Get to know Sorry and Morticum, an aging wizard and his werewolf husband. They'll seem normal to you by the end of the novel.
Chapter One
Sorry attempted to scratch his back with his wand but was unable to subdue the itch. At four hundred sixty-eight years of age, he realized many functions that used to come effortlessly now presented a challenge. It was the third time he had awoken that night to use the bathroom and this time he was unable to return to sleep. He wondered if he would ever sleep uninterrupted again.
He knew a wizard’s lifespan was approximately five hundred years and the downside became more and more obvious every day.He wandered aimlessly through the mildewed castle along the Halifax Gulley that his family’s fortune in the marijuana industry had built over two hundred years ago. But now, in the year 3022, all the lands that had served as farms were barren and infertile. Global warming had dried up the rivers and the oceans receded until they appeared to be lakes. Most of the water now hung in the air as a fog that covered the earth. A fog that had its own consciousness. A fog that played mischievous pranks on people. Its name was Seafog.
Hydroponic gardens in glass globes were the only viable way to grow vegetables. Most of the population lived in glass globes, also, as it proved to be the only material the fog could not penetrate. The Freemonkeys found safety in the ancient skyscrapers on floors above the fog. But Seafog played endless tricks on the wizard because it could easily pass through the porous stone walls of his castle.
This was not the only reason Sorry was depressed. As a wizard, he had secrets he wished to keep. He longed for the old days when there was a modicum of privacy and a lot more trust in the goodness of people. He could respect the technology that had removed the cancer from his body, but it could not cure the arthritis that ran rampant through him and anyone who had contact with Seafog. His lover, Morticum had purchased a flying seat for him so that he could move effortlessly, but he refused to use it. Beyond that, he was also angry with Morticum.
Here it was, five in the morning, and Morticum had not yet returned from his nightly outings. He seemed to be returning later and later, apparently happier outside the home than with him. This was their hundredth anniversary, certainly an occasion in which they should be together. Morticum could have made an exception on this night.
He returned to his bedroom and fell on the bed, bawling. A rustle of the curtain drew his attention and he found himself staring blankly at his lover.
“Who died?” asked Morticum, licking some fog off his right arm.
Sorry remained silent. Morticum’s long tongue reached for some blood on his left cheek.
“I’m going to bed, then,” he said. He reached for the blanket.
“Not in this bed, you’re not,” Sorry warned. He grabbed his wand and aimed it at Morticum.
“What did I say about using that thing to threaten me? What’s gotten into you?”
“Do you know what day this is?” Sorry asked.
“Thursday,” said Morticum flatly.
“It’s just our ramming hundredth anniversary,” Sorry wailed, “and you’ve been staying out later and later each night, as if you have no desire to return home.”
Morticum sat beside his lover and embraced him.
“But I love you. You know that.”
“That’s what your mouth says, but it’s not what your actions say.”
“When you’re a werewolf in Daytona for as long as we’ve been here, it is harder and harder to find fresh blood. I have always come home as soon as I’m fed.”
Sorry wiped his eyes and leaned into his partner. “It’s just that I’ve been feeling very old lately. You wouldn’t understand. You’re only two hundred fifty-seven. I always worry that you’ll take off with someone younger.”
Morticum sighed.
“When we met at the New Halifax Arts Festival, we were both drawn to the same painting that now hangs above our couch. We knew we were going to be together forever, but you had the same concern even then. I told you that werewolves rarely live beyond three hundred so we were essentially the same age in terms of life expectancy. I told you it didn’t matter because we could die together and spend eternity with each other.”
“I know we don’t celebrate many anniversaries or birthdays. We both agreed not to break down our long beautiful lives into meaningless time snippets,” Sorry said. “But we did celebrate our tenth and our fiftieth, you know, the significant ones.”
Morticum smiled without letting Sorry see him. “You know I could never love anyone like I love you. You’ve taught me so much. You made me change my whole perspective on so many things. At that time, I was very embarrassed by my lust for blood. You helped me see it as a simple need to be fed. It made all the difference.”
“I only told you that when you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”
“I fell in love with you that day because you were the first one who listened to every word I said,” Sorry confessed.
“I thought you loved me because you were attracted to hairy guys.”
Chapter Two
Morticum waited patiently for him to fall asleep. When he heard Sorry’s soft purr of a snore, he got out of bed and descended two flights to the ballroom. He had been decorating for two weeks, unbeknownst to his partner. Sorry never entered this room as it was the most porous one and the location that Seafog had played the most tricks on him. He had simply planned the event for a Friday when more guests could attend.
Morticum pulled open a massive wooden French door and stepped inside to admire his handiwork. The first thing he noticed was that the balloons he had attached to the walls spelling out: Sorry and Morticum, one hundred years, were changed to read: Seafog the Conqueror.
“Seafog, put those balloons back where they belong,” he commanded to the empty space. Tiny swirls of fog appeared, signifying that Seafog was laughing. “Stop thinking you’re so damned funny. Sorry is mad at me.” More swirls of fog appeared.
Five rats wearing tiny blue helmets emerged from a hole in the wall and ran toward Morticum. One of the helmets emitted a pale blue light.
“Can we help?” The lit helmet asked.
“If you want,” Morticum said. “You’re still not invited.”
“Why not?” The rat begged. “We love Sorry. Since he taught the animals to speak, our lives have become so much more glorious.”
“He does not feel the same way about you. Claims you always trip him when he’s not on his air seat.”
Another helmet glowed blue. “That’s because he’s so damned slow. A turtle could trip him. And besides, he hates Seafog twice as much as he does us.”
“That’s not true ,” Seafog said. “He sees me as a necessary evil. If I hadn’t trapped all the evaporating water during the Climate Wars, there would be no life at all left on earth.”
