Prisoner of the Molepeople

Chapter 55 - Rubble

As the rumbling died down, a new sight appeared through the clearing dust: rubble. Slowly people came out of their hiding places.

Bobbert climbed atop the tallest chunk of rubble and waved a tablecloth. “It's an omen. Duthbert's no longer our king.”

Duthbert responded in a feeble voice, “It was just a symbol. It doesn’t mean anything.” He turned to one of his security guards. “For the last time, arrest these anarchists.”

The guard replied, “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t seem to pick up my handcuffs.” As a demonstration, he bent down and tried to do so, but the handcuffs slipped right out of his hands like a wet fish. Though strange, the reason was clear enough: the guard, like everyone else, was still covered in cream and dripping wet. Everything was covered in cream and dripping wet.

Coming to realize it, the guard wasn't the only one having problems. All over, people were slipping and falling. A horrified molewoman was trying in vain to pick up a fallen bracelet. A little molegirl was trying to pick up a portable game system. A fat moleboy was trying to stuff the remnants of the toppled cake into his mouth, whimpering as handfuls of watery frosting slipped through his fingers. All types of molepeople were on their hands and knees attempting to pick up water coupons for glazed doughnuts and free passes to the under-underworld.

Brunhilda was trying to pick up the Golden Bowl of Fliegenwasser. Gunhilda, seeing the sorry state of her sister, placed an arm around her. “Let it go.”

Bobbert, who had moved on to more important things than politics, was trying and failing to pick up his fifty-five dollars in “tips.” Getting frustrated, he happened to glance at me.

I couldn't help myself. “I told you your treasures would become slippery.”

“Shut up,” he replied.

Someone took my hand. Lenny. He squeezed, and I squeezed back. With his torn, green tights, messy hair, and dirty face, he'd never looked handsomer. Our bodies drew near each other. And nearer.

“Wait,” I said, pulling back. Climbing onto the same piece of rubble Bobbert had used, I shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, as I've been trying to tell you all night, there's a very good reason why Duthbert should no longer be our king.” I pulled out my phone. “Though we've lost our amplification, if you'll kindly gather around me, you'll hear for yourself as Duthbert confesses to having poisoned Grandma.”

As the audience chattered in surprise, Duthbert opened his snout and raised a feeble claw. Then he lost his will to defy.

The only problem was, my phone slipped out of my hands, bounced off the rubble, and slid across the wooden floor … just when I thought I was exempt from the curse. “Umm … if you'll kindly gather around.”

A mass of molepeople joined me in crouching around the phone, and I prepared to play back the recording.

Then the battery died.

“No!” I exclaimed. “Does anyone have a charger?”

A tall moleman in a shirt and tie stepped forward. After hesitating for a moment, he announced in a quivering voice, “I can verify Ann's claim. I heard the confession with my own ears.” I recognized him as one of the doctors who had been in Grandma's room.

A molewoman stepped forward, whom I recognized as one of the nurses. Looking equally nervous, she said, “I also heard the confession. We were … pressing our ears against the door.”

The crowd continued to chatter, and another person stepped forward, and another, all of them reluctantly testifying against Duthbert. If I hadn't first put my neck on the line, the cowards probably would have taken the secret to their deaths.

Finally, a defeated Duthbert exclaimed, “Is there no more privacy in Molemania?”

To which I tried to think of a poetic response. What I came up with was, “ba-bam!”

Within moments, the security guards had gathered around Duthbert, and with a concentrated group effort, succeeded in placing the slippery handcuffs on his wrists.

Lenny also approached Duthbert, and this time it was Duthbert who lost the staring contest. With a quick swipe, Lenny snatched the former king's crown … nly the crown slipped out of his fingers and clattered on the floor. With the help of a teenage moleboy with a pink mohawk, they succeeded in kicking the crown onto a tablecloth, which they carried over to Grandma. From there, they delicately placed the crown onto Grandma's frizzy hair.

“All hail the true ruler of Molemania,” cried Lenny.

In the background, as led by an exuberant Old Sage from Beneath the Grave, a feeble chant was beginning to spread through the ballroom: “Long live Grandma!”

Not everyone was enthusiastic about the idea, such as the former supporters of Duthbert and the anti-government teenagers. The person who looked the most uncomfortable was Grandma herself. The situation grew especially awkward when the crown slipped off her head.

Lenny shrugged. “It's just a symbol.”

Speaking of symbols, Father Jackothan was trying to pick up his staff. Bending his ancient back, he was mumbling curses in the ancient tongue.

I pointed to the unhappy moleman. “Duthbert’s not the only one who’s lost his authority. This must mean that our marriage is no longer valid.”

Father Jackothan scowled. “I resent that.” But with all the attention turning to him, he gave up on his staff and hobbled away as quickly as he could.

A team of impromptu medics and security guards were carrying Duthbert away on a table cloth. Amid the bumpy ride, he turned to me. “Ann, since I married you a day ago, you've given me nothing but headaches. Very expensive things have broken, my career exploded in my face, I've been reduced to a cripple, and all of Molemania has been chaos. Consider our marriage annulled. And go home, will ya? Any guy with a brain would stay as far away from you as possible.”

As if heavy shackles had fallen from my body, I instinctively turned to Lenny. He was supposed to say, “Then consider me brainless,” throw his arms around me, and give me the kiss of true love.

But his attention had been drawn elsewhere. He was on his hands and knees, lapping up the remains a smashed éclair.