My Big Halloween Party E-Book

J. R. Forbus

• Herausgeber: Ali Ribelli Edizioni
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

“The sun was setting in Wolverhampton, turning the crowded streets red. Riding his bright green bicycle, Greybones, a very specific skeleton, pedalled with so much enthusiasm that it seemed he had the devil on his tail (in fact, he did still owe him some money).”

In the charming town of Wolverhampton, England, one daring entrepreneur had a bold and spinechilling vision: to create a Park of Horrors. This twisted idea came from none other than Sir Desrius, infamously known as the “Warlock.” Ruthless and cunning, he captured monsters and magical beings from every corner of the globe to fill his eerie park. For years, these creatures have endured cruelty and mistreatment. But lately, whispers of rebellion are stirring…

My Big Halloween Party is a modern fairy tale for anyone who’s ever felt judged. It will make you laugh, cry, sympathize, and march alongside the courageous protagonists in their fight for freedom.

Leseprobe

My Big Halloween Party

by Jason R. Forbus

Illustrations: Giorgio and Matteo Franzoni, Martina Gianello, Ramadan Ramadani

Cover Art: Jorge Iracheta

Internal graphic design and layout: Sara Calmosi

Copyright © 2010 United States Library of Congress

ISBN 979-12-5633-047-8

Possivle Worlds Series

Published by Ali Ribelli Edizioni, Gaeta 2024©

www.aliribelli.com – [email protected]

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

My Big Halloween Party

by Jason R. Forbus

Scan the barcode below

Download the full-color map of Horror Park and join the monsters on their thrilling adventure!

Contents

I. The Charter of Conditions

II. Of the way in which the Sorcerer received the card

III. A very important and very secret meeting

IV. The saddest day

V. A tear to go and one to return

VI. Castellani to the rescue

VII. Yeti’s Secret

VIII. At the Welcome Centre

IX. Let everyone save themselves!

X. Planets not too far away

XI. Torches and pitchforks

XII. Mutant Zoo

XIII. An (almost) Impossible Mission

XIV. The March of the Last

XV. The Battle of Terror Street

XVI. And after the roar came silence

XVII. Coup d’état!

XVIII. The Escape

XIX. A desert of memories

XX. The Grand Halloween Festival

XXI. Hollywood in a closet

XXII. And they lived happily ever after… (or at least for a while)

To Brotherhood

IThe Charter of Conditions

The sun was setting in Wolverhampton, turning the crowded streets red. Riding his bright green bicycle, Greybones, a very specific skeleton, pedalled with so much enthusiasm that it seemed he had the devil on his tail (in fact, he did still owe him some money). He was late, and if he didn’t get a move on, the others would start the meeting without him. Not that it was easy to navigate the people crowding Terror Street at rush hour. It took the skeleton more than fifteen minutes to reach the Forgotten Castle, the five-star hotel where he worked.

“Late as usual, huh?” the Wicked Witch, perhaps the most unpleasant receptionist in the world, said as she took him back.

“It’s not my fault, there was traffic.”

“Yes, of course, and I’m the tooth fairy. Come on, they’re about to start.”

The witch accompanied Greybones to the Conference Room, where the rally would shortly be held.

Once inside, his entrance was greeted with boos and dirty looks. The monsters present, many of whom worked with him there at the hotel, were quite nervous: Mr. Blob, for example, usually so impeccable in his elegant porter livery, was sweating gallons of sewage from the tension, and not even Jordy the zombie could muster a smile; after all, they had every reason to be worried. This long-anticipated meeting would mark an epochal change in their lives. What decisions would be made? What would happen next? After all, everyone feared the Sorcerer’s deadly wrath.

“Good evening, comrades!” greeted the President of the Monster Syndicate.

There was tepid applause. Skeletons had flocked in, as had ghosts and vampires. The living, however, were few. The onerous task of representing “those who breathe” had been taken on by a werewolf and a baby red dragon, whom all the residents affectionately called Blaze, due to his bad habit of setting fire to everything in front of him. At that precise moment, he was eyeing an unfortunate vampire whose dry skin, famous for catching fire at the first ray of sunlight, would serve as excellent fuel. The temptation was too strong for the little dragon: a powerful puff, and the flames immediately enveloped the vampire, who caught fire in the blink of an eye and began hopping among the crowd. The idiotic werewolf, a failed Broadway singer, took advantage of the moment to perform a heart-rending howl. The ghosts then began to sing, and the skeletons happily accompanied it all with tap dancing. And so it was that the Comitium transformed into bedlam.

