One excellent Vinnie De Soth story deserves another. Unfortunately, all J. Jonah Jerkson can provide is this.

The long, black Maybach limousine glided up Madoph (emphasis on the last syllable) Boulevard in Pierce Heights, heading toward the summit of Parodiopolis' most exclusive neighborhood. Near the top, it turned into a long driveway lined with tall hedges. The hedges bore poisonous thorns and concealed a trip wire for a bank of Bautistamatic ion cannon. A single shredded feather was the only trace of the sparrow that had alighted on a branch a few moments before.

The vehicle (calling it a car would be too demeaning) turned ponderously past a sooty statue of St. Sebastian and rolled under an even sootier porte-cochere adorned with carvings of a demonic festival. It stopped aside a pair of black walnut doors bearing carved coats of arms. The chauffeur jumped out and hurried to open the right rear door. A stocky blonde woman, fashionably dressed, emerged, followed by a tall, gaunt man in a charcoal gray suit reminiscent of too many of the less edifying episodes of World War II.

"Gnadige Freiin. Gnadiger Freiherr," the chauffeur intoned, clicking his heels. "Eines herzliche Willkommen zum Schloss Schreckhausen."

"Get that front door open now," the Baroness snapped. "I've been out of my home long enough."

"Granddaughter," Baron Otto Zemo warned, "the Hoo --"

"Stuff the Hooded Hood, Grandfather. For almost three years I've lived in that preposterous Lair Mansion, then the Safe, and then that shabby place in GMY, and I DESERVE my hot tub, my waterbed with Porthault satin sheets, my total immersion VR rig with galactic domination and beach orgy sims and *especially* Frau Zuckerwolken's pastries. Gunther, OPEN THAT DOOR!"

Gunther jumped forward with a large iron key, which he inserted into a wrought iron keyhole between two massive wrought iron door handles sculpted with figures of Protestants (or were they Catholics?) being racked and mutilated during the Thirty Years' War. As he did so, the introduction of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor resounded.

"Aaargh," the Baroness moaned. "That's still here?"

"I tried to warn --" the Baron began.

"Instead of trying to warn me, you pompous, unalive, third-string excuse for a necromancer, you might have *tried* to remove that curse he placed on my home!". The Baroness stepped through the doorway as the last notes of the introductory figure reverberated down the stone halls.

Baron Otto caught up to her as she paused in the entry hall to admire the restored frescos on the ceiling. He drew himself up to his most disdainful pose and uttered through pursed lips, "As I have told you many times, my impetuous and over-confident granddaughter, the Hooded Hood does not employ magic. It takes extraordinary steps to override a retcon, and I have simply lacked the opportunity."

"Dreck, Grandfather. But I have no time for this now. Frau Bentinck, get the spa warm and call in the masseuse and the maids. I'm going to relax!"

Several hours later, Elizabeth Zemo, clad in a fluffy robe and bunny slippers, was sipping fruit tea in the solarium when Baron Otto entered. Looking down at her feet, the Baron was unnerved. "Rabbit slippers? Is this the image you want?"

"Don't worry, Grandfather Baron Otto. I don't wear them when we have guests."

"But when the servants see-"

"Hang the servants, and it's a pity I can't do it publicly. As if we should care what they think -- as if they should."

"You show promise," the Baron acknowledged. He sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of Blue Mountain coffee.

His granddaughter spooned a pile of whipped cream onto an eclair and raised it to her mouth, devouring it in two bites. Then, she paused and apologetically looked at him. "I'm sorry. Would you like the other eclair?"

"Nein."

"Good," said Beth Zemo, reaching for it.

"I have considered your request, and have concluded it is not worth my effort to develop a spell to lift such a trivial annoyance." He sipped some coffee, waiting for her inevitable sarcasm.

"Mumph ungle gulp," she responded, getting down the second eclair. After a breath, she continued, "More like you concluded you couldn't hack it."

"Hmph," Otto sniffed. "My good friend, Vlastivock --"

"Since when do you have friends, Grandfather Baron Otto? Especially him."

"Hmph. Well then, I propose to have my *colleague* Vlastivock, the Necromancer General, address your problem, --"

"Vlastivock Bogdanoff? That creep who couldn't handle *Visionary*? Since when have you gone in for charity assignments?"

"Fine. If he is so unsatisfactory, how about the Abyssal Greye? A scholar and a gentleman."

"Who leaves decaying body parts wherever he walks. Besides, he's an academic. I don't need a dissertation, I need that music exorcised."

Five minutes later, the Baron had exhausted his list of dark magic practitioners. "I tell you, Granddaughter, if you will not have Voodoo Vicaress, there is no one left. No one!"

"Not so fast. There is a logical candidate you haven't mentioned."

"Camellia of the Fay? Only if you want to be betrayed in the first five minutes," Otto grumped.

"Think outside the box, Grandfather Baron Otto. There is one man whose job is to reverse evil magic. And he's cheap. Vincent De Soth."

Baron Otto would have done a spit take if there were coffee in his mouth. "The De Soth whelp? That pretender who can barely perform a levitation spell? Your mother had more supernatural skill than he, and she had none at all." He glowered, "And on top of all that, he's now in the Lair Legion."