“Okay. If you help me with these tablecloths, you can come. Just please don’t get in the way or scare the other guests.”
Five helmets flashed on and off, expressing their glee.
“Who else is invited?” asked Seafog. “I haven’t seen anyone but you two enter this castle in years.”
“Sorry has been alive a lot longer than you and has helped many adjust to this changing world. Oceana, the sprite he rescued from the tsunami, will be there. And then there are the Freemonkeys. You know, not only humans get arthritis from contact with our friend, Seafog. Some Freemonkeys got it so bad, it paralyzed their limbs and froze their organs within a year. It’s called aqua lung. That is, until Sorry taught them to live on the higher floors of the ancient skyscrapers above the fog and out of its danger. Sorry’s younger brother, Malis, will be coming. And Chicken and Pig.”
“What are the chicken and pig’s names?” Seafog asked.
A helmet lit blue. “When Sorry taught the animals to speak, he discovered their ideas were all based on the same instincts, so we are known by our species only.”
Another helmet lit. “He said we had no souls to differentiate us.”
“And quite a few humans will be coming, also,” Morticum interrupted to change the subject. “Both mutants and originals.”
“Sounds like quite a party,” Seafog said.
“It had better be. I’ve also hired a holoband and foodfinders.”
“Ooh, both illegal,” the first rat said.
“What did you buy him?” The smallest rat glowed.
“A twenty-four inch natural oak wand.”
“Is that what he wanted?”
“No. But I’ve seen him look at it in a catalogue. I don’t like his old wand. It’s ugly and it has a grudge against me. Besides, the added length will make it easier for him to scratch his back.”
The motley crew worked together to make the ballroom look fit for a king. And in two hours, it did.
Morticum closed the heavy doors and scampered, two at a time, up the stairs. He got into bed and ran his paw lightly down his lover’s back, letting it settle on his right butt cheek. Sorry snorted and then purred.
Chapter Three
Morticum rose early the next morning. He went out to the globe and removed one egg from Chicken’s nest. Chicken did not wear a helmet. When one was placed on her head, she stated only that she had nothing to say. Morticum attached Pig to the extractor and removed one slice of bacon. His helmet flickered rapidly as it tickled when he had bacon or ham removed. Morticum prepared a poached egg on toast with bacon, Sorry’s favorite, and served him in bed. In the afternoon, he read to his lover from his favorite novel, The Roar of the Tsunami, which detailed the late 28th century, when the Climate Wars occurred and the earth’s water supply turned to fog. The entire dynamic of living changed from a world rich in the arts to one constantly struggling for survival.
In the early evening, Morticum faced his greatest challenge. He had to get Sorry to leave the castle so Seafog could prepare for the party and welcome the guests. He had hoped to take him to the only remaining restaurant in Daytona, an Applebee’s. There was little need for such frivolities when food was so scarce.
“I’m not leaving this castle,” Sorry complained, “and going out in that damned fog.” Morticum immediately thought it a mistake to invite Seafog to the party, but they had become great friends on the day Seafog covered him in a dense vapor so he could leave the castle during the day. Besides, Sorry hated everyone.
“You went out with me on our fiftieth,” Morticum said.
“Yes. That was a big mistake. Do you remember how Seafog stole the wand from my back pocket and replaced it with a regular stick?”
Morticum stifled a laugh but Sorry caught him.
“It wasn’t so funny when those hooligans robbed us on the way home and I tried to turn them into snakes with a ramming stick. They just laughed at us and Seafog swirled and swirled.”
“I took care of those two later that evening. Left them with nary a drop of blood. Here, you can wear a fog hat,” Morticum said, taking a glass globe with a small oxygen tank attached off the shelf. Sorry slapped it away and it shattered on the floor.
“I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me in that silly thing.”
Morticum flashed his wolfy smile, his secret weapon, the one Sorry could never resist.
“Okay, I’ll go. You carry my wand.”
* * *
At Applebee’s, Sorry’s mood worsened.
“The same menu from fifty years ago: Toast, Toast with Butter, and Toast with mock Cherry Jelly. Nothing is inspired anymore.”
“Makes it easier to decide. I assume you’ll have your usual. Toast with butter, because it slides down so easy.”
“And you’ll have the toast with jelly, because it reminds you of blood.”
For the first time, they gazed into each other’s eyes and smiled.
“See how well we know each other,” Morticum said.
“See how predictable we are.”
* * *
When they returned to the castle, Sorry said he wanted to go straight to bed.
“I’ve got a ramming headache.”
“Just one t-thing,” Morticum stuttered as he searched for an excuse. “I want to give you my anniversary gift. I left it in the ballroom.”
“Just bring it to the bedroom. You know I don’t go in there.”
“No, it’s too large,” Morticum lied. “Just humor me this once.”
Sorry frowned and started in the opposite direction.
Morticum grabbed his partner’s hand and pulled him toward the ballroom. When he released him to open the door, Sorry made a run for it, but a werewolf can easily outrun a wizard, and he dragged him back by his ear.
“Let’s get this over fast, then. I’ve got a piece of toast lodged in my throat. Why do they always go so cheap on the butter?”
When the door opened, Sorry looked in horror at all the friends he knew in various stages of disorientation. Malis came over to see his older brother and Morticum took the opportunity to pull Seafog aside.
“What the hell is going on here?”
“I may have sprinkled spores on the hors deuvres,” Seafog said sheepishly. “You know, to get the party started.”
Morticum shook his head, keeping his eyes on the two brothers. He had always liked Sorry’s younger brother, a less competent wizard but eighty years younger and looking a lot like his lover when they first met.
Sorry, on the other hand, still held resentment from an event in their youth when his brother was just learning magic. Malis had an argument with their father and he attempted to turn the old man into a frog. But it was a frog with no head, giving their dad a premature funeral.
