Campaign and Suffering

a tale of the Proctology


MiserLodge Piney Oaks was the name on the sign, intermittently displayed by crackling neon tubes. It had a vacancy. It promised color TV. It had been recently fumigated. A lone figure strode across the ill-lit parking lot and flung open the door to room 107.

“The trap is set,” boomed the Thighmaster in rich Bovorian tones.

Four faces turned briefly to look at him. “Great,” said Swingy, master of the Swinging Arts. “Really, that’s fab.”

Thighmaster closed the door behind him and tossed a rolled-up poster onto the nearer bed. “Our proclamations are printed and pinned up all over town. Hobo Volvo is taking more to the next stop to ensure a rapturous reception. My - er, our triumph is assured.”

“Great,” echoed the Undead Mr Ed. The zombie horse nudged Pudu Lad with a festering foreleg. “‘Cause we were just thinking...”

Pudu Lad’s eyes widened. Me? he mouthed. The other members of Proctology nodded encouragement. He swallowed hard and involuntarily triggered his power, splitting into seven prismatic pudu-clones which capered in nervous little circles around the shabby furniture. He took a few moments to pull himself together. “Yes. Because. Because we were wondering... that’s the boys and me, not just the different ones of me, we, er, we thought that maybe... the plan...”

Thighmaster raised a palm. He sniffed the air. He glared at his henchbeings, face twisting into an aristocratic scowl. “I specifically told you idiots not to open the minibar.”

The Living Statement! swigged from his bottle of Admiral Barnacle’s Spiced Rum. PLACED HERE BY THE MANAGEMENT FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE, he said.

“It just kind of came open in my hand,” said Swingy. “I was swinging.”

“That’s right,” said Pudu Lad. “And then all of these bottles, er – ”

“Burble,” concluded Star-Fish.

Thighmaster gaped. “Have you any idea...? How EXACTLY do you propose we pay for this?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” said the Undead Mr Ed, licking creme de menthe from the hairs around his lips. “We could always... not. Being villains and all.”

“And become personae non gratae across MiserLodge hotels worldwide?” seethed the mastermind. “Have you any idea how close we are to earning our fortieth night free?”

“You could always take it out of our wages,” said the Undead Mr Ed. “Oh, wait.”

“We could do something villainous,” suggested Swingy, changing his grip on the lampshade. “Let’s go crowbar the soda machine.”

“Silence,” said Thighmaster, drawing himself up to his full height. “You shall do no such thing. I grow weary of this mutinous prattling. I withdraw... to the Commode of Command.” The sometime ruler of Bovoria whirled his cloak around his shoulders and swept into the en suite throneroom.

Pudu Lad held his head in his hands. “Sorry guys,” he moaned. “I messed that up.”

The Living Statement! patted him on the shoulder and passed him a can. BREWED FROM THE FINEST NATURAL INGREDIENTS, he said gently. CONTAINS MALTED BARLEY.

Swingy sighed. “Oh well, let’s see the poster. Hope it’s better than the last one.” The Undead Mr Ed used a mouldering hoof to spread it out on the bed.

ATTENTION PEASANTS, read the Living Statement!. PREPARE TO BE APPALLED BY THE NEFARIOUSNESS AND DO-BADDERY OF: THIGHMASTER AND HIS PROCTOLOGY. PINEY OAKS GRAND MALL, THURSDAY NOON AND 3PM. AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION IS DEMANDED.

“Burble,” said Star-Fish.

“Yes it is,” said the Undead Mr Ed. “Though I still prefer ‘mandatory’.”

“I don’t get it,” said Swingy from the curtain rail. “What is the point in all these shopping mall appearances?”

“We’re reaching out to the people,” came Thighmaster’s muffled voice. “That’s our strategy. In a time when most villains never leave the big city, we’re reconnecting with the grassroots; we’re fostering a groundswell of popular support, which over time – ”

The rest was drowned out by Pudu Lad turning on the television. He waved the Proctology into a huddle. “Seriously though. How long can this go on?”

The Undead Mr Ed shook his decaying head. “Guy hasn’t been the same since... well, you know. The coup.”

“This is embarrassing,” continued Pudu Lad. “It’s just one rung up from going door to door asking people if we can villainy-ise them. These crowds, they don’t know who we are, and once they’ve seen the show they couldn’t care less.”

