“Nephew, guess what guess what!”

“Dear God, not again-”

“I have given you the night off!”

“NO! Sir, I’ve already had my mandatory two days off this year!”

“That may be true, I’m not too sure, but I’ve been thinking of extending it to three days and-”

“Don’t!”

“That’s all you can say after your dear Uncle rewards you? ‘Don’t’ ?”

“Well, I did say more, if you remember-”

“I don’t. And speaking of rewards, guests will again inhabit this lovably Freudian spire of ours in a Rewards Ceremony later this evening. There will be punch and everything. Isn’t that fun?”

“You mean awards. Who will we be honoring with this dreadful idea?”

“Oh, who knows. A bunch of fanfiction authors from the alternate dimension are invited. It seems as though this year’s FUSish Convention was cancelled or half-assed and they decided instead to honor the two year anniversary of some worthless story that these two nobodies wrote.”

“So of course you told them that they could hold it here.”

“What can I say, I love company. Especially when they get together and talk about popular culture. I think Santa Claus might be making an appearance, too. If you can manage, don’t shoot him in the face.”

“But do you have to give me the night off? I can sit here and work-”

“No.”

“… Wouldn’t you rather, uh, beat me or something?”

“I never did that.”

“You did it all the time.”

“And then I found out that it was more torturous for you if you had nothing to do. See you at the party! Try not to maim any holiday icons this time.”

“In the holocaust of summer? Who on Mobius would I be able to find?”

… Great.

**********

Hours pass and this threat becomes a terrible reality. I finish off the last of my wine before dusk and too soon I get bored of sitting down, pretending to be enjoying myself. I head for the control room, following the disgusting music coming from the unseen speakers, looking for the doctor, but as soon as I open the door, my eyes are blinded by this harsh white glow.

“Argh! Goddammit.” My vision readjusts itself, and far across the other end of the room, I can see a small figure, pissed off and lowering his arms from his eyes. It’s me.

“See, nephew?” Robotnik appears at my side, indicating the infinite reflections of himself making the same motions. “I redecorated the spire so it looks more like the cells in the story.”

“Entirely in one room, eh?” Pretty elaborate. Bunk beds, cell numbers at the top, cameras in the upper corners, a buffet table in the center of the room, even a pair of bathrooms at the far wall. “Won’t this hit too close to home?”

“No.”

“Hmm, good point, I guess. There will be liquor at this party, I hope.”

Robotnik smiles and pats me on the back like I’m his fella. “Plenty of your favorite non-alcoholic brew.”

And so, I immediately come to an important decision. It’s time for a walk.

“Ooo. Slide it in, right to the top, slide it in, slide it in…”

Definitely time for a walk.

Except this time I avoid the Great Forest completely. Bad hoodoo happens there. My footsteps hit the ground and it jostles the machine of Mobius to where everything suddenly works overtime and at my disadvantage, like I’m living out the events of someone’s wacky version of humor. Karma exists and it’s out for blood. Lucky for me, there are ways to suffer through it.

Alcohol.

And the best alcohol on Mobius isn’t in Robotropolis, but right here, on the cusp of the Great Forest, south of the Dark Swamp (or Great Swamp, depending on which season of the show you subscribe two (or maybe they’re two different swamps, what the fuck do I care)), well-worth the longer trip around the forest instead of through it, to a small, quaint little wooden bar, manned by one of the rodents.

Although, technically, he isn’t a rodent, but who said insults had to make sense? Where does it say they have to make sense? “Hi, Rotor.” It’s an hour walk but I’m already feeling great when I arrive, anticipating the taste of the many beverages I will gulp down.

“Sup, Sniv. The usual?”

“Five of the glorious usual, if you please.”

“Phew. Good thing I made extra.” He reaches beneath the counter and comes up with five large, black bottles that glisten in the fading sunlight, dew adorning their surfaces like stars in the night sky.

“This must be why you make the trebuchets.”

“Uh-huh. Must be a pretty big party.”

“God. As if he can’t exist outside of them. Can’t you people hurry up and kill him?”

“We’re not about that. All we want is our king, our city, and our people back.”

“Over his dead body.”

“I bet he was in a bad mood when he said that.”

“Cover yerself, bitch, you’re disgusting.” I take the bottles. He stares at me, waiting for the payment. “Okay. There is a party tonight, and he’s going to be extremely busy trying to be clever. You have all night to stage an assault.”