That day Greybones wore a bohemian dress and a pair of ballet shoes, a gift from his great-aunt Kathy the Cat Lady. Yes, his time had finally come, he couldn’t fail. The empty eye sockets of the little skeletons were already looking at him with admiration. The meeting room then seemed to him like a dance floor specially prepared to express all his overwhelming talent. He would have sent the entire Forgotten Castle into raptures, he would have become a star dancer – bam! – launched on the big screen, launched in Hollywood, launched…

“You’re a bunch of sheep!” His dreams of glory were abruptly interrupted by the energetic call of the President, whose skull had turned purple with anger.

“Sheep?” the werewolf protested. “I’ll eat those for breakfast!”

“A little order here!” continued the President, pretending not to have heard. “One more word and I dissolve the Comitium!”

“Nooo!” the crowd whined. Why end the rally now that the tension was finally easing?

“Someone shut that wretch up, and let’s continue in order…”

Greybones sighed. He had missed yet another opportunity to perform in public, but he wasn’t going to hang up his miracle shoes, not yet.

“Companions! The fateful hour is approaching! After years of abuse, we will soon be free from the Sorcerer’s tyranny!”

“Hurray!” some shouted.

“Finally!” others shouted.

“Let’s burn the Castle!” Blaze shouted in a rush, earning dirty looks from everyone present. “Ok, ok, I was just saying…”

“After years of exploitation, we will finally start the Revolution! We’ll say, ‘enough’ to a life locked in closets killing termites!”

The environmentalist wing of the union hastened to raise signs with pro-termite slogans like: “TERMITES WORKERS UNITED”, “TERMITES YES, TERMINATE NO” and so on…

“Soon, we will be free to step out of those closets and into the light!”

Then Mercurius, the vampire, brought forth the grievances of his people. They had just as much right to leave their coffins. It should have been written in the Charter of Conditions from the start, alongside everything else. “We vampires are prisoners in our own homes! Why can’t we have a snack whenever we want? Once, at midnight on the dot, I couldn’t help but get out of my coffin, and just as I was near the refrigerator, an Iron Guard grabbed me. I spent months in the basement, suffering from humidity that I won’t tell you about, in the company of three drunk mice and a chatty goblin who burped on command…a terrifying experience, believe me! For my release, I then had to wait for my lawyer, who took forever to arrive. Of course, he had to cross the oceans of time to reach the Forgotten Castle; you know, he is a dear cousin from Transylvania…”

Mercurius’ words hit home. Many had endured such terrible imprisonment in the dungeons, and some whispered in awe about the “Hall of Pain”.

Then it was Lynn’s turn – the ghostly damsel of the sixth tower, ninth floor, third door on the right, with a panoramic view of the moorland adjacent to the Castle (and an en suite bathroom and kitchen facilities) – to reiterate her reasons, in the purely courtly style of her people: “And what about us? Alas, I am a wretch, living in such anguished imprisonment. The Sorcerer had assured us that these chains were a ploy to attract tourists, but in truth they have enslaved our spirits to this place!”

“Everything will be recorded in the Charter of Conditions. Do the living present at the meeting want to add anything else?”

“Me! Me! I want to talk!” the werewolf called attention to himself, wagging his tail and yelping.

“You don’t need to make a big scene to ask for the right to speak. We are in a civil and democratic assembly, not at a football match…”

Wasted words: the werewolf, Walt, didn’t listen to him at all, busy chasing his own tail. The skeleton invited him to have his say and to keep it short: he often began soliloquies that never ended until hours later, always ending up talking about the “glorious days of Broadway” and the disaster of lycanthropy that had befallen him, forcing him, at the height of his career, to abandon the world of entertainment.

“I don’t ask for much, I just want a girl!” said the poor thing with all the clarity he was capable of.

The audience sighed. Here he goes again.

The Sorcerer had placed restrictions on the werewolf’s nocturnal activities: each full moon, at the highest point of the castle, Walt had to show himself off at pleasure of visiting tourists, who would take some photos and happily head off to bed.

“But if I stay up all night singing, how can I lycanthropize a tourist?” Walt sighed. “I feel so alone on moonless nights…”

The ghosts, being a cheerful clique of depressed romantics, immediately formed a circle around Walt, and Lynn, who had the soul of a poet, recited some tear-jerking verses, moving even the stones of the walls, which actually cried drops of humidity.

