“What if we interviewed a nightshade farmer?” Father Milton proposed. The suggestion fell flat on the already deflated production meeting.

Zune offered a rat to several members of the production advancement committee, all of whom eventually declined. Crowhead had been close to accepting, briefly considering that Zune’s powers might actually come from his strange diet, but could not bring himself to do it. The I’mo had taken a strict vow of vegetarianism, and he wasn’t going to break it just for a “maybe,” even if the primary crop of his current home was poisonous nightshade berries.

“What if we interviewed an accountant?” Langley Pinkerton suggested.

“Langley, dear. No.” Cleopatra sighed and massaged her temples. “We haven’t even interviewed me yet.”

The members of the production advancement committee deflated even more, as Crowhead (who was writing the meeting minutes) quickly scrawled the words “accountant” and “nightshade farmer” onto the chalkboard.

“Master Zune, I apologize for any potential indiscretio,” Crowhead started, gesticulated with the chalk in his left hand, “but why is it so important that we try to achieve similar ratings to the Galladhorn episode? Every stage play eventually ends its run. I don’t see why numbers must remain.”

Zune swallowed the rat he had been holding, and before he was about to speak, the rest of the committee cut him off and guessed exactly what the little kobold was about to say.

“-It’s about syndication.” the committee groaned (conveniently for the narrator, exactly in-sync)

Crowhead nodded, feigned understanding for a few seconds, and then gave up the charade.

“But what is syndication? This Crowhead apologizes for their arrogance, I simply do not understand what the hesitance is in simply picking someone to interview.” Crowhead gave a deep, humble bow, and held it for several seconds too long. Zune thought about the question for a moment, and replied.

“Syndication is how Guy Blanco bestows his wisdom. And we need good ratings in order to become syndicated.” Zune said, as he gave out a kobold-sized yawn.

“Forgive this one. But what are ratings?” Crowhead bowed in respect.

“They are what gives late night television its power. The more power, the more people will know of the beauty of Guy Blanco.”

The rest of the group, not wanting to offend Zune, nodded and “uh-hummed.” Crowhead, deciding it was best to be tactful once more, lest the kobold smite him, decided to keep quiet and agree. He would have time to learn more of the kobold’s unique methods of cultivation.

“And how does the…what did you call it? 50c3po? How does the work of my people factor into syndication? While I do think Eden will certainly be prettier for it, I do not understand how it relates to cultivating your show’s reputation.”

“Guy Blanco teaches that we all should make the world a better place to love things. It is his most important tennent.”

“So there is no relation?”

“Late night television and community service through 503c’s are one in the same.” The kobold remarked. “They feed into each other. One improves the community through providing tax write offs, and the other uses those tax write offs to improve the community.”

Such wisdom. Perhaps Master Blanco was an I’mo at one point? Crowhead thought.

“I see. It is cultivation that feeds into itself. Like a farmer, we give to the land, and the land gives back to us.”

Zune thought for a moment.

“Not really, nightshade berries are poisonous, and rats are a much more efficient source of food.” said Zune, in kobold-induced ignorance of agricultural production. More “ah-hums” and nods of bored agreement were had. And then, for seemingly a millenia, the group found itself at an impasse often-found in committee meetings and classrooms alike. Everyone waited for the first person to speak, out of fear of speaking first and actually suggesting a productive idea and forcing people to work, thus causing the rest of the group to dislike them.

Father Milton, who incorrectly believed himself to be on a redemption arc, finally broke the silence from (what he assumed was) the good of his heart.

“So, who here thinks it would be a good idea to destroy the nightshade berry farm, and replace it with a better food source?” the former paladin asked.

Zune raised his hand, out of agricultural ignorance (he incorrectly assumed the destruction of the nightshade berry farm would result in less. Ragnar, who had just entered the room, raised his hand, an act that was most certainly not related to his 14 counts of accidental double homicide. The rest of the group followed suit.

“Yes, I agree, I’m rather tired of people trying to poison me.” Langley Pinkerton said.

“Oh thank the gods we finally got something done!” Cleopatra said, exasperated from the slog of the committee meeting.

One of lower-ranked I’mos interrupted the meeting to bring in a bowl of rats and sandwiches from My Cat Ate My Son (Don’t Ask). There was much rejoicing, and by the end of the meeting (after many rats and many sandwiches were consumed), the group was revitalized and ready to pillage and raze Eden’s only farm in the name of community service. They were not prepared for what they were about to see.

***

The group walked upon what was completed of the bike path, and eventually found themselves north of Eden at the only legal nightshade berry farm in Absurdia. However, the farm was not in its usual state. Normally, the farm was busy, with the old farmer preparing his shipments of deadly nightshade, feeding his cows, tending to his chickens, and checking in on his pigs. And normally, the farmhouse, one of the few buildings in Eden that was not constructed out of stolen saloons stacked on top of each other, stood proud under the midday sun. And, worthy of further discussion, it should be noted that the Eden nightshade farm was the only building in all of Absurdia designed by Frank Lloyd wright.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

Parole Officer’s Note: The narrator will not be discussing this further.

Keyword: was. For, by the time that the Production Advancement Committee (which also happened to be the administrative staff of a 503c non-profit with a vested interest in the farm’s destruction), Zune and his friends realized their job had been done for them. Someone had burnt the entire thing down, Frank Lloyd Wright architecture, cows, pigs, chicken, and all. All except for the old farmer, who lay sprawled on the ground in front of the old Eden nightshade farm. He was bruised and bloodied. And, if someone from Earth were present, they might even remark that the farmer looked like he had been hit by a truck. Which was incorrect, because he had in fact been hit by a Silver 2018 Subaru Imprezza. Father Milton ran over to tend to the old farmer.