Rotor nods in approval. “Cool.”

“Just don’t blow up the top floor of the spire. I’ll probably be in it.”

“We’ll see. Have a nice night.”

“I will now.”

The return trip transforms into a tough ordeal when my self control decides to take a powder. The bottles in my arms turn into boxes of ice-cream, melting as the sun goes down, and the urge to hurry up and drink them gets the better of me. Five bottles turn into two by the time it’s dark and I’m seven minutes outside of home. I lose the suddenly winding road towards the end, tripping over my own feet and stumbling a few steps through the edge of the Great Forest. But like, only a couple of steps. That isn’t anything. Anything at all.

Thing is, though, I possess no sense of direction anymore as the chemicals hit hard as I reach the spire. A giant wave hits me and I have to lean against the wall and reorient myself.

Okay… okay… walk up the steps, open the door, go up, go up, keep going up to top, use the key card, open the door, enter my room. Got it. “Errr… shtepps, up, doooor, keep goingg, keeyyyy, go!” No sight of the third dimension and I falsely step into the fourth to a world where I have already accomplished these intricate steps and I skip to the end, instead entering the dungeon on the very bottom floor of the spire.

I wander around for ten minutes before it hits me that I’m in the wrong fucking place. Juggling the two bottles in my arms, retracing my steps through the rusted steel labyrinth is like trying to fly to the moon with a ceiling fan. I start to panic. Thoughts run through my head. I brought this on myself. I brought this on myself. I have become too stupid to save my own skin, and in my hopeful despair that those few steps through the forest really didn’t mean anything, I try the first door and hope that it will lead me out. When I enter, I gasp and scream like a little girl, almost dropping the last of the liquor when I see the dead body.

“AHHH! HOLY SHIT!” This shouldn’t, no no, this should not be here! We have no human prisoners. We have no prisoners period! Let alone ones that are tied up with rope. How did-

“oooHooooHOOOhhhh”

It speaks! Sweet shit, it’s the undead!

I reach for my gun, but it isn’t there, so I grab a handful of my belt and yank. My pants fall down around my knees.

I stand there, shocked for a moment. Hoping it isn’t one of those running zombies, or the kind that go gnashing right for the genitalia.

This entire ordeal has me sobered up so fast that I’m sick with the reality of it all, but at least I’m coherent enough to pull up my pants before the prisoner is coherent enough to notice that they’re down. I’m gripping the bottles tighter than ever when it finally sees straight.

“Oh no, not again,” it says.

Recognition hits. I’ve seen this person before. Many times, in fact. But there’s something different about him… “Zacharus?”

Stephen Zacharus cocks his head, confused at my confusion. “… Where am I, Snively?”

“D-dungeon,” I choke out, still shaken up, partially relieved that he isn’t a zombie.

“What time is it?” He cocks his head further, in obvious pain, trying to get a look at my wristwatch. “The party’s going on right now?”

The party, God, the party…

“I was on my way here when someone… hit me over the head.” He grunts, struggling against the ropes. “My first thought when I woke up and saw you was that it was some kind of weird joke tie-in to the story or to the way the fanfiction contests are judged, but… Christ, those are just theatrics. This hurts!”

“Huh.”

He thinks for a bit. “Hmmm. So… I figure it… maybe they tried to kill me with one hit but got cold feet when it didn’t work. Then they tied me up and hid me down here. For what? I don’t know. Someone doesn’t want me at the party.”

“What are you- I mean… joke tie-in?”

“Focus. I’ve had this feeling for days that I’ve been being followed. Tonight, there was promise of an announcement. That was my idea. I was going to announce the continuation of the story.” He smiles, amused at his own intelligence. “Whoever did this… either doesn’t want the announcement to be heard or they have an announcement of their own. Both, maybe. And it would have worked… but they underestimated me. And you.”

“They? Us?!”

He shrugs apologetically. “Sorry to involve you. I do have a lot of enemies.”

“Soooooo, if whoever did this to you is at the party, and you know who your enemies are-”

“Pfft, you might as well re-title the guest list.”

“Can you narrow it down?”

He smiles even wider, like an idea just hit him. I have come to fear that look, because it usually involves hilarity at my expense. “Tell you what, reach into my pants.”

Yep. “What?”

“My iPod’s in there. I got a bad feeling just before I was knocked out and thought there was going to be theft involved. They must not have searched me. Amateurs. Go on, grab it, quick.”