The fracas at the Comitium continued until everyone had expressed their “conditions”. The result was, finally, the Charter of Conditions, which I, as a faithful mummified scribbler, faithfully report here:

The Charter of Conditions

The Monster Syndicate of Wolverhampton Horror Park

ASKS

The liberation of skeletons from closets;A fair treaty with the faction of termites and wood-eating insects in general;The right to leave at any time of night for vampires;Improvement of the canteen service (stones are indigestible for 85% of the staff) and provision of new refrigerator models (preferably those that also make ice cubes);The removal of chains from ghosts’ ankles;The abolition of the underground cells and the replacement of the brutal Iron Guards with a community patrol service;Humane treatment of non-human employees;Permission for Walt, the werewolf, to lycanthropize a tourist and make her a worthy companion;The launch of a hay supply system so that the baby red dragon, known to all by the name Blaze, can adequately vent his pyromaniacal nature;The renovation of the fire prevention system.

Wolverhampton (England),

5 October, Two thousand-and-something

Signed:

The President of the Monster Syndicate

Hardskull Sampton

The employees placed a lot of hope in their Charter of Conditions. The petition would be brought to the Sorcerer’s attention by one of each species. Therefore, the chosen ones were Greybones for the skeletons (of all of them, his extravagant clothes were the closest thing to elegance); Mercurius for the vampires (his relationship to the famous Count demonstrated that they were not all of lowborn stock); Lynn for the ghosts (her sophisticated speech would establish a glimmer of intelligence to their requests); Walt for the werewolves (his “distinct uniqueness” or, for the layman, the chronic craving to which he was subject, well represented the degree of urgency of their needs); and finally, for other creatures in general, the dragonet Blaze (his terrifying presence was a warning… After all, you can’t joke with fire!).

In short, everyone should have conveyed something to the Sorcerer, but he understood what he wanted to understand, and nothing more. But here’s what happened…

II Of the way in which the Sorcerer received the card

The Sorcerer had great business acumen. As a child, he gave away his broken toys for double the market price; as an adolescent, he managed to sell the hideous and shapeless skeins of wool spun by his grandmother (which he had ingeniously repackaged as “the next in avant-garde fashion”) to his idle friends; as a teenager, at the Eastern Fair, he placed his parents at auction, obtaining a nice nest egg as a result.

In short, he really knew what he was doing. He was one of those people who they say could sell sand in the Sahara. And, in fact, his climb to success began from there. For four glorious years, he filled the desert nomads with chatter, making them believe that he was a Sorcerer and that his sand had miraculous powers. The wretched Bedouins went into debt for everything, even their camels, just to grab a bit of what was, in reality, very ordinary sand.

The fortunes of Sir Desrius IV – as that was his real name – grew along with his greed. He invested in Argentina, Brazil, Uruguay, Taiwan, Singapore, India, Ukraine, everywhere impoverishing, exploiting, plundering. His fame as a businessman reached Norway, where it was once decided to award him the Nobel Prize for Evil Cunning. But Santa Claus had protested from nearby Lapland, so nothing came of it.

However, all this was destined to end in 2008, when the Great Recession bankrupted financial institutions around the world, causing millions of savers to panic. Desrius managed to steal a few million and take refuge in a tropical paradise, erasing all traces of himself. A life as an eternal vacationer would pique the imagination of many people, but not someone like the Sorcerer. He just couldn’t stand himself without robbing someone. Not to mention, the entertainment service on the beach was terrible. He then decided to follow the suggestion of a local bartender, and start again from a sector in which he had never before invested a penny: tourism.

By suggesting that Desrius invest his capital in the tourism sector, the happy-go-lucky bartender would never have imagined what kind of monstrosity he had unwittingly inspired. The Sorcerer was the kind of man who played by his own rules and, as an unscrupulous businessman, the first thing he did was eliminate the competition. In London, it was enough for him to bribe a few politicians to purchase – at the limit of legality – a vast area in the West Midlands region, including the town of Wolverhampton: an idyllic place, known to most for being the first city in the world equipped with automatic traffic lights.

