be happy to have you. Just promise me that as soon as we find one, you'll chew on a mint leaf.”
Chapter 18
Post-Chapter-Seventeen Letdown
THE DARK One sat upon his throne, thinking evil thoughts about cute little puppies eating cute little babies. There was so much hate within him that no fewer than a dozen therapists had happily taken their own lives after attempting to psychoanalyze him. His face was so repulsive that he kept it hidden behind a black iron mask, to be shown only to those hirelings who dared to fail him. It would be the last sight they saw, before their hearts stopped. He was that ugly.
“Scrivener,” he said to the hunchbacked dwarf cowering next to the throne, “gaze into your Sphere of Revelation and Other Neat Powers. I must know if my plan will succeed.”