I don’t think about it; I dive in, shifting the liquor bottles to one arm and shoving a hand down his pants. I grip it tightly. “Their upgrades are the weirdest.”

He clears his throat. “That’s not it, moron. To the right.”

“… This shit is plain unreasonable.” Gulping back the imagination and the intense fear, I do what he says, and I find it for real this time.

“Very good. Now, stash it somewhere at the party where someone will find it.”

“…”

“Do you I have to hold your hand? Seriously! I’m never without it, get it? They’ll know something’s up. Whoever freaks out the most will be the culprit. All you have to do is watch.”

“This shit is soooooo fucking unreasonable.”

He groans, exasperated. “Christ! When did you turn into a whiney little bitch? Where’s the gung-ho Snively? The one that’s up for any task, any job? The one that will do anything if it’s a means to an end? Where’s the one I love to write about?”

“Would this be the same Snively who’s nothing but a sad source of comic relief and who likes getting fucked in the ass by Geoffrey St. John?”

“Just do what I tell you. Who knows, you might save the day for once.”

I shove the iPod into my pocket and throw him a smirk as I leave with my liquor. “Hey, I saved Christmas, didn’t you hear?”

**********

I’m fixing my hair near the top floor and I can hear voices inside of the party room. I shift the two full bottles to one arm, and feeling pretty darn good, enter the party.

More or less what I expected lays spread out before me. This party, like every party Robotnik throws, plays itself out like an extremely uncomfortable two and a half hour scene from a movie that has a set decorator with a mental disease and a music supervisor with an extreme case of denial, populated with actors who don’t want to be there and who can’t deliver their dialogue with conviction.

The karaoke is on pause. Someone has the crowd’s attention, rattling on and on through an obviously prewritten speech, gesturing nervously.

“Don’t know why Steve’s late. He’s on time for everything ever. Wish he was here right now… He’s the one who says all the shit. Anyhoo, I would like to thank all of you on both of our behalfs for throwing this shindig for us. It means a lot- well, it would to him. We worked really hard on the story and it’s good to see at least something is coming of it.” Sean Catlett clears his throat and shuffles some papers in front of him, and begins reading from the story, complete with voices and sound effects. It becomes clear as to why he’s here: he wouldn’t have been invited to this if it hadn’t hijacked Zacharus’ coattails.

I search for a spot to stash the iPod. Impossible to hide shit in these fucking rooms. The only real place to do it is at the buffet table. I shimmy nonchalantly over to it, trying to fade within the bored crowd.

“‘And that’s when they all died.’ I wrote that last line. One of my best, in my opinion. Okay, so that ends the reading. Any questions? No? Right then. Uh… already told you all about the donations, right? Approach me too if anyone wants to buy Reflections merchandise and/or apparel. Hell, if anyone wants to buy a ‘Who the fuck is Brian Grazer?’ t-shirt, feel free to ask. Any reason, any reason at all, approach me… and… yeah… with the approaching…”

Steve’s iPod slides carefully under the punch bowl, under the clever pretense of spiking it. The karaoke clicks back on as the last drop of my liquor goes in, Robotnik cutting off Catlett’s confused mumblings with his wild gyrations, going into a full rendition of London Bridge. I watch the crowd move back into speaking amongst themselves and sipping some punch, trying to taste if it’s fit for consumption. A large squadron of SWATbots enter with tables and folding chairs. Glad someone is working tonight.

“Hello, Snively.”

All of my blood vessels constrict and cut off my air flow; I immediately recognize the owner of the voice. I rotate on one heel, slowly, to face her, keeping my eyes above the neck line and my expression genial and understanding, like that of a friend (and nothing more). “Missus Fleury. Hello.”

“It’s Miss, remember?”

“Riiight, you don’t say.” One of the pigheaded SWATbots sets down a table and four chairs right between us, forcing us to sit down. She slides her chair so close I can feel her breath with every word.

“Did you get that story I sent you?”

“Sure. It was very, uh… vivid.”

She smiles, blushing slightly, and I resist the urge to groan. “Why thank you. I was working on a new one, actually, but… writer’s block, so I didn’t get it done in time. But I will send it as soon as it’s finished.”

“That sounds super duper.” My smile is so wide that it’s cutting my head in half. I empty the punch out of the plastic cup. It’s suddenly very hot in here.