Morticum walked over and shook Malis’ hand. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you.”
Malis did not respond immediately. He stared at his brother and saw the layers of bags beneath Sorry’s eyes, eyes that were now just little black pinpoints, sunken deep within his head. He looked at the u-shaped ring of shoulder length frizz of gray hair. He gasped slightly as he glared at the liver spots that now covered his brother’s face and the skinny arms and chicken legs that sprung from his t-shirt and shorts.
“Oh, I guess it was your fiftieth,” Malis said at some length.
Sorry noticed the pause and knew what his brother was looking at. He tightened his lips until they disappeared from his face.
Morticum also noticed the awkward moment. “Who is this lovely young lady with you?” he asked Malis.
Sorry and Morticum stared at the mutant with Malis, with no arms but breasts so long and skinny, she wore them like scarves about her neck. Only her yellow eyes and spiky blue hair were visible. She wore a single stretchy around her waist. Most females at the party wore three to seven stretchies, in different widths and colors, to express their individual fashion sense. The males wore nothing if they were furry or the same pants and shirts that had not changed significantly in thousands of years.
“This is Busy,” Malis said. “We’re getting married. I already got the license, a five year with option for renewal.” He was proud that he had not gotten the one year with no option, as most did these days.
In this new life after the weather change, human lifespan had decreased to thirty-two years. Even mutants lived only about thirty-seven, having partially adapted. Marriage was required to perpetuate the species. Even gays and those non-compliant with marriage were required to donate sperm or eggs.
“Congratulations,” said Sorry.
“I hope she makes you very happy,” said Morticum. They assumed she was smiling beneath her breasts. They assumed she had a mouth. She made no noise at all, but one breast unraveled and waved in the air.
“She says ‘thank you’,” Malis said. “Oh, and Sorry, there’s something very important I must discuss with you.”
Sorry cringed. But before he could disclose his concern, a young thin wizard with manic blue eyes flew into the room on a flying seat and set down next to Sorry.
“As I live and breathe,” Morticum exclaimed. “Strugglejay!”
Sorry regarded his long lost son with distrust and a modicum of envy. When Strugglejay was twelve, he had snuck into his father’s private office and copied a love spell from his book of conjures. Sorry considered this an unfair advantage and would never use spells for personal gain, but Stugglejay used it constantly and would ram anything that moved. But, Sorry sometimes wondered what his life would be like if he had simply moved from flower to flower. He wouldn’t be as concerned with Morticum’s fidelity, that’s for sure.
These days, ramming was considered a necessary objective and encouraged. In a world where most lived in glass globes, ramming was frequently quite visible. But Sorry still believed in moderation of all things and wanted none of it at his party. He knew that since the arts had been outlawed for being contrary to survival, ramming was the only enjoyable diversion that was still allowed. But it had led to a variety of new social diseases: Hep Q, R and S, Aids Plus and genirot. Strugglejay had gotten them all, which is why they were so surprised not only that he was here but that he was still alive.
Strugglejay got off his flying seat, but when he stood, he immediately had to lean on his father. “I’m afraid the genirot has weakened my legs,” he said, “But they still haven’t invented the disease that can take me out.” He smiled. His father frowned.
“I wouldn’t be so proud of that,” Sorry said sternly.
“We weren’t even expecting you,” Morticum said. “Pigeon returned your invite, said he didn’t know your location.”
“I’m here. I’m there. A breeder needs to move about,” he gave as way of explanation. “If we still had cell phones, life would be easier, but that ramming Seafog removed all chance of radio transmission.”
“I wouldn’t say that aloud,” Morticum warned. “He’s at this party and can be quite vengeful.”
“Why would anyone in his right mind invite him to a party?”
“”Yes, why would one?” Sorry whispered to his partner and jabbed him in the ribs.
A dense layer of cloud formed about Strugglejay’s head, making him cough and gag. Busy attempted to disperse the fog with a wave of her breast to no avail. Strugglejay fell to the floor, flailing like a fish out of water.
“Say Uncle,” Seafog commanded.
“Uncle, uncle,” gasped the young man.
“I like that. You will call me ‘Uncle Seafog’ from now on, to show some respect,” he said and left him to regain his breath.
Sorry lifted his son to a standing position, knowing his legs were weak. “Now why don’t you just save us both some time and tell me what you want?”
Strugglejay looked as if he’d been slapped. “What makes you think I want anything? Can’t a son just come over to wish his father well on his ramming hundredth anniversary?”
Sorry and Morticum smiled deviously at each other. They knew Strugglejay always had a hidden agenda.
“So what is it?” Morticum took the lead. “Spores, your father’s stash, money, someone to ram?”
“I’d no idea you two had such a low opinion of me,” Strugglejay said.
“Then you want nothing at all,” Sorry concluded.
“I didn’t say that, exactly.”
“Spill it, boy,” his father commanded.
“It turns out I slept with my landlord’s wife. I can’t even figure out why that would be offensive to anyone in this day and age, but he kicked me out on my ass. I should have reported it to the enforcers as a traitorous act, but you know I don’t like dealing with them. Anyway, I was hoping you would let me crash here for awhile.”
He searched his father’s eyes for a response but they remained distant, sinking further into his head. Sorry was thinking of the four previous times he had to evict his own son for wild parties within the sanctity of his castle walls.
Busy’s breasts unwound and began to flail wildly in all directions, knocking over a passing Freemonkey. Malis stepped forward. “Busy is trying to tell you we have a similar request. Our globe has developed a leak and there is a two year waiting list for a new one.”
“Thanks for the party,” Sorry mumbled to Morticum. His tiny eyes began to spin within his head. He valued his privacy above all else. That’s why he favored the castle over a globe in the first place.