For some time now, the Sorcerer’s mind had been cultivating a dream – or should we call it a nightmare? – worthy of a madman: create a horror park. Not the most original idea, agreed, but no one had ever thought of a horror park of those proportions. At first, the citizens of Wolverhampton were happy with the Horror Park; in a period of recession like that, everyone hoped that something like this would create hundreds of new jobs. They couldn’t have known, the poor things, that, together with the city, Desrius had also bought their houses. A few days before the inaugural ceremony, the Sorcerer sent a letter to all the families of the city in which, speaking of “difficult but inevitable choices”, he placed upon the inhabitants the choice of being part of the park’s attractions or abandoning their homes by sunset. How could this have happened?

The Prime Minister limited himself to a few perfunctory tweets, but they served exclusively to formalize the act of expropriation. Some who attempted to overturn Sir Desrius’ plan ran into a formidable barrier of lawyers, corrupt magistrates, and complacent politicians who saw in this “great work” the key to the region’s economic recovery. Despite everything, many remained, but many left, leaving the field free for hundreds of amateur actors. The roles of those who chose to stay varied, but upon closer inspection they all played the part of terrified citizens, from the suspicious mayor, to the landlady who warned visitors of the, “dangers and mysteries of Wolverhampton”.

Without a doubt, the hardest part was getting the Park’s main attraction: the Horror. Desrius hired the “Ghostbusters”, that is, four sprightly old men who had set up an import/export company specialized in the capture and sale of all kinds of monsters in the 80’s. The Ghostbusters did a masterful job, and in a short time “Wolverhampton Horror Park” was able to open its doors. Journalists came from all over the world for the inauguration, and the Park quickly became one of the most famous in the world.

But now, let’s get back to our story.

The “Day of Truth” – the ghosts had insisted on such a significant name – in which the monsters would finally present the Charter, was a day like any other. Those who were not on the diplomatic mission rushed to work for fear of being fired. In a world full of prejudice, where else could they have gone? The Park was the only place where they felt safe. Although life was hell there, in the outside world, where humans were the undisputed masters, things were certainly worse.

Greybones, Mercurius, Lynn, Walt, and Blaze made a merry company of weirdos. To reach the Sorcerer’s Tower, Desrius’ luxurious residence on the other side of the city, they first had to travel down Terror Street which, with all its shops and distractions, made the journey anything but peaceful.

“We’ll stop here for a moment,” said Greybones suddenly, braking the carriage in front of the Poltergeist Supermarket. “I have to buy cigarettes.”

“Those cancerous splints will ruin you!” Lynn took it back.

“No problem. I lost my lungs a long time ago, and my wallet hasn’t seen a twenty-pound note in even longer.”

“Hey, Bone, can you buy me a Playdog?” Walt asked him, handing him the money.

“Okay. Anyone else want anything?”

“Tomato juice, please,” said Mercurius.

“But don’t vampires drink blood?”

“I’m trying to quit, mate. Too many diseases around these days.”

“Hey Blaze, don’t you want anything?”

The baby dragon gave him a stern look: “Yes: I want you to get a move on!”

Blaze’s message had been all too clear, and Greybones ran into the supermarket. Here, feeling like an ninja in his silent ballet shoes, he managed to dodge shopping trolleys, prams, and any other obstacle blocking his path with surprising agility. The other customers, mostly tourists, watched him in amazement; while he was in line, one of them found enough courage to ask him: “Is there a dance show scheduled this week? The brochure says nothing about it.”

“Oh, no, no… But we are working on something big, don’t worry. It could be a matter of weeks, or maybe just a few days.” Greybones glimpsed the rays of a new hope on the horizon; in his heart he was sure that the Sorcerer would grant the rights he had longed for for so long.

“Excuse me. Can I ask you something?” another tourist asked hesitantly.

“Maybe,” Greybones couldn’t help but think, “this shy, moustachioed tourist wants an autograph. What an emotion! My first real autograph!”

“Of course,” Graybones replied, flashing the best smile his ivory-white teeth were capable of.

“Tell me: are you just a skeleton, or a robot?”

That question, silly and unexpected, hurt him deeply.

“I’m a skeleton, sir, in the flesh…or rather, in the bones.”

“Did you hear that, Ann? I told you it was a normal skeleton. We won’t find any robots here, just the same old monsters…”

Well, yes. After the first, triumphal years, people had grown tired of the Horror Park, and this was because the Sorcerer, despite excellent initial profits, had limited himself to repainting old attractions or simply changing their names instead of renovating or innovating. The scripts that the monsters and extras followed, then, were the same hackneyed ones as before. Even someone like Stephen King would have found the place boring on a second visit… For this reason, the Park had fewer and fewer visitors. But the Charter of Conditions, Greybones was convinced, would change the Park’s policy, thus giving it a new life.