“Maybe I could… deliver it to you… in person…”

I notice him, she doesn’t until it’s too late, but it’s worth the look of sudden shock and disgust on her face when she hears his voice.

“Hey, Ali.”

She swallows hard, something thick enough to sound like vomit. “Miss Catlett.”

“It’s, uh, Mister, if you-”

“What do you want?”

He looks affronted, but not too affronted. “Nothing! Just… wondering if you’ve seen Steve, or as I like to call him, Dumb, around. Also wanted to tell you that I finished a fourth chapter of What I’ve Been Doing With My Time, and you’re in it. Again. Additionally, I kinda sucked on it big time when I interviewed you, so I’ll be asking questions all night. You seen Steve? Have ya? Have ya seen Steve?”

“You sound like your own awful sentence structuring.”

“Ahem. Slightly worried is all. What if he’s dead?”

“Now why would you think that?” I ask, leaning forward.

He shrugs, looking suspiciously left and right. “No reason… but if he were dead… he’d deserve it. That’s all I’m saying. Not that I’d be the one who’d do it or anything. We only met face-to-face once.”

“Yeah?” Fleury sounds a little interested. “What’d you guys do? Paint the town red? Kidnap a prostitute?”

“No, actually, we stayed inside all day and watched movies.”

“… Oh.”

“You kidding? It was fucking great-”

“Yes I’m sure.”

He shrugs and lowers his eyes, looking very much like a scolded five-year-old. “I’m sorry I’m not more interesting.”

She faces him directly this time, her full feelings of contempt showing for the first time. “Why do you care? I thought you were the mighty Sean Catlett who didn’t give fuck-all about anyone or anything, you goddamn sell out.”

“See, I was, but then I realized that if I wanted friends, I’d have to fake being nice. So I did, and now it’s second nature. I AM NOW LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE. Is that punch? And I don’t know why I feel the need to impress you. It’s gone way beyond any sort of peerish crush and now it’s become an obsession that’s unhealthy to all participants. If I got you backstage tickets to a Tool concert, would you fuck me?”

“The only way I’d fuck you is if you were Maynard himself. Even then-”

He hops up and down happily. “Say no more. I’ll get Robotnik to arrange it. How does that make you feel, Ms. Fleury?”

“Sickened. Where’s the bathroom?”

“You should know. Didn’t you read the story?”

She realizes her mistake. “Oh! Oh, yeah, right, the bathrooms are…” she looks around frantically, passing over the correct area three times before seeing the porcelain of the toilet sticking out from behind the opening. “There. There they are.”

Catlett smiles again, artificially happy. Then he hears Robotnik’s ongoing performance of Learning to Fly and his face frowns. “God, I hate Gilmour-era Pink Floyd.”

“EXCUSE ME.” Fleury gets up and heads to the bathroom, looking more disgusted than ever. Catlett watches her leave until I clear my throat loudly, trying to avert his eyes.

He eyes me disapprovingly. “What? They’re so eighties.”

“I think you might have offended her with your bullshit.”

“Nonsense, Snively. I prefer misogyny to chauvinism; it’s much less hypocritical. Ya see, women are like Q-Tips. You use them for both ends.”

I notice her before he does, and it’s worth it to see him fly across the room from a metal boot to the face. He crashes to the far wall, by the bathrooms, and folds in on himself. Bunnie Rabbot dusts herself off, satisfied, shuffling a large stack of papers. “Always wanted ta do that.”

“Haven’t we all. Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

She sits herself down in Fleury’s seat, and I’m not too ashamed to admit that I’m relieved. “Rotor told me about tha party. I’m tha diversion.”

“You don’t say.” Reflexively, I try not to stare at her tits. I’m still uncomfortable around her, after what happened last Christmas. She appears not to recognize me, but how couldn’t she? That costume was ridiculous. Which means that the only way I’ll get over it is if I’m the one who mentions it. Fat chance of that. “So, how’s the revolution?”

“None too shabby. Ah haven’t been doin a lot of work lately, with the constant parties that Robotnik throws. Ah suppose that means it’s goin well. Hey, remember when we almost did it last Christmas?”

“GAH! You knew it was me?! All this time?!”

“Ah was working up an apology. Sorry. Ah got a little carried away.”

“I’ll say.”

“And ya’ll do wear that red suit so well…”

“Uh-huh. Well, look, apology accepted. I also shouldn’t have freaked out so much, I guess.”