“Or you can give me some money-and spores-and stash,” Strugglejay suggested. “That way, I can live independently.”
“You call that independence?” Sorry harrumphed. He thought about how he loved to wander aimlessly through these castle walls, hearing nothing and seeing no one, free from the horrors that existed outside. He had lived through a world where technology used to record your every move which made him value his privacy all the more now. He sometimes thought the castle was too small for the two of them. There were times he liked to banish Morticum to the east wing, or the north wing or the tower. He liked to be in control, and that is exactly what he’d be losing.
“Let me think about it,” Sorry said and walked away, straight into a group of well wishers.
“Congratulations,” said the group of three Freemonkeys and two humans, slightly out of sync.
The two humans looked pale and gaunt, having chosen to live in the lower levels of the ancient skyscrapers, where rent was cheap but profuse with fog. The Freemonkeys lived on the upper levels where the fog was not so thick. They were bright red from face to butt. Dense black hair covered their legs and rose in front to a point at their navels, covering their genitals. Freemonkeys were a breed of half human, half werewolf but no longer had to feed as Morticum did. They were able to withstand sunlight and even craved it. They were quite servile in nature and tended to Sorry’s remaining marijuana fields on their higher level porches and roofs.
“So how are my babies doing?” Sorry asked, referring to his plants.
“I think you’ll be pleased,” the first Freemonkey said. He pulled a large resi-bag filled with bud from his satchel and handed it to Sorry, who passed it to Morticum. “Put this away and roll us some jibbies. This is just the attitude adjustment I need right now.” Morticum dashed away on all fours, which he rarely did, except when in a rush.
“There’s something wrong with the holoband,” one of the humans complained.
It was the first chance Sorry had to look about the ballroom. He noticed the balloons on the wall that now spelled out: Sorry and Morticum, One Hundred Tears. But he was impressed with the sheer elegance that his partner had created and let it go. Indeed, the holographic image that was the band was flickering and the music constantly changing speed.
“Well, no wonder,” said a dancing human. “That’s a really ancient projection. Mid twentieth century Elvis Presley, I’m guessing. Though I can’t place the song, the way it’s warbling.”
“Oh, I can,” said Sorry, his eyes filled with stars. “That’s ‘Love Me Tender,’ our wedding song. I wish that little devil was next to me right now.” He pulled out his wand and Morticum appeared beside him. He aimed it at the band and the music self-corrected. He laid his head upon Morticum’s mane and whispered dreamily into his small, pointy ear, “This time I really mean it. Thank you so much for this very lovely party.” He began to pull away, then added, “And Wolfie, please inform those bastards that they cannot move in here.” He gave a wink, touched his wand and disappeared to the bedroom.
Morticum was confused. Sorry was much too serious for nicknames. He could only remember two other times he had called him Wolfie, when they first met and on their fiftieth, the rare moments when Sorry made a real effort to show his love.
The noise level in the ballroom suddenly increased significantly. Half the guests were dancing wildly and half formed a long line for slug, a mix of condensate water, spores and synthehol. The spores had taken an hour to kick in fully, but now the effect was obvious. The humans danced spasmodically, long out of practice. The mutants were only slightly more graceful, as some of their natural movements resembled dance. Busy taught the rats to dance, but they mostly just giggled and tripped the humans, who continued to dance while lying on the floor, laughing hysterically.
The bartender called Morticum over urgently, a worried look on his face. The guests on line were growing fidgety from the long wait.
“Morticum,” the bartender said, pointing with two of his six arms at a large silver machine. “The condensater is on the fritz. No more water, no more slug. This crowd could turn ugly.”
Morticum knew the effect of suddenly turning off anything that had spores as an ingredient. It had to be done gradually. The sudden intrusion of reality to their euphoric state could induce hysteria.
“I’ll get one of the rats to run through the lines,” Morticum said.
“You’ll do no such thing.” Seafog appeared in a swirl. “Your condensaters are eating me alive.”
“Seafog, you know well the agreement of twenty seven, twenty-seven, between the inhabitants of earth and yourself, allowing us to condense a percentage of you to water for our survival.”
“Of course, but you have far exceeded that percentage this evening.”
“I thought that since I invited you to the party, you would give us some leeway.”
“Leeway for what, to kill me?” Seafog said. “Your machine is making me feel ill.”
Morticum was always surprised when the weather showed its feelings. He stood there, scratching his head. A human who had heard the conversation shrieked, “The condensator’s out. Run!”
Hysteria immediately filled the ballroom. All mistook this temporary setback for an actual emergency. In a hallucinogenic frenzy, the guests trampled each other to be the first out the door. The rats lay in a heap on the dance floor. Morticum continued to scratch his head, stunned. He surveyed the mess left behind and grumbled.
“Rats, if you clean up this mess, there will be a large chunk of cheese for you tomorrow.”
Not a single one moved. Not a single blue helmet glowed. He turned off the holoband and the lights and headed upstairs.
Morticum dreaded entering that bedroom. He knew Sorry would still be awake, complaining about the noise, or the horrible state of the world or how powerless his wand was to do any really useful magic.
But when he entered, Sorry sat on the edge of the bed, smoking a jibby. He was mumbling something unintelligible but did not seem angry. Morticum sat beside him and embraced him, but Sorry shrugged it off.
“Party ended early?” Sorry asked. “Or did it drain the life out of you, too?”
Morticum had not had a chance to imbibe anything at the party, so he took the jibby and inhaled deeply.
“No, the condensator failed.” He exhaled a long plume of smoke. “The guests freaked out and ran like demons.”
Sorry laughed at the image and stroked the hair on his lover’s back.
“I’m kind of glad. I had envisioned our hundredth as being just you and me.”