“I tell you,” said Swingy, “if he’d spent as much time actually writing a show as he did on choosing the most villainous kind of hat to pass around afterwards – ”

“ - then we could probably stretch to a second motel room,” said Pudu Lad. “By the way, it’s someone else’s turn to share a bed with Mr Ed.”

The horse flicked his mane and twitched his putrefying flanks. “Charming. I’m not the one who multiplies in his sleep.”

“Oh yeah? By rights you should be tied to a rail out front.”

NO SMOKING OR ANIMALS ALLOWED IN THE ROOM, put in the Living Statement!.

“Burble,” said Star-Fish.

“Guys,” said Swingy, “guys. Cool it. Cabin fever. Let’s just chill out... say, now he’s back, why don’t we go for a little stroll?”

THIS MACHINE DOES NOT GIVE CHANGE, agreed the Living Statement!.

But Thighmaster emerged, flushed with success. “Excellent news!”

The Proctology cringed.

“I have a wonderful new plan,” he declared. The Proctology relaxed, very slightly. “Truly,” he went on, “truly my peerless criminal mind is ever attuned to the golden whispers of fickle mistress Inspiration and the barbs of whimsy she showers from her quiver of... idea-things...” He noted the henchbeings’ intense interest in the decor and zipped up. “So here’s the plan. We, the greatest and most villainous band of villains known to this world or any other...”

There followed a long silence broken only by the air conditioning, some passing traffic, a zombie horse eating pistachio nuts, a television baseball commentary and some ambient burbling.

“...shall pretend to be heroes.”

“Been done,” muttered Swingy.

Thighmaster rubbed his hands. “Imagine it! The audacity! Evil not merely lurking, but hiding in plain sight! This will, in every sense, be awesome.”

“And then what?” asked the Undead Mr Ed.

“Pardon?”

“We pretend to be heroes, and...?”

“We clean up, that’s what! That’s the plan!”

“So it’s: step one, pretend to be heroes; step three, profit.”

Thighmaster puffed out his chest like a malevolent bullfrog. “Elegant in its simplicity. Only one so gifted as I could conceive such a conceit.”

“For real,” said Swingy. “We’re barely scraping by as unprincipled hoodlums. You say we’re going to do better as pro bono bastions of modesty and moderation?”

YOUR THANKS IS ALL THE REWARD I NEED, growled the Living Statement.

Thighmaster unclipped his cape and slung it over the back of a chair. “You! Fetch me a ream of paper. You! Fetch a box of marker pens. You! Call room service and order sandw- Actually, better not. But you shall work all night if that’s what it takes. I mean we.”


* * *


With a pop and a hoot of feedback, a deep Bovorian voice filled the atrium of the Grand Mall. “-ntlemen,” it said among the crackles, “prepare to be amazed! Astounded! Awed! As we present to you the greatest assemblage of crusading wrong-righters ever to grace the town of...” There was a pause as the announcer looked at the back of his hand. “Pinky Oats, Iowa. Woo!”

Thighmaster threw back the curtain and bounded out onto the stage. He appealed for hush and parted his cloak to reveal an impressive though suspiciously inflexible washboard stomach. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am: the Abdominator! Evil cowers before my midriff of might! And here to my left, the Disclaimer!”

THE DISCLAIMER IS NOT ENDORSED BY NOR AFFILIATED TO THE LIVING STATEMENT! AND ANY RESEMBLANCE THERETO IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL. THIS SUPERTEAM MAY CONTAIN SCENES OF A DISTURBING NATURE INCLUDING FREQUENT MILD PERIL. DO NOT USE IF PREGNANT OR -

The Abdominator succeeded in wrestling back his microphone. “Above your heads, Suspendo the Dangler! To my right, Multiple Muntjac! Champion the Wonder Corpse! And in the glass bowl, Echinoderm X, the mollusc of mystery!” The latter gave a pedantic burble. “Ladies and gentlemen and shoppers of Pinky Oats, we are – ”

The colour drained from his face. “We are... er... That is, our collective name... is...” Multiple Muntjac whispered in his ear and the Abdominator brightened. “Yes, brilliant! We are: Not The Proctology! And we are heroes! So which wrongs can we right for you today? Who out there needs our help? You, madam? No? What about you sir, you with the hair. Okay, you going into the pharmacy... What can we... Hello? Totally open to suggestions here. Hello? Anyone? Anyone...?”