“Do you have your identity card?” the cashier asked him brusquely as she passed his purchases across the counter.

Greybones always forgot the hateful law that forced monsters to carry their identity card with them and to show it every time they were asked. The law had come into force a few years earlier, when the landings of an alien race from a not-too-distant planet, a former Earth colony plagued by years of war and famine, had intensified. Thousands of extraterrestrials had landed clandestinely in Wolverhampton in the hope of a better future; as soon as they arrived, the Sorcerer had taken advantage of a series of terrestrial laws to access funds for the reception of refugees, willingly accepting the newcomers as a consequence. Of the thirty pounds given for the daily maintenance of each extraterrestrial, however, not even ten percent was spent on them, and the bulk of the loot ended up in the pockets of those who had no scruples in passing themselves off as champions of the weak. The extraterrestrials were then locked up in a reception centre and remained there indefinitely, or at least as long as the money tap continued to flow. Those who had a minimum of freedom of movement went to other cities in search of paid employment, perhaps in some science fiction film. They thus found themselves forced to do jobs with starvation wages, so much so that some regretted leaving the very poor but dignified life they had known at home. The fact is that to deal with the “unfair competition” of the extraterrestrials – who, despite themselves, worked for a pittance – the humans of Wolverhampton had founded a political association called the “Human League”. Following numerous appearances on TV, the Party Secretary had obtained that the residency law of the Horror Park be changed, so that, from that day forward, the hundreds of monsters were forced to undergo rigorous quarterly checks at the Monstrous Demographic Office. Extraterrestrials who were discovered without a valid residence permit were immediately expelled from the Park. You will say, and rightly so, that most extraterrestrials were eager to leave Wolverhampton and move to cities offering better opportunities. Perhaps you don’t know that the expulsion took place via a trebuchet dating back to the Middle Ages, an object greatly appreciated by the Sorcerer since he’d managed to win it at an auction.

But let’s get back to us.

“Oh, yeah. Here it is…” the skeleton said, handing out his ID card to the cashier, a teenager bored beyond hope.

The document showed a grinning Greybones with his hat slightly out of place; his name was shown at the bottom (among skeletons, “Greybones” is a very common name, a bit like Mario Rossi in Italy and John Smith in English-speaking countries), and under profession, “Delivery Boy”. Everything was sealed with an intrusive red stamp bearing the words “AUTHORIZED”, thanks to which the skeleton could wander around the city and go to a supermarket at set times. That identity card, however, said nothing about who he really was, his dreams, his passions, his qualities, his fears, his friends, his experiences. All the cashier cared about was whether or not he was authorized to be in her store. A consumer-centric society that placed money at the top of the pyramid, humans further down and, to support everything, monsters and those like them.

Moreover, the mistreatment suffered by the monsters at the hands of some human residents and tourists only fuelled a war between the poor, which played to the Sorcerer’s advantage. Greybones knew this, and he also knew that democracy was the only weapon they had to change things. His purchases done, he mumbled a “thank you”, clutched the shopping bag, and left, more resolute than ever.

From then on, the carriage continued quickly and without further stops, at least until it reached the Horror Cinema. Seeing a poster, Lynn went into raptures.

“Oh, how wonderful! They have Romero’s Dawn of the Dead! We absolutely cannot miss it. You must know, my dears, that in this film I play a very important role.”

In reality, Lynn played the part of a victim, the little blonde who is torn to pieces at the beginning of the film. Everyone – with the exception of Blaze, who had great difficulty keeping quiet in places like movie theatres and libraries, and who would generally disobey any order given to him – had seen the film at least a dozen times. It was, after all, a true classic. But none of them felt like refusing Lynn’s invitation: ghosts are very proud creatures, as anyone who has the misfortune of living in a haunted house knows. All you have to do is move the mayonnaise jar just a centimetre or forget to close the toothpaste to incur the wrath of the ghost on duty and, suddenly, you had a poltergeist to deal with. Despite the urgency of the mission, therefore, our heroes wisely opted to watch the film from start to finish, and during the interval, Greybones was even able to smoke a cigarette while Blaze munched on a few tons of popcorn.