“So what are ya’ll doing up here? Ah thought you hated these here things.”

“I do. I have to help someone solve an abrupt mystery.”

“… Why?”

For the first time, this question crosses my mind. “I don’t know. In fact, I could just leave! Oh FUCK!”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Why why why did I pour the rest of the liquor into the punch bowl?! What the hell is the matter with me?!”

“Calm down, darlin, really.”

“Please tell me Rotor’s still working at the beer stand.”

“Rotor works at a beer stand?”

“… No. Not really.”

“Hmm. Why don’t ya’ll just take the punch bowl outta here?”

“Wouldn’t that ruin the reenactment of the story?”

“Pfft. No. There was no bowl of punch.”

“Seriously?!” I’m about to dash over there when I notice that four different authors are already gathered around it, even Catlett with a dazed sounding query as to the contents of the bowl. I sink back into my seat. “Now it isn’t even worth it.”

“Cheer up, shug.”

“You cheer up, I’m too fucking sad.”

“Look on tha bright side of life. In reality, you probably enjoy helping people, but the bitterness ya’ll have built around you doesn’t allow you ta admit it.”

“… That’s just fucking ridiculous. Silly rabbit. How dare you. You watch, when we win the war, you’ll be the first to turn to steel. Entirely. I’ll finish the fucking job. You’ll see.”

She giggles hysterically, moving the large stack of papers with her breath. I snatch it all away from her.

“What the hell is this, anyway? Fire code violations?”

“Oh. Reflections.”

“Reflections? Oh God, you mean that goddamn story that this party is honoring for no fucking reason? Why do you have it?”

“Job research. We got word that Robotnik was obsessed with recreating the story, so ah needed to bone up on information.”

“Did you have to say bone up like that? Wait a minute…” Something hits me, an idea so sudden and small that I need to slow down in order to hang onto it. “Do you mind if I read this?”

“Shure thing, darlin. Ah’m almost done with it anyhoo. Ah need a break.”

“Where’s your spot? I’ll keep it marked.”

“It’s the part where my character jerks your character off.”

“… These fucking authors.” I shake my head and dive into the story. Better get started before one of them finds the iPod. I keep an ear open for nearby conversation, in case it alludes to any clues.

“Fuck Gilmour-era Pink Floyd, I tells ya!”

Then again, it probably won’t.

“Look, I don’t care who you are, you don’t have a Farewell Tour without playing Witchy Woman,” Shax states loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Maybe they’re saving it for part two?”

“Oh, they’ll be dead before then.” He winks at Shychick and takes a long drink of his spiked punch. “This tastes weird.”

“Yeah. Hey, I have I question. If you found a magic genie, what would you do with it?”

“As in, wishes?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re assuming that this is a magic genie who’s on the level, and won’t turn every wish into a sick-ass lesson?” Orin asks.

“You have no way of knowing.”

“Well, shit, that puts some limits on wishing, doesn’t it?”

“Invisibility,” Anthony Bault says, smiling.

“Then you’re fucked if it’s a lesson genie. He could take that to mean intangible, too, and you won’t be able to stand on solid ground any more. Or he’ll take it literally and light won’t refract through your retinas, and you won’t be able to see either.”

“Hmm. And if I’m intangible, I won’t be able to talk. No second wish.”

“And people say you’re stubborn,” Shax mumbles. “Is this everyone? More guests showed up at Red’s party.”

“You actually went to that?”

“In spirit. I wanted to find out his wife’s first name.”

“It’s ‘the wife,’ isn’t it?” Orin asks.

“I thought it was ‘the little woman.’” Buster says.

“‘Her.’ It’s just ‘her,’ right?” Robert Brown asks.

More and more voices gather around one generalized location.

“‘It’?”

“‘She’?”

“‘My girl’?”

“‘Wifeykins’?”

“‘Female significant other’?” is Vincent Valentine’s contribution.

“Hey, what are you guys talking about?” I think that’s finally Red, coming into the conversation pit with a fresh glass of spiked brew.

There’s silence for a second before Vincent croaks out, “Wrestling.”

“Oooo, wrestling.”

“Yep. Wrestling. It’s what we were talking about. But we, uh, just finished. Go ahead and ask that question again, Orin, the one you just asked.”

There’s another blank silence, before an intake of air, indicating a brilliant thought. “My question, and I did have one, was ‘What the hell is up with Ross?’”

