It is a solemn law of this universe that no story may be termed “good” unless it has first started with a cataclysmic explosion. This law, alas!, was tragically not known to Sophie on that fine day in the twilight of the year when she left her front door; else she might have brought her umbrella.

Sophie was not, of course, expecting to be blown to smithereens when she took the 367 from Wheridigg Bend to Cacktucket; but then, nobody is, for the 367 is a quiet bus and, anyways, being instantaneously atomised is not the sort of thing one plans for, you know.

The 367 rattled quietly down the leafy lanes, past laughing brooks and old hunchbacked trees, its very existence belying the fell fate of its sole occupant. It came to a rest at the mossy stone which marked the boundary to Cacktucket, whereupon the woman alighted with a spring in her step, giving a friendly wave to the driver as she left.

Her journey from there was a meandering one. This was not because she was going out of her way to smell the flowers (she was, but that's besides the point), but rather on account of the otherwise unaccountable fact that she was unsure as to where she was journeying.

You see - and here I ought to provide some of what They call General Exposition - Sophie was not just any person out for a morning bus ride. No, she was on a mission - a mission to find her place of employment. Sophie, you see, was a Rogue Administrative Assistant. 

Like lightning she descended out of the sky, doing the scheduling; with the crack and fury of thunder she came through the evening, checking the filing; and in the night she struck, completing payroll. (Some call these last two, “Working Overtime.”)

An itinerant wanderer, a vagabond adventurer, the weapon she carried over her shoulder was a mighty one - ‘twas the Lance of the Free.

Her present venture was with a guava firm, Gonzorbo’s, which had vastly underestimated the degree of mismanagement a former manager had engaged in and now found themselves greatly in need of a certain rogue fixer to sort out the filing. 

At least, if she could find the building. She wasn't unduly worried - “Pretend you know where you’re going and you’ll get there soon enough,” as her father always said - but it still wouldn't do to be late. 

And so she meandered about through shaded lanes and up cobblestone paths, searching the buildings until she found a coffee shop - which she would have needed to locate anyways, for no office worker is complete without coffee - whereupon she was able to get proper directions.

Her sentiments about the day's general beneficence began to change as she grew nearer and nearer the office. The lovely forest of palms and mahogany slowly gave way to weirder and wilder forms of vegetation, strange twisted trees curling in blasted shapes upon the earth; and the weather, which had been so nice when she went out, grew darker and began to drizzle, the sun almost pulling back beyond the horizon.

This wasn’t too unusual - it was the rainy season - but when the road started to flicker with the sky, and Sophie received vague impressions of wooden slats shaking under her feet and a cloying dark whispering about the trees, she started to wonder if she hadn’t stepped into one of those ‘rifts’ which one increasingly heard of from the north.

A strange impression, perhaps; bizarre rumours were ever more coming down to them of rifts to other worlds, and monsters within them, and of swirling magic. Lunacies, of course - who still believed in magic, really believed, in this day and age? - but the stories stirred a flicker of fear in her heart all the same.

This flicker bloomed into a fire as she reached Gonzorbo’s, an ungainly, dilapidated structure hunched over amidst the trees, and realised that there was indeed something horribly awry with the world.

This was not, to be fair, the fault of the building itself, but rather was that of the Very Strange Fellows who were waiting across the street, pleasantly.

There were two of them. The one was very, very tall and very, very fat, his body nearly that of a ball. His face was round, snub, and ash grey, his hands meaty, and he wore a bowler on his head.

The other was very, very short, and had he been as thin as he was small it's very likely he would have snapped under the weight of the pittering rain. His dress was identical to that of his compatriot - from his rubbery black trenchcoat to his bowler hat - but there the similarities ended, for the smaller one had ears like a bat's wings and a long, hooked nose curling over cruel lips.

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He was giving Sophie a broad grin, mouth full of pointed teeth; his companion's smile was a tight-lipped leer.

There they were: the two Very Strange Fellows to one side of the road, Sophie and the building at the other. She debated for a moment if she should run, but frankly she suspected they'd catch her immediately and, anyways, the small Fellow was already stepping forwards to talk.

“Good afternoon, missy,” he wheedled in a high-pitched whine, even though it was not yet seven in the morning. “And how are you this evening?”

Sophie took a long, slow, and loud slurp of her coffee, the pair waiting patiently all the while, smiles fixed eerily on their faces. Once she had finished her sip she warily replied, “Good.”

