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The Dragon's Hump - Part the Seventh

The children of Folo resemble large baby ducks until their moment of adulthood. When they gain human form they appear naked, but the nudity is very tasteful with a minimum of sexiness involved.

It has been 15 years since the last installment of Brigands of the Bog, the epic series of sprawling fantasy novels by acclaimed author Jack R. R. Pendarvis. VICE is especially proud to present The Dragon's Hump, the 11th and final book in a series that many have called "the only work of its kind written entirely under the effects of gin." All 1,000 chapters will be presented here in weekly installments, after which The Dragon's Hump will be published in a single volume, in or around 2031, shortly after the death of the author.

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“According to the will of the Advisucats, Sir Gravulet has been sent to the tube of fragrant bark. While we wait for his return, I can conceive of but one amusement worthy of our respite: Dancing girls, and plenty of them!” exulted King Samsor the Great.

“I’m going to bed,” said his wife, Linda.

“But honey, dancing girls. And not just any dancing girls. For tonight is the Time of the Fortuitous Moulting.”

As it is written in many famous scrolls, the children of Folo resemble large baby ducks until their moment of adulthood comes upon them. On the rare occasion when enough young ladies can be gathered at precisely the correct time, a sacred dance called the Fortuitous Moulting may be performed.

At the key climactic instant the feathers and crinoline tutus of the participants fall off, and their beaks fall off and shatter, and the webs between their toes dissolve into mist. The brief nudity is very tasteful with a minimum of sexiness involved. The dancing girls raise their arms and down from the ceiling immediately fall clinging garments of purest silver foil to sheathe them. Then everybody dances in a great big circle waving their arms around and kicking up their bare feet newly devoid of scales and freed of all syndactyl qualities in a way expressive of carefree delight.

At least that’s the way it’s supposed to go.

One baby duck had other plans.

Taking advantage of the confusion of a smoke break—imagine two dozen happy ducklings, flush with anticipatory adrenaline, mooching cigarettes and talking about their crushes on boy ducklings; imagine it!—the more serious-minded Veronica Hapgood managed to slip away.

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In her casing of the Great Hall, she had noticed a couple of things.

First, the sacristan was packing up to go somewhere—a long trip from the looks of his shoddy if commodious luggage.

“Leatherette,” she sniffed, running a finger along a dusty shaving kit. One great thing about having feathers on your hands was no fingerprints!

No doubt this lazy sacristan (smudges on all his glassware told Veronica’s keen eye of his laziness) had some vacation hours coming up, and hoped to foist the cleaning after such a day of revelry on his underlings.

Little did he know that bloodstains would be on the menu!

As Veronica had calculated with her incredible mental abilities, the sacristan’s humble rooms of lodging, just down the rear hallway, had been vacated, a small wooden wedge keeping his door open to facilitate the traditional airing.

This smooth wooden wedge, so unassuming and unadorned, was just the thing. Veronica removed it expertly and silently, allowing the door to swing shut. She turned the wedge over in her downy palm.

Almost like a wedge of delicious pie, yet made of wood, she thought hilariously, instantly upbraiding herself: Now is no time for hilarity!

There was never a time for hilarity as far as Veronica Hapgood was concerned. Killing people was the only thing she had time for.

“Oh, little piece of wood,” she said. “You never suspected your true purpose!”

She was so great at taking small objects and using them for unusual reasons in her dramatic schemes.

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She waddled up a ladder and used the wedge to jam one of the frock-dropping devices. Scandal was sure to erupt. One unfortunate girl would have to stand featherless for the first time, full of the tingling and strange emotions of newfound womanhood, showing her kit and caboodle to the entire leering court.

Veronica Hapgood knew full well who the victim would be: Lavera Bondswoman Jr., her supposed best friend.

What mattered such trivialities to a coldhearted assassin with bigger things on her plate?

Curse these regrets that came to her mind, dancing across her duckling brain as if choreographed by Madame Skurt-xu herself: frolicking in a meadow with the guileless Lavera, pointing at butterflies and stuff like that.

And what of Madame Skurt-xu? The disruption of the Fortuitous Moulting would almost certainly result in her execution, this sassy, single-minded old lady choreographer who was still sexy and wore a red wig and had a great work ethic.

Veronica shook such notions from her pretty head. What could the death of a single old woman mean, a mere crossmark on the Scrolls of History? Nor did Lavera’s shame matter, the way she was sure to blush so fetchingly all over her nubile body, as dirty-minded people would probably think of it, what a bunch of horrible creeps, well, good for them. Veronica Hapgood was amoral, as she had to keep reminding herself.

There was no way she was secretly in love with Lavera Bondswoman Jr.!

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Or so she thought.

True, she had chosen Lavera for her physical appeal. While everybody was getting a load of the nudity, Veronica would use the opportunity to sneak over and stick her letter opener in the neck of the unsuspecting king.

Hark! The gladsome sound of the blithesome flock returning from their smoke break. They had come to check out the stage, full of the jittery excitement of the young and callow. It didn’t take much to make them happy, did it? They were unspoiled. Why hadn’t Veronica seen that coming? Had she really lost that much touch with her own identity?

High above them, in the scaffolding of the Great Hall, she held her breath and remained perfectly still.
You’re slipping, Veronica, she admonished herself. And you know full well why. The Clouds confound it with their coverings!

For you see, Veronica Hapgood had a perfectly sound reason not to join her friends on their smoke break. And no wonder she had been dreaming of pie, delicious, delicious, pie.

Veronica Hapgood was pregnant!

Previously - Part the Sixth

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