After the cinema, the group set off again, and shortly thereafter they glimpsed the Sorcerer’s residence; only as they got closer did they notice the terrifying gargoyles that guarded the sharp spires of the high and gloomy tower – in reality, the unfortunate gargoyles suffered from vertigo, and they would never have dreamed of abandoning their stone perches. A ring of coal-black smoke surrounded the top of the tower, giving it an ominous look. The smoke was generated by a very expensive machine (bought with funds from the reception centre) and served to keep nuisances away.

Having rung the bell, the heavy gate opened with an annoying screech (that miserly Sorcerer had no intention of spending money on oiling its hinges), and an instant later an Iron Guard came towards them, jingling like a dangling bunch of keys.

“Stop right there, scum! Don’t you dare take a single step forward,” the Guard ordered in a threatening tone.

“No need to warm up, tinhead,” Blaze replied. The red baby dragon hated orders and presumptuous people.

“Tinhead?! Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“Uh…let me think. A stupid tinhead?”

Mercurius and Walt coughed, while a frustrated Greybones rubbed his skull. There was trouble ahead.

“Drop your hackles, whelp. I‘ve fought in hundreds of battles!”

“And I bet you lost them all!”

Blaze and the guard would have come to blows if it hadn’t been for Lynn’s timely intervention.

“Come on, gentlemen, that’s enough! This is not behaviour befitting civilized people. I am confident that neither of you, O noble creatures, will allow anger to drag him into the grotesque of battle!”

“Huh?” said the Guard, not having understood a word of what was said.

“Oh, come on Lynn. Let me sterilize this overgrown coffee pot. I’m begging you, please!” Blaze pleaded.

The two were about to start arguing again when an imposing figure emerged from the gate, which immediately attracted the attention of everyone present. That greasy black hair, those wax plugs in his ears, and the tuxedo uniform left no doubt about the identity of that shady individual: he was Frankenstein, the Sorcerer’s handyman butler.

“Sir Desrius IV awaits you. Please let me escort you into his illustrious presence.”

Greybones and Lillie breathed a sigh of relief. For once, luck was on their side.

“Bye bye, tinhead!” Blaze threw in one last dig as the group walked away, and this time they all laughed out loud with him. The Iron Guard simply grunted and submissively returned to his work. Even the guards, renowned for their low IQ, did not dare disobey their cruel master.

The butler guided our heroes inside the fabulous home. Judging by the furniture and objects in the castle, the Sorcerer led a truly luxurious life. They walked through the long corridor, flanked by antique furniture, shining armour, tapestries, until, having turned the corner, they emerged into a spacious hall, where macabre portraits and cuckoo clocks gave the room a touch of extravagance… On a banner hanging from the ceiling, it was written: “Time is money. Don’t take up my time, or you’ll have to deal with my lawyers.”

“Please sit here. My father will be with you soon.”

“Hey, I didn’t know Frankenstein was the old man’s son…” Graybones whispered to Mercurius.

“Nah, it’s Frankenstein’s thing, he’s a little crazy,” said the vampire, who knew everything about everyone there in the Park.

After a few minutes, the doors of the hall opened and the Sorcerer made his appearance, accompanied by his inseparable bodyguards: the infamous mountain gorillas, King and Kong. Even compared to the two primates at his side, Sir Desrius remained anything but a handsome man: short, bald, and with a smile as slimy as mud. His posture was upright, worthy of a self-respecting tyrant. In fact, Desrius was quite narcissistic, and was capable of spending hours in front of a mirror to study the pose he deemed most appropriate for the occasion.

“He’s not worth half what he thinks he is,” Lynn declared in a low voice. The ghost knew men well, and no matter how hard Desrius tried to hide his true nature, she could read him like an open book. Something about the way he anxiously looked around, trying to please everyone with a phony smile, warned her against that vain little tyrant.

Upon his arrival, everyone (except Blaze, who had fallen asleep in the meantime) jumped to attention.

“Good evening, Excellency!” they greeted in unison, like a pack of trained dogs.

“Good evening, good evening to all of you. Oh, but I see there’s a ghostly damsel! What an unusual visit, it’s not often that ghosts leave their homes.”