“Oh right. What is up with Ross?”

“On the way over here, he ran over a wild rabbit with his truck,” Red says, whispering. “That’s why he’s all awkward around Bunnie.”

Everyone goes “Ohhhhhh.”

“You all thought it was the tits, didn’t you?”

“Well, you know, heh…”

“It isn’t his fault, really.”

“Really,” Robert says. “Sure, we’re driving the cars, but jackrabbits are the ones who seem to know exactly when to dart out in front in order to get smooshed. What is that called?”

“Depression,” Buster states matter-of-factly.

“Ah, yes, I should know better, I feel it whenever I talk to you.”

Robotnik’s rendition of The Dogs of War ends and The Power of Love kicks on. For the first thirty seconds all I hear is the overjoyed screaming of Saxman and then it dies down. The authors politely listen for a bit; Shychick takes this opportunity to slip some coffee into a drink that she thinks is mine. I just continue reading.

“So what is Victory Tastes Yellow anyway? I couldn’t find it,” I hear Vincent ask.

“Really? Did you check on Amazon?” Ah. Sean again.

“I did. Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Not. A. Thing.”

“Hmm. Must be out of print.”

“There’s no reference to it anywhere, Sean. And I searched for Oscar Templeton and he did exist, but that was in the 1800’s and he never wrote a sci-fi novel, just died uselessly in a war.”

“Strange. Maybe that’s where he got his war-driven material. Well, I assure you the novel exists, and if I’m lying, may I outlive my usefulness and hang around only because I’m not dead yet.”

“I don’t really care if it exists or not, as long as it isn’t another Steve Aylett reference.”

“HAHAHA. Is that punch?” Sean takes the drink off my table and downs it. One second passes before he zips along the walls, clicking his tongue like a cuckoo clock.

“Jesus. What a fucking freak.”

“I know. Cut two holes in his hair and he’s got an Orc helmet,” Fleury says.

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?”

“I calls em likes I sees them.”

“Jesus, get me away from him!” Donald suddenly gasps in a huff.

“Who are you talking about? Saxman?”

“He wanted me to do something about copying Bunnie onto my ‘sig’ for world domination. How else could I take that?”

“Lighten the hell up,” Rex Killiante says in between what sounds like a hollow punch to the chest. “You have no reason to be so afraid around Bunnie. Just get her drunk and touch her pussy.”

“Excuse me?!” Orin asks, appalled.

Vincent steps in. “It solves everything.”

“What the fuck?!”

“Aw hell, Orin, you still need less description and more content. Go draw some more well-lit pictures of Knuckles and Bunnie meeting in the goddamn woods.”

“Shh, not so loud!”

“And shut up, Donald.” Sound of Vincent smacking the back of his head. “Anyway, isn’t it Julie-su the one that you’re in love with?”

“Why? She isn’t here, is she?”

“LOOK, GUYS! It’s Steve’s iPod!” David Macintyre’s voice suddenly calls from across the room.

Now is my cue to probably pay more attention to everyone gathering around the device, but I don’t even look up from the story. I’m onto something big here, and that is the verge of blowing this whole case wide open.

“What’s on it?”

“Let’s see…” Click, click click click. “Michael Jackson, Nelly Furtado, Prince, The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, Symbol, Christina Milian, Natasha Bedingfield, Dannii Minogue… Oooo! Mark Romanek videos!”

“Fucking sweet! Play the Jay-Z one!”

“Why? That one’s so poorly edited.”

“HUSH YOUR FUCKING MOUTH! Is that punch?” I hear the sound of Sean trying to zip away from the crowd again but someone grabs ahold of him.

“What the hell is this doing here, Sean?” Sonique asks.

“Haven’t the faintest idea. Perhaps it was, uh, in the story. Yessss. It was in the story.”

Because no one can dispute him otherwise, everyone nods.

“One more question, Sean.”

“My how the tables have turned. Sexy. Shoot, my sweet sweet Fleury.”

“Ew.” Fleury takes a moment to recover. “Has everyone arrived?”

“Why, my pet, how would I have any idea as to the… uh, number of… participants in this… gathering… hmmm?”

“Yuh-huh. Dan Drazen isn’t coming, is he?”

“What? What?! You talk crazy. Crazy!” A pause. “No, he isn’t coming.”