You have quite an imagination. Bringing to bear a number of 21st century problems into your fanciful 31st century with some rather odd ball throwbacks like werewolves and wizards. The drama is certainly there. Whether there are lessons like some of the great satires of the past, I don't know. I will wait for the critics' reviews of the whole book before reading onward. As it stands, you are taking on a monumental task and I commend you for that.
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Chapter One
Sorry attempted to scratch his back with his wand but was unable to subdue the itch. At four hundred sixty-eight years of age, he realized many functions that used to come effortlessly now presented a challenge. It was the third time he had awoken that night to use the bathroom and this time he was unable to return to sleep. He wondered if he would ever sleep uninterrupted again.
He knew a wizard’s lifespan was approximately five hundred years and the downside became more and more obvious every day.He wandered aimlessly through the mildewed castle along the Halifax Gulley that his family’s fortune in the marijuana industry had built over two hundred years ago. But now, in the year 3022, all the lands that had served as farms were barren and infertile. Global warming had dried up the rivers and the oceans receded until they appeared to be lakes. Most of the water now hung in the air as a fog that covered the earth. A fog that had its own consciousness. A fog that played mischievous pranks on people. Its name was Seafog.
Hydroponic gardens in glass globes were the only viable way to grow vegetables. Most of the population lived in glass globes, also, as it proved to be the only material the fog could not penetrate. The Freemonkeys found safety in the ancient skyscrapers on floors above the fog. But Seafog played endless tricks on the wizard because it could easily pass through the porous stone walls of his castle.
This was not the only reason Sorry was depressed. As a wizard, he had secrets he wished to keep. He longed for the old days when there was a modicum of privacy and a lot more trust in the goodness of people. He could respect the technology that had removed the cancer from his body, but it could not cure the arthritis that ran rampant through him and anyone who had contact with Seafog. His lover, Morticum had purchased a flying seat for him so that he could move effortlessly, but he refused to use it. Beyond that, he was also angry with Morticum.
Here it was, five in the morning, and Morticum had not yet returned from his nightly outings. He seemed to be returning later and later, apparently happier outside the home than with him. This was their hundredth anniversary, certainly an occasion in which they should be together. Morticum could have made an exception on this night.
He returned to his bedroom and fell on the bed, bawling. A rustle of the curtain drew his attention and he found himself staring blankly at his lover.
“Who died?” asked Morticum, licking some fog off his right arm.
Sorry remained silent. Morticum’s long tongue reached for some blood on his left cheek.
“I’m going to bed, then,” he said. He reached for the blanket.
“Not in this bed, you’re not,” Sorry warned. He grabbed his wand and aimed it at Morticum.
“What did I say about using that thing to threaten me? What’s gotten into you?”
“Do you know what day this is?” Sorry asked.
“Thursday,” said Morticum flatly.
“It’s just our ramming hundredth anniversary,” Sorry wailed, “and you’ve been staying out later and later each night, as if you have no desire to return home.”
Morticum sat beside his lover and embraced him.
“But I love you. You know that.”
“That’s what your mouth says, but it’s not what your actions say.”
“When you’re a werewolf in Daytona for as long as we’ve been here, it is harder and harder to find fresh blood. I have always come home as soon as I’m fed.”
Sorry wiped his eyes and leaned into his partner. “It’s just that I’ve been feeling very old lately. You wouldn’t understand. You’re only two hundred fifty-seven. I always worry that you’ll take off with someone younger.”
Morticum sighed.
“When we met at the New Halifax Arts Festival, we were both drawn to the same painting that now hangs above our couch. We knew we were going to be together forever, but you had the same concern even then. I told you that werewolves rarely live beyond three hundred so we were essentially the same age in terms of life expectancy. I told you it didn’t matter because we could die together and spend eternity with each other.”
“I know we don’t celebrate many anniversaries or birthdays. We both agreed not to break down our long beautiful lives into meaningless time snippets,” Sorry said. “But we did celebrate our tenth and our fiftieth, you know, the significant ones.”
Morticum smiled without letting Sorry see him. “You know I could never love anyone like I love you. You’ve taught me so much. You made me change my whole perspective on so many things. At that time, I was very embarrassed by my lust for blood. You helped me see it as a simple need to be fed. It made all the difference.”
“I only told you that when you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.”
“I fell in love with you that day because you were the first one who listened to every word I said,” Sorry confessed.
“I thought you loved me because you were attracted to hairy guys.”
Chapter Two
Morticum waited patiently for him to fall asleep. When he heard Sorry’s soft purr of a snore, he got out of bed and descended two flights to the ballroom. He had been decorating for two weeks, unbeknownst to his partner. Sorry never entered this room as it was the most porous one and the location that Seafog had played the most tricks on him. He had simply planned the event for a Friday when more guests could attend.
Morticum pulled open a massive wooden French door and stepped inside to admire his handiwork. The first thing he noticed was that the balloons he had attached to the walls spelling out: Sorry and Morticum, one hundred years, were changed to read: Seafog the Conqueror.
“Seafog, put those balloons back where they belong,” he commanded to the empty space. Tiny swirls of fog appeared, signifying that Seafog was laughing. “Stop thinking you’re so damned funny. Sorry is mad at me.” More swirls of fog appeared.
Five rats wearing tiny blue helmets emerged from a hole in the wall and ran toward Morticum. One of the helmets emitted a pale blue light.
“Can we help?” The lit helmet asked.
“If you want,” Morticum said. “You’re still not invited.”
“Why not?” The rat begged. “We love Sorry. Since he taught the animals to speak, our lives have become so much more glorious.”
“He does not feel the same way about you. Claims you always trip him when he’s not on his air seat.”
Another helmet glowed blue. “That’s because he’s so damned slow. A turtle could trip him. And besides, he hates Seafog twice as much as he does us.”
