The Amount Which I Do Not Need This Is Numerically Unexpressible

Rev. Tommy Butts. Televangelist. Philanthropist. Activist. Probably a whole chain of other nasty stuff too. But so far as I know, he’s never done nothing illegal, so he’s none of my business.

Until he disappears from a train station without saying a word to his friends, family, business associates, co-religionaries, sycophants, or anybody else for that matter.

One thing we weren’t short on was theories. Max said he’d skipped the country with the profits to buy a private island in Fiji and populate it with enough prostitutes to make makeup importing the number one industry. His son was of the opinion that he’d suffered a traumatic heart attack or stroke or something, and rather than worry his family had checked in to some secret hospital somewhere, so in the meantime he’d better run things himself. His daughter thought he’d been kidnapped by terrorists who wanted to ‘silence his message of truth an hope an love!’ His wife was convinced that he’d gotten a call of the spirit and abandoned his former life then and there and was out somewhere eating locusts and wild honey by the bucketful.

After having a look at his wife, I suspected that he’d just wanted to get away from her, but when a coyote who calls himself Blue Bloodlust–his real name’s Monroe P. Askins, so you can see he’s got a point–jumped parole and his court-mandated psych therapy, I figured there might be a connection.

Blue Boodlust was, well, something of an activist too. Few years ago, there was this movement that half the population ought to be hunting down and eating the other half, and he was right in the inner circle. They all had silly video-game code names; White Fangs, Black Hunger, Red Ravenousness, Green Something-or-other. They got busted in this huge standoff that caused this huge furor about huge conspiracies that were… huge, I guess.

Anyway, since the good reverend always looked so jolly, plump, buttery, and honey-glazed, it only made sense to assume that somebody got hungry.

Which is why I’m so pissed that I got sidetracked into this nonsense again.

He’s wearing a pink boa.

As y-you can s-see, I have transp-p-ported this frog into-

“Ok, I seriously don’t have the patience for this,” I snarl, stomping over to the flask. Man, that thing stinks. “He stuck a tadpole in the bottle and waited for it to grow up, ok? That’s how it works. No tricks, no powers, no wacky Jack Kirby devices. That’s all.”

The newslady goes from looking like she’s ready to drink champagne out of her mic to looking like she just realized that bubbly yellow stuff wasn’t champagne after all. So… it’s not amazing?

“No. Now go away.”

B-but, I w-w-wanted to be on TV!

“And YOU!” He jumps. I don’t think he’s seen me angry before. “I am not risking you pulling another inane stunt and wasting my time! This time, you’re going in!”

F-for what?!

“I don’t care. Kidnapping, endangering a minor, fraud, child abuse!” I count them off on my fingers, then give up. “That’ll do to start, I guess.” Max whips out his cuffs, but the Count doesn’t seem inclined to resist.

Oh b-boy! I’m getting ar-r-rested! J-just like a real v-villain!

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Max, take this nut away. Some of us have work to do.”

The Final Word.

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