Robert Asprin: Something MYTH Inc

Robb craned his neck and looked around before he spoke, as if expecting to find a spy or a soldier lurking behind a nearby bush.

"I've got a plan," he said, lowering his voice. "The way I have it figured is that we can pay our taxes like good citizens, then steal it back from the collectors after they leave."

"That's illegal," the red-head said. "If we got caught, my law practice would go right down the toilet... no offense, John. I don't like taxes any more than anyone else, but I can't see becoming a hoodlum over it."

"Don't give me your legalistics, Will... and don't call me a hood," said Robb. "At worst, we'd be outlaws. For that matter, we're already outside the law. We've been poaching in the Royal Game Preserve for years now."

"Nobody cares about that," Will said. "Rodrick wasn't into hunting the way his father was, and Hemlock has been too busy expanding the borders to bother with minor domestic crimes. If we start messing with the tax collectors, though, somebody's going to be upset."

"Besides, how long has it been since any of us have actually shot anything on one of these jaunts?" Tucker muttered.

"Like we could hit something if we tried," John agreed. Despite their claims to being a bow-hunting club, the group, without exception, were incredibly bad shots with a bow and arrow.

"What's the rest of it, Robb?"

That was Allie speaking for the first time. As someone who was trying to make it as a stand-up comic and merely renting a room in John's house, he was not really a full-fledged member of the crew, but they kept him around for laughs.

"How's that again, Allie?" Robb said, innocently.

"C'mon, Robb," Allie said. "Don't try to kid a kidder. I've gotten to know you pretty well. Taxes and back taxes are one thing, something everyone can agree on. If I know you, though, there's something else. Something's bothering you. It's big enough to have you thinking about taking on the army, even small units of it, but it isn't so big that you can use it as a sales point to the rest of us. I'm just kind of curious as to what that something is."

All eyes turned to Robb.

"Okay," he said with a sigh. "I've heard that one of the things Skeeve is thinking of doing is wiping out the Royal Game Preserve. It's been proposed to him that he can raise money for the kingdom if he lets the lumber companies level the forest, then sell the land to developers."

"Where'd you hear that from?" said Tucker.

"From my niece, Marian. She works part time as a maid at the castle."

"A maid? Named Marian?" John said thoughtfully.

"Forget it, Johnny," Robb waved. "Between her job and her schoolwork she hasn't got any time to be a part of this."

"I'm missing something here," said Will. "Since we don't really do any hunting, why should it matter to us if they level the Preserve?"

"Think about it. All of you," Robb said. "The preserve and our hunting are the only excuse we have for these yearly outings. If it goes away, so does our excuse for getting out of the house. How many of you would really rather spend that time with your families?"

A thoughtful silence descended of the assembly. Despite their personal differences, the one thing that united the men was that they were all married. Happily married, of course, but it's been said that a man can only take so much happiness without a break.

"So, Robb," Tucker said, breaking the silence. 'Tell us more about this plan of yours."

Of course, for hotbeds of sedition and revolution, one need look no further than institutes of higher education. Rampant idealism untempered by the practicalities of having to earn a living is great for producing droves of untested youths who are convinced they know how to run the world better than those currently in charge.

It has been noted, however, that the atmosphere at these centers tends to go through cycles, penduluming from radical to conservative and back again. At the time of our tale, the schools are in a conservative loop, so only one group of misfits figures into the current equation.

The particular group under study is a gaggle of students who periodically gather to play a popular Fantasy Role-Playing game. For those of you unfamiliar with this pastime, this is a game where people get together, often dressed up in medieval garb, to assume the role of various fantasy characters in order to act out (usually verbally) a scenario devised by the game master. The fact that games of this sort are extremely popular in Possiltum might be explained by the fact that such costumes are very easily obtained here, and at incredibly low cost.

· · ·

"I tell you we simply can't let this opportunity pass us by!" ranted Storm (known in her everyday life as Wil-hemia). An imposing, hefty young woman, she was the group's main rule-citer and enforcer, and wasn't used to being argued with. "A chance like this only happens once in a lifetime, and men only if you're lucky."

"Frankly, I'm not wild about our chances," said Egor, also known as Melvin. A pale, fey, math major, he rarely strayed from his books other than to take part in these gaming sessions. Surprisingly, he had proven to be the only one who could vaguely hold his own in disputes with Storm.

"Are you kidding? An evil sorcerer holding the kingdom in thrall?" Storm shot back. "It's the exact type of situation that we've been practicing how to handle for months."

"Reality check!" said Egor, holding up a hand. "What we've been doing is playing around with make-believe characters in pretend situations. You're talking about going up against a real sorcerer with real guards. Guards, I might add, who carry real weapons that inflict real wounds. Not the kind that you can heal up with a die roll, the kind mat can make you real dead. What's more, from all reports, the opposition has been doing this professionally for years, not months. Like I said before, I don't like our chances."

"I'm not talking about us trying to attack him head on, you dufus," said Storm.

"Oh?"

"Of course not I'm not stupid."

"I stand corrected on both misconceptions," Egor smiled, bowing slightly from his seat.

Storm stuck her tongue out at him.

"So what exactly is it that you're proposing?" said Red Blade, a bespectacled, skinny drink of water known more commonly as Herbie, who tended to think of himself as a warrior trapped in an academic's body.

"I think we should do what it says in the book," Storm said grandly. "I think we should form a Fellowship."

"Book? What book?" frowned Red Blade.

"What book? What book?" mimicked Storm. "The book, of course. C'mon, Red Blade. How many books are there that center around a Fellowship?"

"Oh. That book." Red Blade said.

[Author's Note: The reader may be wondering how this and occasional(?) other anachronistic references appear in Possiltum. Early in the series, it was established that Deveels are merchants extraordinare and make a large portion of their money buying and selling new inventions through the dimensions, which is why broadswords, chain mail, and crossbows seem to appear anywhere fantasy is written. Similarly, they will pirate literary and musical works and market them through the dimensions without regard to copyrights or royalty payments. You know, kind of like the Internet.]

"As I recall," said Egor, "there was quite an array of characters in that book. Where do you expect to find their equivalent here in Possiltum?"

"It's not as hard as you think," Storm said. "Like, remember when we tried an FRP camp out last year?"

"I remember most of us getting poison ivy."

"Well, the guy who came up and told us that we couldn't have open fires in the park was dating Melissa for a while, and she still knows how to get in touch with him. I figure he'll do for a Ranger."