“Sir! Sir! Are you okay? What happened? Are you okay!”

“Demon!” The man screamed “Silver Demon! WIth glowing eyes!” The man gasped in pain. Zune could see the old farmer bleeding out into the dirt and dust, and quickly went into action. Summoning his ethereal microphone, Zune began to interview the man.

“What’s your name, old man?” Zune asked.

“John.” the farmer said, still dying, “John MacDonald.” The farmer coughed up blood. Zune channeled the power of late night television into the man. Relief washed over the man as his body mended itself.

“And what should this old farmer call you, small red one? Who do you work for?”

“I’m Zune. I am the CEO of the Eden Incremental Environmental Improvement Organization. We’re here to help you.”

“CEO of what?!”

“Eden Incremental-” Zune began restating the organization’s name.

“Don’t you have an acronym?”

“No, we don’t.” Zune said, dumbfounded. How had they not come up with one yet?

“E-I-E-I-O!” The farmer screamed in pain. “Help me! Cure me of this curse!” The demon’s curse, perhaps, was too strong for the power the Zune could channel while away from his stage. Still, the little kobold redoubled and channeled more energy into the old man. The man would not die on his watch. Quitting was for Jimmy Fallon. Father Milton interjected into the remote interview.

“I’m going to check your body for any signs of the curse. If we know what it is, we can heal it.”

The farmer nodded, and allowed the former paladin to inspect him for signs of a curse. Immediately, written in bruises and lacerations, Father Milton found glyphs in an unreadable language. The demon had left its bloody mark on Old MacDonald.

HƧƎЯHᑫ

“My pigs, I had pigs! It killed my pigs!” the farmer screamed. “E-I-E-I-O!” His wounds reopened, and he began bleeding heavily into the dirt and dust once more. Zune desperately reached for a question that could help restore the old farmer, only to find his foresight blocked once more by the very fortuitous fire, much as when he had gazed upon Guy Blanco’s studio several days ago. The kobold pushed, and pushed, and pushed.

“Zune, it is a demon’s curse! It can only be lifted by holy energy.!” Father Milton said.

“And the demon killed my chickens too!” the farmer writhed in pain. “E-I-E-I-O!”

Zune channeled even more late night talk show energy. Sweat ran down his little kobold body. He could feel the outline of a question form into his mind, but he was flying blind. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could save Old MacDonald.

“I will not quit. Quitting is for Jimmy Fallon.”

Zune formed part of his power into a question. This one, however, was not for the farmer, but for Father Milton.

“Why can curses only be lifted by gods?” Zune asked the former paladin.

“Because the only way to defeat a demon is to make it fear you. And demons fear goodness.”

“Then they will learn to fear Guy Blanco too!” Green late night talk show energy pulsed throughout the smoldering ruins that were of Old MacDonald’s Frank Lloyd Wright House.

“E-I-E-I-O!” Old MacDonald cried out. The man was about to die.

“Brestmylc. Guide Zune in this hour. Save this man! Please! I beg of you!” Father Milton prayed. The god of justice responded, her voice like a harp.

“I don’t serve fallen paladins.” the god of justice said. “And I do not recognize these strange runes. Now, I have dinner with the god of fire, goodbye.” Brestmylc said. Zune was on his own.

The question became more cogent in Zune’s mind. He was getting very, very close. He guessed at it.

“What is your favorite part of the farm?” Zune asked Old MacDonald.

“The architecture I had! E-I-E-I-O!” Old MacDonald screamed.

No dice.

“What is your favorite animal?!” Zune could feel himself getting close. So close.

“The kangaroo I had! E-I-E-I-O! E-I-E-I-O.”

Time paused for a moment as the question formed completely in Zune’s head. And it was then, the kobold realized he would fail to save innocent, kindly, harmless old MacDonald; the merchant of death; the most notorious poison seller in all of Absurdia.

“How should I honor your life?” Zune asked.

The realization crossed Old MacDonald’s face, and he spoke solemnly to the kobold.

“Tell them who I was. Tell them I was a farmer. Tell them that I had chickens, cows, and a farmhouse. Avenge me. Let my name be spoken upon the whispers of the wind in every corner of Absurdia, and told by every member of-” Pain shot through the farmer’s body, his final death throe, “E-I-E-I-O!”

Old MacDonald died in the field in front of his home. Zune closed the old man’s eyes, thanked him for the new acronym for his 503c. A single tear rolled down the kobold’s cheek.

“I have failed Guy Blanco.”

“I’m sorry Zune. I’m sorry.” Father Milton placed a hand upon the kobold’s back.

“I’m no better than Jimmy Fallon.” Zune was now sobbing into his rat pack full of rats. The rest of the group was stunned in silence. Everyone except for Father Milton who was now having a narratively convenient flashback.

Parole Officer’s Note: This very long tangent that goes deep into Father Milton’s has been scheduled for later, as a condition of the narrator’s parole.

“Zune. You are not bad. You are not Jimmy Fallon.”

“But I failed.” Zune spat out, tears now streaming down his face.

“Failure is not quitting. Zune. Trust me, I’ve done both.”

“Do you think Guy Blanco has ever failed?” Zune asked.

“Even the gods can fail Zune. And they are perfect.”

The kobold thought for a moment.

“And if Guy Blanco is perfect, that means he has also failed?” the kobold offered terrible, kobold-logic.

Father Milton nodded.

“And Guy Blanco is not Jimmy Fallon, despite not quitting…” Zune pondered the statement. Father Milton allowed the kobold to come to the conclusion himself.

“I know what the next episode is about.” Zune said. And with those words, the meeting of the Production Advancement Committee finally came to a close.