Friday, September 29, 2006

I'm Not Letting Dr Fate Have The Map Again

He was the one who kept moaning and bitching at me to get on with this goddamned pilgrimage through the nether realms of mysticism and now he's not holding his end up. To start with, we had a huge argument at the airport about the ticket, because Dr Fate wanted to bump the ticket up to Business Class. On my dime. Apparently in Economy Class he feels cramped. Apparently ostentatious golden hats need more legroom. Well, boo hoo, Dr Fate, maybe if your non-existent legs need to stretch you can goddamned walk to Egypt next time. Also, currently your half of the 'pilgrimage' comes to $1,340 plus tax - that is money that I am owed, Dr Fate, so the sooner you can break out the Enchanted Wallet of Xyliphetas and pay me back, the sooner you can come out of the luggage compartment and take in the in-flight movie. That's all I'm ready to say on the matter.

And not content with all that, he then proceeds to go off and force himself on the creatures of the underworld.

First, after dragging me into some dark dimension or other that he swears is the correct route to the Fiery Pit, he tells me to wait at the top of the Nigh-Infinite Stairs Of Negruthazzar while he goes and 'interrogates' the Demonic Guardian Of The Gate Of Mictlan. 'Interrogation' is allegedly what the hip kids are calling it these days. So I'm sitting on a mysterious stairway to nowhere, twiddling my thumbs for seven hours and eventually I start hearing this wierd groaning sound and I figure Dr Hat probably needs help, or at least something vaguely interesting might be happening to him which would beat sitting at the top of some metaphysical stairs without even a pack of cards or a book because Dr Bitch had to spend all of my duty free money on a walkman and a tape of The Greatest Hits Of Lionel Ritchie.

So what do I come down the Infinite Stairwell to find? A demonic guardian knocked out and tied up with his own limbs while Dr Fate rubs his grotesque helmet-face between his satanic buttocks and makes little cooing noises. I tell you, it made me feel physically sick, and I said so, but Dr Fate screamed that I didn't understand his needs and that he was sick of me judging him and WHY COULDN'T I LEAVE HIM ALONE?? And then he burst into tears. After that he stopped speaking to me altogether, which was frankly a relief although it did leave me to find some explanation to give to the creature so he didn't sue us blind the minute he woke up from whatever rohypnol trance he'd been put into. God knows I've managed to avoid enough legal trouble lately without being ensnared in Dr Fate's web of sickness.

I figured the only way out was to smooth things over and make sure he didn't go around complaining about how he'd been treated, so I decided to act like I was in charge and not to be messed with. That involved waving a packet of dental floss around and making up some nonsense about his bones cracking and shattering. And then kicking him down the stairs. Just one of the many tricks you learn when you're Ralph Dibny, Mystical Detective.

Anyway, from there on we simply had to cross over the Mictlan Gate and finally enter the depths of Hell for the next step of my mystical journey. Dr Fate still didn't have a word to say to me so I took the iniative, crossing the Threshold Of Thresnabazog to find myself on some terrible plane of drab greyness. Wrecked and twisted buildings lay everywhere, a spectral wind howling between them, and on the faces of the damned spirits who lurked in this hideous place was written a terrible despair, as though all hope of redemption had been ripped bodily from them by their unspeakable circumstances.

That's when I turned around and saw a big sign saying 'WELCOME TO DONCASTER'.

Anyway, I'm now stuck in Doncaster, which is apparently on Earth although you could have fooled me. Dr Fate still refuses to speak to me, although he's racking up immense bills on my mobile phone calling the USA to loudly inform the Spectre that he's not paying for another ticket to Egypt just so we can start all over again. I must have somehow missed him paying the first time.

Hopefully next week we can actually get somewhere more mystical than Doncaster, but I'm really starting to have doubts about Dr Fate's navigational abilities, and everything else about him - although frankly, I think he's just jealous of my new stylin' safari pants. According to the guy who lives in a box outside the train station, I'm like a young, hip, ginger version of Des Lynham, whoever he is.