Having grasped the implied jab at the proverbial cowardice of ghosts, Lynn eyed the Sorcerer with contempt and said to him, “Perhaps His Excellency would see us more often, if only he would allow us to make our presence known. Far from scaring tourists, howling and waving chains only serves to increase the sale of aspirin. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that you are in cahoots with the pharmaceutical industry.”

Desrius stared back at her disapprovingly, but gritted his teeth and managed to stay calm and mumble an apology.

“By all means…please forgive me.”

Lynn smiled affably.

“But tell me, friends, to what do I owe the privilege of your visit to my humble abode? As you well know, time is money and, unfortunately, urgent commitments require me elsewhere. You want to ask me something, I suppose? Maybe a new foosball table for your break room?” Desrius asked as he played with his expensive designer tie.

“Actually…we would like you to read something.” Greybones took a step forward and, with all the elegance he could muster, handed the Charter of Conditions to Desrius.

“Let’s see… ‘On behalf of the Wolverhampton Horror Park Monster Syndicate…’”

At first the Sorcerer merely glanced distractedly at the document, but then, as he read, he began to pay more attention. And the more he read, the more he frowned. Greybones and the rest of the group exchanged worried glances. The hardest part of the mission had arrived.

“You…you miserable ingrates! How dare you insult my intelligence?” the Sorcerer shouted, tearing the precious Charter into a myriad of tiny pieces.

Greybones, Mercurius, Lynn, and Walt were petrified. They certainly didn’t expect such a violent reaction. Maybe they should have laminated the document like the Wicked Witch had suggested, so it would be harder to destroy.

Sir Desrius’ cries woke Blaze from his peaceful nap. The baby dragon opened his bright eyes just in time to see the last scrap of paper hit the floor. It was like being stabbed in the heart. All their dreams had been placed in that document. What right did that tyrant have to destroy it? The dragonet’s anger grew like fire…

“King! Kong! Capture these villains! Take them to the dungeon and throw the keys into the abyss!”

“Abyss? But if we haven’t emptied the pool yet…” Kong said, ruining the metaphor.

“It’s a figure of speech, idiot! Do something!”

The two apes stood at attention, happy to have someone to beat up. But they didn’t even have time to raise their hairy arms: as soon as they took a step towards our heroes, a breath of fire as hot as hell enveloped them from head to toe. All that remained of them were two piles of smoking dust. The Sorcerer stared at the dragonet with mixture of anger and terror. He hadn’t considered such a reaction; in truth, he hadn’t considered any reaction. Taking a deep breath, he then tried to calm down and, forcing a smile, said: “Come on, children, let’s relax. We can definitely come to a compromise. I am ready to forget your audacity and forgive your insolence.”

The reverse psychology trick had worked at least a million times. The idiots would have thought: “What dumb luck! The Sorcerer is willing to forgive us!” so they would have prostrated themselves before his magnanimity…without knowing that Desrius never forgives.

This time, however, the Sorcerer realized he hadn’t fooled them, and during what seemed like a long and embarrassing minute of silence, he prepared to flee the room. Walt was the first to speak.

“Hey! Do you know what we’ll do with your forgiveness?”

“Shall we burn it?” the baby dragon chimed in.

The werewolf nodded, happy with the agreement.

Mercurius nodded in turn, shaking his long black hair.

And Lynn, unable to hold back any longer that impetuous flood of anger that flowed inside her: “In truth, Sir, you are a miscreant. You…you are an unpleasant man!”

“Come on guys, let’s leave this place before I feel like throwing up. Do you really want to see a skeleton without a stomach vomiting?” Greybones’ threat caused the group to immediately head towards the exit.

Just outside the hall, Desrius summoned his butler.

“Frank! Where are you, you damned monster?!”

“I’m here, Father,” Frankenstein replied, emerging from the kitchen.

“Listen to me carefully, because your very life depends on what I am about to ask of you. You must ensure that our guests exit the tower without harming even a single hair, or bone, or scale, or tooth, in short, whatever they have. Was I clear enough?”

“It will be done, Father.”

“Good…very good” and Desrius, like the cinematic villain that he was, burst into a sinister laugh that echoed through the corridors and most remote rooms of the palace. Unfortunately for him, his health was no longer what it used to be, and that hearty laugh caused him to have a violent coughing fit that ended with a glob of phlegm.

They would pay dearly for their arrogance. Oh yes. Soon, he would wipe that stupid union off the face of the Earth. He couldn’t risk them getting too brave. There could only be one Master, and it was time to remind them who he was…