“That’s not true ,” Seafog said. “He sees me as a necessary evil. If I hadn’t trapped all the evaporating water during the Climate Wars, there would be no life at all left on earth.”
“Okay. If you help me with these tablecloths, you can come. Just please don’t get in the way or scare the other guests.”
Five helmets flashed on and off, expressing their glee.
“Who else is invited?” asked Seafog. “I haven’t seen anyone but you two enter this castle in years.”
“Sorry has been alive a lot longer than you and has helped many adjust to this changing world. Oceana, the sprite he rescued from the tsunami, will be there. And then there are the Freemonkeys. You know, not only humans get arthritis from contact with our friend, Seafog. Some Freemonkeys got it so bad, it paralyzed their limbs and froze their organs within a year. It’s called aqua lung. That is, until Sorry taught them to live on the higher floors of the ancient skyscrapers above the fog and out of its danger. Sorry’s younger brother, Malis, will be coming. And Chicken and Pig.”
“What are the chicken and pig’s names?” Seafog asked.
A helmet lit blue. “When Sorry taught the animals to speak, he discovered their ideas were all based on the same instincts, so we are known by our species only.”
Another helmet lit. “He said we had no souls to differentiate us.”
“And quite a few humans will be coming, also,” Morticum interrupted to change the subject. “Both mutants and originals.”
“Sounds like quite a party,” Seafog said.
“It had better be. I’ve also hired a holoband and foodfinders.”
“Ooh, both illegal,” the first rat said.
“What did you buy him?” The smallest rat glowed.
“A twenty-four inch natural oak wand.”
“Is that what he wanted?”
“No. But I’ve seen him look at it in a catalogue. I don’t like his old wand. It’s ugly and it has a grudge against me. Besides, the added length will make it easier for him to scratch his back.”
The motley crew worked together to make the ballroom look fit for a king. And in two hours, it did.
Morticum closed the heavy doors and scampered, two at a time, up the stairs. He got into bed and ran his paw lightly down his lover’s back, letting it settle on his right butt cheek. Sorry snorted and then purred.
Chapter Three
Morticum rose early the next morning. He went out to the globe and removed one egg from Chicken’s nest. Chicken did not wear a helmet. When one was placed on her head, she stated only that she had nothing to say. Morticum attached Pig to the extractor and removed one slice of bacon. His helmet flickered rapidly as it tickled when he had bacon or ham removed. Morticum prepared a poached egg on toast with bacon, Sorry’s favorite, and served him in bed. In the afternoon, he read to his lover from his favorite novel, The Roar of the Tsunami, which detailed the late 28th century, when the Climate Wars occurred and the earth’s water supply turned to fog. The entire dynamic of living changed from a world rich in the arts to one constantly struggling for survival.
In the early evening, Morticum faced his greatest challenge. He had to get Sorry to leave the castle so Seafog could prepare for the party and welcome the guests. He had hoped to take him to the only remaining restaurant in Daytona, an Applebee’s. There was little need for such frivolities when food was so scarce.
“I’m not leaving this castle,” Sorry complained, “and going out in that damned fog.” Morticum immediately thought it a mistake to invite Seafog to the party, but they had become great friends on the day Seafog covered him in a dense vapor so he could leave the castle during the day. Besides, Sorry hated everyone.
“You went out with me on our fiftieth,” Morticum said.
“Yes. That was a big mistake. Do you remember how Seafog stole the wand from my back pocket and replaced it with a regular stick?”
Morticum stifled a laugh but Sorry caught him.
“It wasn’t so funny when those hooligans robbed us on the way home and I tried to turn them into snakes with a ramming stick. They just laughed at us and Seafog swirled and swirled.”
“I took care of those two later that evening. Left them with nary a drop of blood. Here, you can wear a fog hat,” Morticum said, taking a glass globe with a small oxygen tank attached off the shelf. Sorry slapped it away and it shattered on the floor.
“I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me in that silly thing.”
Morticum flashed his wolfy smile, his secret weapon, the one Sorry could never resist.
“Okay, I’ll go. You carry my wand.”
* * *
At Applebee’s, Sorry’s mood worsened.
“The same menu from fifty years ago: Toast, Toast with Butter, and Toast with mock Cherry Jelly. Nothing is inspired anymore.”
“Makes it easier to decide. I assume you’ll have your usual. Toast with butter, because it slides down so easy.”
“And you’ll have the toast with jelly, because it reminds you of blood.”
For the first time, they gazed into each other’s eyes and smiled.
“See how well we know each other,” Morticum said.
“See how predictable we are.”
* * *
When they returned to the castle, Sorry said he wanted to go straight to bed.
“I’ve got a ramming headache.”
“Just one t-thing,” Morticum stuttered as he searched for an excuse. “I want to give you my anniversary gift. I left it in the ballroom.”
“Just bring it to the bedroom. You know I don’t go in there.”
“No, it’s too large,” Morticum lied. “Just humor me this once.”
Sorry frowned and started in the opposite direction.
Morticum grabbed his partner’s hand and pulled him toward the ballroom. When he released him to open the door, Sorry made a run for it, but a werewolf can easily outrun a wizard, and he dragged him back by his ear.
“Let’s get this over fast, then. I’ve got a piece of toast lodged in my throat. Why do they always go so cheap on the butter?”
When the door opened, Sorry looked in horror at all the friends he knew in various stages of disorientation. Malis came over to see his older brother and Morticum took the opportunity to pull Seafog aside.
“What the hell is going on here?”
“I may have sprinkled spores on the hors deuvres,” Seafog said sheepishly. “You know, to get the party started.”
Morticum shook his head, keeping his eyes on the two brothers. He had always liked Sorry’s younger brother, a less competent wizard but eighty years younger and looking a lot like his lover when they first met.