“I fucking knew it!” Shychick cries out, throwing a large percolator across the room. “No Griffin, no Klassen, no Drazen, no Zacharus… So much for meeting a real author.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself-”

“Get your hands off me!”

“Okay! Sheesh. This isn’t my fault guys, really. There’s no need to lynch me. After all, I didn’t send out the invitations. Robotnik did it.”

A moment as everyone glances at the Doctor shaking his ass around in rhythm to Vibe On.

“Yep. Criminal mastermind, him.” Catlett tries to laugh off his fear. “Heheheh. Good thing I’m a detective with one glass eye. ‘You know what’s funny? Can I borrow a pen?’”

“That’s… a pretty terrible Columbo impression,” Tristan Palmgren says, his voice full of disdain.

“You’re a pretty terrible Columbo impression. Hey, is that-”

“Yes! It’s punch, you idiot! They don’t have punch in your universe?”

“We do, but it’s more like this.” There’s a sound of a fist connecting with someone’s face. “Oops, sorry, Miss Fleury. But how does that punch to the face make you feel?”

She stands to her feet. “Very, very pissed off. Someone hold him down.”

Too many authors move to oblige. Catlett begins to scream like a banshee just as I read the last word of the story and jump to my feet.

“Eureka! I have solved it!”

They stop preparations to disembowel Sean. “Solved what?” he asks.

“The case. I have solved it.” Slowly, hands come away from Catlett’s bodily extremities. “Uncle, if you could, please lock down the room. No one leaves.”

“Uncle?”

“Uncle!”

“What?”

“Lock the fucking room, if you could.”

He sulks away from the karaoke stand, sullenly dragging the microphone with him. A few seconds later the doors come down and the music stops. Good.

“Okay. So, first of all, let me first say how much of a displeasure it is to have you people here every year. My hatred knows no bounds for your antics, your activities, your mere existence. You are all hacks in my eyes. If I had the power, I would smash Robotnik’s interdimensional transport device into smithereens, but he is extremely apt at concealing it from me.”

“And how.”

“After reading this overly long piece of filth, my hatred has only intensified. You people argue more in real life than your fictional counterparts do. It’s uncanny! Why Robotnik wants to spend so much time with you is hopelessly beyond me.”

“Everyone seems to think that I’m some kind of villainous creature. I just love wacky shit.”

“Uncle, please.” I pace in front of the crowd. Bunnie watches me from the table. “Not to oversell my own intelligence; this case did give me some trouble. At first, I thought the culprit was the obvious choice: Sean Catlett, co-author of this story.” I hand the papers back to Bunnie, nodding thanks to her. “I had the motive: jealousy of Zacharus’ stance in the fanfiction world, as well as the real world. He also has no alibi, because he has no friends. He could have done the deed any time, any where. Plus, I wasn’t buying his dialogue at all. He tried to clear himself of guilt by incriminating himself with thousands upon thousands of threats against Zacharus’ life. No dice. It didn’t work.”

Catlett lowers his head, still twitching from the caffeine.

“But then I was given the story, and new possibilities sprang forth. Anyone could have been angry with the authors of this story. Of course, we all know that Sean has no real talent and owes everything in the world to other authors, Zacharus in this case. Offended readers would therefore be angry at him. More motives emerged. I was presented with several possibilities, the first of whom was one Red Sonic.”

The authors gasp and step away from him. He points at himself, dumbstruck. “Me? Why would I do that sorta thing?”

“For starters, the treatment your character receives in the story. And, some years ago, Zacharus exposed the truth about you… that you and Lemonmaster RS are not cousins, but in fact are the same person.”

“WEB OF LIES!” he screams. “The wife can vouch for me!”

I roll my eyes. “But anyway, I moved away from that theory after the next made itself particularly intriguing. Mr. Donald Ross.”

Lots of gasps and they all step away from him. Bunnie mumbles, shaking her head “Ah knew it. Rabbit killer.”

“A moment,” I hold a hand up. “His fright of Bunnie was disconcerting, but not altogether unusual. Let’s admit it: she’s scary. She’s the only other intelligent creature in this room, and if anyone else were to figure out the case, it would be her, and that would make any culprit nervous. Not Ross, however. Like the rest of you, he was only scared of the tits.”

Ross breathes a sigh of relief, then goes back to hiding in the back of the crowd.