"Still, he's the acting Sorcerer Supreme, and just might have the ability to remove a minor Hooded Hood jinx. And if not, he'll have discredited himself a bit and got himself on the wrong side of the Hooded Hood, which is worth something to me." Beth reached for another eclair and then paused, realizing the plate was empty. "Pardon me." She reached for a small hand bell and rang it twice.

"Then why not an experienced De Soth?" the Baron wheedled. "Astaroth De Soth, for example. And, I owe him a favor for banishing that eldritch fungus infestation." He shuddered, "all these complications from being unalive. Now, my liver, it's still not quite right, and this pain in my spleen --"

"Oh, Lord, another organ recital," Beth muttered. In a louder voice, she interrupted Otto's next complaint about his arthritis, "You may be 105 years old, or un-old, or whatever, Grandfather Baron Otto, but that doesn't mean I have to listen to your medical history. Go find that revenant you keep fooling around with and bore him." She in turn was interrupted by the arrival of Liesl, the kitchen maid, with a fresh plate of pastries. Beth beamed.

The Baron gave his granddaughter a sour look. "Back in the old country, such insolence would never be tolerated. I remember when my father came back from maneuvers with the Crown Prince of Waldeck, and I mentioned that his boots were soiled. What a whipping he gave! My tutor was in bed for a month."

The Baroness heard none of it. While Otto ranted on about die gute alte Zeiten, she was into a third eclair and starting to daydream about what Gunther might do that evening .

. . . .

Vinnie De Soth was no stranger to Pierce Heights mansions. Although his family manse near the Englehart Bridge was in territory more favorable to dark workings, he and his family had attended many gatherings at the Blotts', the Slaughter mansion, and the Sesslebys’. At one memorable New Year's Eve soiree at the Jerksons', his uncle Belial, irritated at the Fokker twins' early teenage pranks, had transformed them into a matched pair of braying donkeys. Greta Fokker still had a phobia for straw. He thus had no reason for apprehension, he told himself, as he plodded up the long uphill driveway of Schloss Schreckhausen this late fall afternoon. (City busses stopped far below Madoph Boulevard.) He kept reassuring himself as he passed the sculptures, carvings and security devices that advertised the Schloss as unfriendly territory for man and beast.

The acting Sorcerer Supreme's nerve failed as he reached for the knob of the bell pull near the macabre door handles and realized it was etched with malevolent runes. Wondering whether to flee or look for a side door, he was caught by surprise when the door opened and the chords of the Toccata and Fugue in D-minor thundered. Regaining his balance, he saw a grave man dressed in black in the doorway. "B, Baron Otto?" he quavered.

"Nein. I am Franz, the major-domo, Herr De Soth. You will follow me." He led the youthful sorcerer into the baroque entrance hall.

"I would have pegged you for a colonel-domo at the very least," Vinnie attempted.

"Very droll, sir," Franz replied in a voice colder and more arid than dry ice. Vinnie shut up.

After trekking through the Baron's drawing room (filled with dead trophy animals; Vinnie thought he saw a unicorn head on a corner wall), the gallery (filled with mediocre Teutonic pictures; Vinnie thought he saw a dull, water-color landscape with the initials "A.H. 1907"), the salon (filled with nothing more alarming than a full-length portrait of the Baroness Elizabeth Zemo von Saxe-Lurkburg--Schreckhausen dressed as Empress of Earth) and an infinity of corridors and anterooms, the young De Soth arrived at the solarium. Once again, as Franz opened the door, the introduction to the Toccata sounded.

This afternoon the Baroness was wearing a loose silk ensemble that did its best to conceal the effects of too many of Frau Zuckerwolken's desserts, and the coffee table contained only some tiny Swedish fiber biscuits with the consistency and flavor of sawdust. "Sit down, Mr. De Soth," she invited him in a pleasant voice. "Would you care for coffee, or something else?"

"I'll have what you're having," he mumbled.

"No need to be so careful," Beth Zemo admonished. "I signed the indemnity."

"Thank you," the young man replied. "So many villains don't understand the need for it."

"I wouldn't call myself a villain. More like a global entrepreneur who believes the invisible hand leads to prosperity and happiness -- especially if it's *my* hand." She poured her guest a cup of the Blue Mountain.

"I see," replied Vinnie, who did. "Your message said you were being plagued by a spell that someone had inflicted on this er, I suppose you could call it a house.” He took a sip of the coffee to stabilize his nerves. “ Why is one of your enemies' curses a problem for me?"

“Because I’m paying you to get rid of it?”

“Um, er, there’s that. Well, since you warranted that you have no evil intent –“

“I’m not evil, I’m misunderstood,” the Baroness cut him off.

“That you have no misunderstood intent,” Vinnie continued, “I suppose I can at least investigate a bit. Now what kind of curse is it?”

The Baroness was flummoxed. “You mean you haven’t heard it? The Bach? “Ya da daah, duh duh duh duh, ta-daaa?” she sang.

“Actually, er, I thought you were doing theme music. So many vill—misunderstood people do.”