Sorry, on the other hand, still held resentment from an event in their youth when his brother was just learning magic. Malis had an argument with their father and he attempted to turn the old man into a frog. But it was a frog with no head, giving their dad a premature funeral.
Morticum walked over and shook Malis’ hand. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you.”
Malis did not respond immediately. He stared at his brother and saw the layers of bags beneath Sorry’s eyes, eyes that were now just little black pinpoints, sunken deep within his head. He looked at the u-shaped ring of shoulder length frizz of gray hair. He gasped slightly as he glared at the liver spots that now covered his brother’s face and the skinny arms and chicken legs that sprung from his t-shirt and shorts.
“Oh, I guess it was your fiftieth,” Malis said at some length.
Sorry noticed the pause and knew what his brother was looking at. He tightened his lips until they disappeared from his face.
Morticum also noticed the awkward moment. “Who is this lovely young lady with you?” he asked Malis.
Sorry and Morticum stared at the mutant with Malis, with no arms but breasts so long and skinny, she wore them like scarves about her neck. Only her yellow eyes and spiky blue hair were visible. She wore a single stretchy around her waist. Most females at the party wore three to seven stretchies, in different widths and colors, to express their individual fashion sense. The males wore nothing if they were furry or the same pants and shirts that had not changed significantly in thousands of years.
“This is Busy,” Malis said. “We’re getting married. I already got the license, a five year with option for renewal.” He was proud that he had not gotten the one year with no option, as most did these days.
In this new life after the weather change, human lifespan had decreased to thirty-two years. Even mutants lived only about thirty-seven, having partially adapted. Marriage was required to perpetuate the species. Even gays and those non-compliant with marriage were required to donate sperm or eggs.
“Congratulations,” said Sorry.
“I hope she makes you very happy,” said Morticum. They assumed she was smiling beneath her breasts. They assumed she had a mouth. She made no noise at all, but one breast unraveled and waved in the air.
“She says ‘thank you’,” Malis said. “Oh, and Sorry, there’s something very important I must discuss with you.”
Sorry cringed. But before he could disclose his concern, a young thin wizard with manic blue eyes flew into the room on a flying seat and set down next to Sorry.
“As I live and breathe,” Morticum exclaimed. “Strugglejay!”
Sorry regarded his long lost son with distrust and a modicum of envy. When Strugglejay was twelve, he had snuck into his father’s private office and copied a love spell from his book of conjures. Sorry considered this an unfair advantage and would never use spells for personal gain, but Stugglejay used it constantly and would ram anything that moved. But, Sorry sometimes wondered what his life would be like if he had simply moved from flower to flower. He wouldn’t be as concerned with Morticum’s fidelity, that’s for sure.
These days, ramming was considered a necessary objective and encouraged. In a world where most lived in glass globes, ramming was frequently quite visible. But Sorry still believed in moderation of all things and wanted none of it at his party. He knew that since the arts had been outlawed for being contrary to survival, ramming was the only enjoyable diversion that was still allowed. But it had led to a variety of new social diseases: Hep Q, R and S, Aids Plus and genirot. Strugglejay had gotten them all, which is why they were so surprised not only that he was here but that he was still alive.
Strugglejay got off his flying seat, but when he stood, he immediately had to lean on his father. “I’m afraid the genirot has weakened my legs,” he said, “But they still haven’t invented the disease that can take me out.” He smiled. His father frowned.
“I wouldn’t be so proud of that,” Sorry said sternly.
“We weren’t even expecting you,” Morticum said. “Pigeon returned your invite, said he didn’t know your location.”
“I’m here. I’m there. A breeder needs to move about,” he gave as way of explanation. “If we still had cell phones, life would be easier, but that ramming Seafog removed all chance of radio transmission.”
“I wouldn’t say that aloud,” Morticum warned. “He’s at this party and can be quite vengeful.”
“Why would anyone in his right mind invite him to a party?”
“”Yes, why would one?” Sorry whispered to his partner and jabbed him in the ribs.
A dense layer of cloud formed about Strugglejay’s head, making him cough and gag. Busy attempted to disperse the fog with a wave of her breast to no avail. Strugglejay fell to the floor, flailing like a fish out of water.
“Say Uncle,” Seafog commanded.
“Uncle, uncle,” gasped the young man.
“I like that. You will call me ‘Uncle Seafog’ from now on, to show some respect,” he said and left him to regain his breath.
Sorry lifted his son to a standing position, knowing his legs were weak. “Now why don’t you just save us both some time and tell me what you want?”
Strugglejay looked as if he’d been slapped. “What makes you think I want anything? Can’t a son just come over to wish his father well on his ramming hundredth anniversary?”
Sorry and Morticum smiled deviously at each other. They knew Strugglejay always had a hidden agenda.
“So what is it?” Morticum took the lead. “Spores, your father’s stash, money, someone to ram?”
“I’d no idea you two had such a low opinion of me,” Strugglejay said.
“Then you want nothing at all,” Sorry concluded.
“I didn’t say that, exactly.”
“Spill it, boy,” his father commanded.
“It turns out I slept with my landlord’s wife. I can’t even figure out why that would be offensive to anyone in this day and age, but he kicked me out on my ass. I should have reported it to the enforcers as a traitorous act, but you know I don’t like dealing with them. Anyway, I was hoping you would let me crash here for awhile.”
He searched his father’s eyes for a response but they remained distant, sinking further into his head. Sorry was thinking of the four previous times he had to evict his own son for wild parties within the sanctity of his castle walls.
Busy’s breasts unwound and began to flail wildly in all directions, knocking over a passing Freemonkey. Malis stepped forward. “Busy is trying to tell you we have a similar request. Our globe has developed a leak and there is a two year waiting list for a new one.”
“Thanks for the party,” Sorry mumbled to Morticum. His tiny eyes began to spin within his head. He valued his privacy above all else. That’s why he favored the castle over a globe in the first place.