“More and more came at me. Erik Klassen: kidnapped Steve to frame Sean into going to jail. Cirrus Verant: angry at Steve for exposing every lie he ever made about working at SEGA ever. Dan Drazen: for one second his absence was suspicious, then not so much. Vincent Valentine: bitter because of how good Steve is at the English language. Robert Brown and Francis Tolbert: mistook Steve as the one who said that their story should have ended at chapter thirty.” Here, Rex coughs and takes two steps back. “Shychick: planned to harvest Steve’s blood for the caffeine. Tristan Palmgren: thought it would be funny. And sexy. Allison Fleury: some sort of scam to get me down in the basement alone so she could-”

“My love would never do that!” Sean screams at the top of his lungs, about ready to break down into tears.

Fleury, fed up with it all, turns angrily to him. “Look, I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last guy on Earth, after some horrible gravitational pull made the planet a scorched desert and you were the one who survived the head-to-tow blaze, and the only way I could put out the fire is if I let you stick your microscopic dick in me, and it wouldn’t work anyway. You know why? You could never get me wet enough to douse the flames.”

“… Ouch. That was like, four insults in one.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“People, people, let me get through this.” I clear my throat. “Orin: reenacting the real story of CuChulainne for Fleury’s benefit. That was it, that one word. Reenacting. And it all fell into place; the story, the party, the kidnapping, the stupid motive, and the culprit… I figured it all out in one sudden flash. Zacharus was kidnapped… by Robotnik!”

The room goes silent. Robotnik hunches over and gestures innocently at himself. “Me?”

“Sure was. See, in his psychotic urge to recreate the story, he decided to make Steve play the Robert character, hitting him hard enough on the side of the head to create the welt and planning to stash him on the hills of the Great Forest, but he ran out of time because he was too busy picking out songs for the karaoke machine. He also forgot. Isn’t that right?!”

“Well… yes. But he was cool with it! He thought it was funny!”

“Those are lies, aren’t they?”

“Yes. But I did leave him a message! He just… never got back to me. Time ran out. Leave me alone, it’s hard!”

“All of Sean’s threats were a mere coincidence. There’s only one thing I don’t get… If Steve was supposed to play the Robert role, what about-”

A gunshot rings out. Everyone gasps and turns towards the sound. Zacharus is standing at the open door, pointing a gun at all of the authors. He smiles at me.

“Sorry, Sniv, I found it right after you left.”

“That’s what that was! Thank God, I thought I was going nuts, no pun intended.”

“Heh, well.” Steve regains his hardened expression and points the gun directly at Sean. “Snively did solve it, but I know for a fact that you have some sort of nefarious deal in this. Maybe you didn’t get to the plan yet, but you’re up to something foul for sure.”

“Me? Never.”

Macintyre raises his hand. “Hey, Steve?”

“A little busy here, Dave.”

“Sure, sure, I don’t want to be a shameless alarmist or anything, but I was wondering… why is your iPod suddenly saying ‘Freeeeeee-’”

I spring into action immediately, sliding across the floor to Macintyre’s position. I swing a foot across the palm of his hand, knocking the iPod out the barred window of the bathroom. A second later, the explosion rocks the spire. I start to get up when the sound of more explosions rock the room. Freedom Fighters. Just in time.

Bunnie jumps into the air, screaming “Yes! Mah diversion worked!” and then runs out of the room.

Steve retrains the gun on Sean. “You made the latest chapter of the story late. No one makes me late, you son of a bitch. I should put a bullet in you.”

Sean stands to his feet. “It was just a surprise, Steve. Come on, you’ve lived through worse. The audience of Superman Returns for example. Two times.”

He lowers the gun. “Ehhhh… I suppose...”

“Plus, I got you a new one.” Sean pulls out a red and black thing. “The U2 iPod version. It’s neat looking.”

“Fuck that band.”

So, all in all, I think we learned a valuable lesson. And as the rebel assault shakes the city and fireworks shoot into the sky, spelling out the url for the Reflections story, I can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment for once. Feels like I really did work today, even though all I did was get drunk and solve a mystery. That sort of shit.

A hand drops on my shoulder. At first, the daintiness of the gesture comes across as Bunnie’s, but I turn and it’s Robotnik.

“This earns you four days off every year, my boy.”

I smile. “Stay right here, I’m going to look directly down Steve’s gun for a moment.” If the rest of the evening goes right, I’ll do the rebels’ job for them.