Beth Zemo’s face darkened, and she needed an obvious effort to avoid berating her guest, who looked more and more weedy and ineffectual the more she spoke with him. “No, I don’t do theme music. That’s for second-raters who need a confidence infusion. Now, could we focus on that damned music?”

“I suppose. Do you have any idea who might have laid the curse, or should I just investigate?” He removed a crystal from the small shoulder bag he carried.

“Oh, I know who’s responsible,” the Baroness hissed. “The Hooded Hood.”

Vinnie visibly flinched, and took a moment to compose himself by taking a large gulp of coffee, scorching the inside of his mouth. “Ouch,” he went on, and then hastily explained, “Hot coffee. Not the Hood. Not bothered by him at all.”

“Whatever,” Beth grated.

“I mean, the Hooded Hood doesn’t use magic, well magic as we know it, that is. If he did it, this place isn’t cursed, it’s been retconned. Not my area, you know. Nice talking with you.” Vinnie rose nervously from his chair and looked for the door.

“Stop,” the Baroness snarled. Two large Germanic footmen, appearing more like Arnold Schwarzenegger clones, suddenly appeared at each door. “Not so fast. Even if you can’t remove his little jinx, there must be something you can do. A magical overlay, to mute the sound. A transfer spell. Something.”

The acting Sorcerer Supreme sank reluctantly back into the chair. “Retcons are remarkably resilient. You’re fighting the very fabric of the Parodyverse. I’d need some really powerful magical sources. Doubled ley lines. Mithril. Perhaps even orichalcium.”

“Orichalci—. I have--. You can do better than that, De Soth,” the Baroness snapped. “Or is that Sorcerer Supreme thing only a bunch of hype?”

“No, I mean yes, I didn’t want the job, and I don’t know why I have it. But in any case I probably can’t help you.”

“You’re equivocating,” she snarled back. “Is it money you’re after? I’ll add a $150,000 bonus when that music’s gone.”

Vinnie De Soth’s eyes widened. He’d had a lot of non-paying clients recently, and Alto Tumour was making eviction noises again. Then prudence returned. “No, no, I can’t commit to this job. I don’t have the resources. I’d be leading you on and running up a bill. I’m a consulting occultist, not a lawyer.”

Irritated, the Baroness decided to calm herself by taking a biscuit. She crunched into the Swedish sawdust and grimaced. This was worse than De Soth. Swallowing reluctantly and chasing the cellulose with a swig of coffee, she returned to the negotiation. “If money’s not what you’re after, how about power? I’m sure my grandfather could arrange for a grant of essence or ley lines or whatever you people use.”

Vinnie turned even paler. “Er, that’s very generous, but . . . I don’t think I could . . . how do I say this . . . I don’t think the Baron and I are on the same wavelength, as it were.”

“I don’t think anyone is, at least anyone alive,” the Baroness concurred. “Then how about some help with your enemies? I could arrange for some unexpected accidents—“

“No, NO,” De Soth cried. “I’ve heard what you can do, and it would rebound on me triple. No!”

“This is not getting me where I want to go,” Beth snarled in exasperation. At that moment, Liesl entered to clean up the table, and the Bach was heard again. At that, the Baroness snapped. “Again! Again! I don’t care what it takes, I’m never going to hear that again! You said you needed orichalcium, De Soth! I have it! Two million dollars a gram, and I have almost a kilo in the shielded vault! I was going to use it to blast the Hooded Hood all the way out of the Parodyverse, but you can have it all! For free! Just get rid of that music!”

Near the main doors, a silvery oval appeared, and a deep, rich Latvian voice intoned, “Thank you, Elizabeth. The vault and its contents have never existed.”

Vinnie De Soth sipped some more coffee. The Baroness screamed, then jumped from her chair and charged the shimmering Portal of Pretentiousness. As she arrived, it vanished. Standing by the door, she moaned, “I’ve been tricked. De Soth, you’re dead.”

The Latvian voice returned, “Mr. De Soth had nothing to do with me, Elizabeth. Nor was there trickery. Am I not . . . the Hooded Hood?”

The Baroness heaved a sigh and then noticed the nearby door. Tentatively, she reached for the knob and brushed it with her fingertips. No sound. She grasped the knob and steeled herself. Nothing. She turned the knob. Blessed silence. Finally, she pulled the door toward her. Peace.

“Um,” said Vinnie. The Baroness jumped in shock.

“Well, glad I was of service,” Vinnie burbled. “If you’ll just give me a check for that $150,000, I’ll be on my way.”

Beth Zemo turned with a man-eating glower on her face. “$150,000? You were a dupe! You did nothing! You get nothing!”

“You said you’d do anything not to hear that music again,” Vinnie attempted, but his voice quavered at the end.

“I agreed to nothing with you. Franz will pay your $1,000 consulting fee on the way out – if you are out of this room in ten seconds.”

Grabbing his bag, Vinnie made a hasty exit past the impassive footmen. Beth plodded back to the table and stared at the Swedish diet biscuits. She withdrew her hand in resignation, and sipped some cold coffee.

“Two hundred million, but at least it’s quiet,” she murmured. “And there’s always another plan.”