To whom it may concern

"I don't hate Brussels sprouts," said Marshall. "I don't buy them because there's better vegetables out there, but I never hated them."

"Really," said Syndi. "Because I remember seeing them wrapped in napkins and hidden in the trash multiple times when we were kids."

"Okay," said Marshall. "I hated that sometimes they stopped me from leaving the table to do more important things, but it was never personal against them. I just hated what they represented."

Farmer Ephraim Chambers surveyed the full-grown Teller siblings with baffled amusement.

"You can always choose something else," he said, gesturing at his loaded stall.


Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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The strawberries had turned a deep and bruised-looking shade of maroon. Farmer Ephraim Chambers moved along the neatly planted rows, lifting broad green leaves and touching the fruit as little as possible. There was no sign of insect predation and the previous day had been fine and dry, with no sudden rainfall to account for the discolouration.

He spotted the boot first, a moment before he noticed the desiccated remains of the leg still protruding from said boot, and sighed. He'd tried warning the Mayor about the dangers of pick-your-own fields, but as usual, Chisel had chosen to ignore him.

Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Weather

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Farmer Chambers had said the calf had appeared after Big Moo had eaten an entire shipment of Eerie Dairy Mint-Choc-Chip-Mystery-Surprise-Delight, which struck Simon as odd for a couple of reasons.

Firstly, while the old man certainly knew more about animal husbandry than Simon did, he was almost positive baby Cloud Buffalos weren't born because their daddy ate a lot of ice-cream one day.

Secondly, if an ice-cream flavour is named "mint-choc-chip", surely it was no longer either mystery or surprise?

Then again, thought Simon, holding out a hand for the new-born to nuzzle, the baby animal part was definitely delightful.

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Simon nodded. He'd just turned ten the day he and Marshall climbed the muddy footpath that wound through the green slopes on the southern side of Wolf Mountain, chasing rumours of a half-plant, half-animal hybrid known as the Lamb of Tartary.

At the time, Ephraim had seemed unspeakably old, though looking back he had probably been in his fifties at most. Simon had been frightened by the sight of his shadowy face beneath a battered straw boater, and even more frightened by the huge, vicious-looking set of shears gleaming in his hands.

And then he'd shown them the Cloud Sheep.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Simon pulled his arm out of Big Moo's obligingly open mouth and clicked the penlight off.

"Everything looks good," he said. "No trace of redness or greasepaint, no smell of funnel cake or candy floss, and his nose doesn't honk when you squeeze it."

He opened a side pocket on his heavy leather valise and pulled out several small pill bottles, shifting through them until he found the one he wanted.

"Make sure he takes one of these a day," he said, pressing the bottle into the farmer's calloused hands. "It's a low-level warding spell against clown infestation."

Ephraim nodded.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Farmer Chambers nodded gravely.

"That'll do it," he said. "The lake keeps what it has, and doesn't take kindly to those that'd take from it."

"Yeah, she's pretty mad," said Simon, watching the block of latex soften and deform over the warmth of Hellfire. "The Baitshop's had to switch to eat-in or takeout only, and apparently they've gotten some bad reviews over it."

Ephraim whistled.

"You'd think folks would learn, after that food critic washed up last summer with tentacles in all the places a man shouldn't have them."

Simon shivered, pushing that image aside to focus on his work.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Janet

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"Big Moo!" cried Simon, almost slipping in the dew-wet grass as he hurried over to meet his patient. "What's happened to you?"

Big Moo, the only cloud buffalo in all of Indiana, mooed. Unlike the usual ebullient greeting that had given him his name, today his lowing was faint and weak.

"Darn Sewer Clowns have been at him," said Farmer Chambers, indicating a bald patch where Big Moo's thick coating of white rubbery balloons had been torn away. "They don't normally come this far up the Mountain, but I guess they got tired of hunting little kids and sushi queens."

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Janet

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The clouds had taken on the shape of a great wyrm, it's body a series of serpentine coils and it's jaws the sucking tooth-lined throat of a monstrous lamprey.

Farmer Ephraim Chambers gathered his flock in great butterfly nets, scooping them up as they bobbed over the fields of flowering helium that gave them their white and balloon-like coats. His mostly-faithful, somewhat revolutionary-minded dog, Jess, ran back and forth, snatching the trailing ribbons of the stragglers and towing them to the safety of the low-roofed wooden barn.

Above them the dragon yawned and stretched, pretending it hadn't planned a thing.

Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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Sergeant Knight removed his sunglasses, revealing a second, identical pair of sunglasses beneath them.

"And then what happened," he stated, his affectless voice failing to make it a question.

Farmer Ephraim Chambers rubbed his face.

"Then they tried to bite chunks off've Old Hindenburg," he said, pointing to the Cloud Sheep who bobbed placidly nearby. "Got spooked by the balloons popping, then upset that the helium filling made their voices all squeaky."

He glared at the would-be looters, who stared down at their shoes.

"What have you got to say for yourselves?" he demanded.

"Sorry?" piped one, shame-faced and high-pitched.

Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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Marshall slammed a handful of Polaroid photographs down on the weathered fence post, getting a couple of splinters for his trouble.

Farmer Ephraim Chambers watched in amusement for a couple of seconds before handing him a pocket-sized first aid kit that contained, among other things, iodine, tweezers, and a small but effective charm for warding off curses.

"Thanks," said Marshall, sucking his punctured fingers in clear defiance of good hand hygiene.

"No problem," said the farmer. "Maybe you can tell me what's brought you storming up here under such a head of steam."

Marshall gathered the scattered Polaroids with his uninjured hand, passing them awkwardly across the barbed wire fence that lay between them.

"You told me there was no such thing as the Lamb of Tartary!" he said. "That was one of the first things you ever said to me, and you lied!"

Farmer Chambers leaned against the rough wooden pole as he sorted through blurry images of something green and roundish and woolly-looking.

He whistled.

"Son," he said. "That's not the Lamb of Tartary, which for the last time is a misunderstanding by olden-times Europeans of how the cotton plant works."

He held up one of the better images, which wasn't saying much.

"What you have here is a pretty advanced case of Lettanthropy," he said.

Marshall blinked.

"What?"

"Lettanthropy," repeated the farmer. "It's what happens when a man goes out to a vegetable patch under the full moon and is bitten by a head of lettuce. Soon enough he starts turning green and sprouting leaves."

He examined the photo again.

"Looks like he's well on his way to becoming an Iceberg, the poor bastard. One of the worst varieties."

"Really dangerous?" asked Marshall, his face pale.

The farmer shook his head sadly.

"Worse," he said. "No flavour."

Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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"Idiots," said Farmer Ephraim Chambers, and spat. "Stupid, selfish idiots."

The Milkman switched the ice-pack to his other eye and winced.

"They're scared," he said, which was true, though it wouldn't make his bruises heal faster. "Scared people do stupid things some timelines."

"Times, I mean," he corrected hastily, as the old man shot him a knowing look beneath his battered straw hat.

"They're panicking over milk," said the farmer. "As though this place didn't have it's own dairy. The cows almost outnumber the people."

The Milkman looked over the bloodied corpses littering the field.

"They do now," he said.

Ongoing Verse: Milkman

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Someone had turned the Cloud Sheep out to graze in the lowest field. Tethered to small cold iron weights that kept them from floating away, they drifted back and forth, pausing to nibble at the flowering helium deposits that sprouted here and there amongst the long grass.

Farmer Chambers was waiting by the back gate when Simon arrived. His sheepdog, a black and white border collie named, as all such dogs are named, Jessie, bounded over to Sparky and began an excitable monologue conducted half in Canid, and half in Latin. Simon listened just long enough to make sure she wasn't trying to recruit his pet Hellhound for the Canine Liberation Front, then left them to it.

"Morning, Ephraim," he said, giving a little wave. "I'm here to do the six-month check up for the herd. You set up the appointment with my assistant, Sheila?"

The old man nodded, thumbs hooked into the straps of his faded blue overalls.

"Aye," he said, opening the gate and gesturing for Simon to go ahead. "They're looking well. Should be a good balloon harvest this year."

Simon started down the muddy path worn through the rich green.

"No vulcanisation issues with the rubber?" he asked. "I brought Sparky along, just in case we needed a little Hellfire and sulphur."

He patted his breast pocket, where a flute carved from a hanged man's rib jutted at an odd angle. There were faster ways to bring a Hellhound to heel, but the music of the dead almost always meant they came willingly.

Ephraim shook his head.

"Lambs are coagulating nicely," he said. "Helium blossom keeps the ewes plump, which keeps clown predation down. I figure a round sheep don't make such a good basis for a balloon animal."

"Also they can fly off," agreed Simon.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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