“Or you can give me some money-and spores-and stash,” Strugglejay suggested. “That way, I can live independently.”
“You call that independence?” Sorry harrumphed. He thought about how he loved to wander aimlessly through these castle walls, hearing nothing and seeing no one, free from the horrors that existed outside. He had lived through a world where technology used to record your every move which made him value his privacy all the more now. He sometimes thought the castle was too small for the two of them. There were times he liked to banish Morticum to the east wing, or the north wing or the tower. He liked to be in control, and that is exactly what he’d be losing.
“Let me think about it,” Sorry said and walked away, straight into a group of well wishers.
“Congratulations,” said the group of three Freemonkeys and two humans, slightly out of sync.
The two humans looked pale and gaunt, having chosen to live in the lower levels of the ancient skyscrapers, where rent was cheap but profuse with fog. The Freemonkeys lived on the upper levels where the fog was not so thick. They were bright red from face to butt. Dense black hair covered their legs and rose in front to a point at their navels, covering their genitals. Freemonkeys were a breed of half human, half werewolf but no longer had to feed as Morticum did. They were able to withstand sunlight and even craved it. They were quite servile in nature and tended to Sorry’s remaining marijuana fields on their higher level porches and roofs.
“So how are my babies doing?” Sorry asked, referring to his plants.
“I think you’ll be pleased,” the first Freemonkey said. He pulled a large resi-bag filled with bud from his satchel and handed it to Sorry, who passed it to Morticum. “Put this away and roll us some jibbies. This is just the attitude adjustment I need right now.” Morticum dashed away on all fours, which he rarely did, except when in a rush.
“There’s something wrong with the holoband,” one of the humans complained.
It was the first chance Sorry had to look about the ballroom. He noticed the balloons on the wall that now spelled out: Sorry and Morticum, One Hundred Tears. But he was impressed with the sheer elegance that his partner had created and let it go. Indeed, the holographic image that was the band was flickering and the music constantly changing speed.
“Well, no wonder,” said a dancing human. “That’s a really ancient projection. Mid twentieth century Elvis Presley, I’m guessing. Though I can’t place the song, the way it’s warbling.”
“Oh, I can,” said Sorry, his eyes filled with stars. “That’s ‘Love Me Tender,’ our wedding song. I wish that little devil was next to me right now.” He pulled out his wand and Morticum appeared beside him. He aimed it at the band and the music self-corrected. He laid his head upon Morticum’s mane and whispered dreamily into his small, pointy ear, “This time I really mean it. Thank you so much for this very lovely party.” He began to pull away, then added, “And Wolfie, please inform those bastards that they cannot move in here.” He gave a wink, touched his wand and disappeared to the bedroom.
Morticum was confused. Sorry was much too serious for nicknames. He could only remember two other times he had called him Wolfie, when they first met and on their fiftieth, the rare moments when Sorry made a real effort to show his love.
The noise level in the ballroom suddenly increased significantly. Half the guests were dancing wildly and half formed a long line for slug, a mix of condensate water, spores and synthehol. The spores had taken an hour to kick in fully, but now the effect was obvious. The humans danced spasmodically, long out of practice. The mutants were only slightly more graceful, as some of their natural movements resembled dance. Busy taught the rats to dance, but they mostly just giggled and tripped the humans, who continued to dance while lying on the floor, laughing hysterically.
The bartender called Morticum over urgently, a worried look on his face. The guests on line were growing fidgety from the long wait.
“Morticum,” the bartender said, pointing with two of his six arms at a large silver machine. “The condensater is on the fritz. No more water, no more slug. This crowd could turn ugly.”
Morticum knew the effect of suddenly turning off anything that had spores as an ingredient. It had to be done gradually. The sudden intrusion of reality to their euphoric state could induce hysteria.
“I’ll get one of the rats to run through the lines,” Morticum said.
“You’ll do no such thing.” Seafog appeared in a swirl. “Your condensaters are eating me alive.”
“Seafog, you know well the agreement of twenty seven, twenty-seven, between the inhabitants of earth and yourself, allowing us to condense a percentage of you to water for our survival.”
“Of course, but you have far exceeded that percentage this evening.”
“I thought that since I invited you to the party, you would give us some leeway.”
“Leeway for what, to kill me?” Seafog said. “Your machine is making me feel ill.”
Morticum was always surprised when the weather showed its feelings. He stood there, scratching his head. A human who had heard the conversation shrieked, “The condensator’s out. Run!”
Hysteria immediately filled the ballroom. All mistook this temporary setback for an actual emergency. In a hallucinogenic frenzy, the guests trampled each other to be the first out the door. The rats lay in a heap on the dance floor. Morticum continued to scratch his head, stunned. He surveyed the mess left behind and grumbled.
“Rats, if you clean up this mess, there will be a large chunk of cheese for you tomorrow.”
Not a single one moved. Not a single blue helmet glowed. He turned off the holoband and the lights and headed upstairs.
Morticum dreaded entering that bedroom. He knew Sorry would still be awake, complaining about the noise, or the horrible state of the world or how powerless his wand was to do any really useful magic.
But when he entered, Sorry sat on the edge of the bed, smoking a jibby. He was mumbling something unintelligible but did not seem angry. Morticum sat beside him and embraced him, but Sorry shrugged it off.
“Party ended early?” Sorry asked. “Or did it drain the life out of you, too?”
Morticum had not had a chance to imbibe anything at the party, so he took the jibby and inhaled deeply.
“No, the condensator failed.” He exhaled a long plume of smoke. “The guests freaked out and ran like demons.”
Sorry laughed at the image and stroked the hair on his lover’s back.
“I’m kind of glad. I had envisioned our hundredth as being just you and me.”