“Glad to hear it,” the short fellow replied. “May I introduce my companion and myself? I, missy, am Snaggle; and my friend here, as you can well see, is called Tooth.”

Tooth's smile slowly widened, revealing a single short canine in a mouth of red and juicy gums.

Snaggle continued. “We, I am proud to say, are a pair of Respectable Businessmen - here, my card.”

And he tossed her a business card.

Snaggle & Tooth

Very Strange Fellows

Respectable Businessmen

(+507)-xxxx-xxxx

“Now I hope you don't mind, but if’n you have time we'd like to make you something of an offer, if you will,” said the Very Strange Fellow who called himself Snaggle, gesturing to Tooth. The latter took a step forward, and leaned down to the earth in an ornate bow, doffing his hat.

“Mademoiselle,” Tooth intoned, his voice deep and surprisingly mellifluous. “Have you ever wondered to yourself, ‘What am I doing with my life?’”

“Oh, all the time. Presently, in fact,” Sophie replied, sweet as you please. She still felt a thrum of unease vibrating within her, but the typical sales pitch of the Very Strange Fellow - so familiar, so boring - had acted as a balm to her unsettled heart, and she even cracked a smile.

“I am glad to hear it,” Tooth declared, either missing or choosing to miss the point. Undeterred, he continued with his Respectable Businessman Sales Pitch, his arms spread magnanimously. “Truly, truly glad. And has it ever occurred to you that you might better know what to do with your life, if you knew what life was?”

“…Uh huh. Seems to me that would follow fairly implicitly,” Sophie replied, vaguely wondering if she was dealing with motivational speakers, and if so how she could escape.

“Now I know what you're thinking,” Snaggle snarked, and Tooth trundled on, “you're vaguely wondering if you're dealing with motivational speakers, and if so how you can escape. But not so fast! What I offer to you today is worth so much more than any limpid platitudes - so much infinitely more.”

Sophie merely sipped her coffee in reply, preferring its delicious taste to the inanities of this conversation, her distracted eyes flickering across the landscape as the sun shrunk ever more behind the earth and the clouds and the winds and the rains swept on through the trees, the pitch-thick night serving as their watchman. 

This didn't upset the Very Strange Fellows, who maintained their perfect smiles; instead, Tooth merely made a flourish in Snaggle's general direction, as if introducing him. Snaggle strapped forward, and coughed, putting his left hand on his chest self-importantly.

“Life, missy, is an adventure; and no adventure is complete without sword fights, wizards, and a gratuitous number of explosions.”

There it was again, like her thoughts had occasioned the words. Wizards; magic. Sophie’s eyes narrowed.

“Indeed. And you're here, I take it, to scout me for the position of magician's assistant? I'm afraid I'll have to forgo swallowing a sword or swinging it about like a baton; the circus already rejected me,” Sophie asked, her tone half amused and more than a little caustic.

“No, missy,” Snaggle said, and whipped open his trenchcoat to reveal that it was lined with detonators, linked together to a single master button. “I'm here to ask you if you'd care to set off thirty long tons of explosives.”

Sophie considered this offer seriously for a moment, stroking her chin. At last she looked the Very Strange Fellow dead in the eyes, and calmly observed, “No.”

“My dear,” said Tooth beautifically, clapping his hands together, “did you really think you had a choice?”

Sophie raised one eyebrow. Today was turning out to be exciting, indeed. “Presumably I do, or we’re all in trouble. Incidentally - and please understand that this question is motivated in its entirety by curiosity - it’s only, you see, that I can’t help but doubt some details of your account, and so I need to ask - what are you here for?”

Snaggle brought down his lips till they were somehow covering all but the points of his teeth, the resultant smile more menacing than any he'd delivered previously. “Why, didn't I say? We're here for you.”

And then he started to crackle and glow. Sophie did not believe in magic - at least, not in any sense more emphatic than the wishy washy piffle paffle about ‘the power of belief’ you get in the cheap magazines - but something about the ominous, inexplicable light caused her skin to crawl, and she felt an ice cold shiver as she realised those rumours might be true after all.

The Very Strange Fellow grinned, and went to press the trigger on his detonators, when they were interrupted by a sudden voice.

“Halt!” It cried imperiously, echoing down the glen. “Prithee, cease thy sporting against yon fair maiden.”