Layer 2:  Typical


Not far from Shrek and Fiona's swamp, past hill and over dale, over 
a river and through some woods, sat the small human village of 
Typical.  Inside the local tavern, several Typical villagers sat at 
the bar, nursing mugs of ale and stout and low-carb beer.  At the 
middle of this group sat a balding middle-aged man -- more than a 
bit stout himself -- of average looks and above-average surliness of 
character named Geremiah Feldgud.  Feldgud drained his mug, banged it 
down on the bar, and then said with resolve, "We've got to do 
something about this ogre problem.  NOW."

"Why the hurry, Ger?" an even stouter fellow sitting beside him 
asked.  "The ogre's lived around here for YEARS."

"It's not HIM," Feldgud said.  He paused for a moment, and then 
concluded in an ominous tone, "It's HER."

"'Her'?" another villager echoed.  "You mean the ogress?"

"No, I mean the little white fleabag they've got living with them 
now," Feldgud replied snidely.  "Of COURSE I mean the ogress!"

"What's your problem with her?" yet another villager asked.  "What's 
one more ogre?"

"That's just it!" Feldgud said, his blood rising.  "What do you 
THINK you'll get when you take that ogre and that ogress and stick 
them together in that shack in that swamp?"

The dozen or so villagers at the bar all traded befuddled looks with 
each other for several seconds.  Eventually one ventured, "Domestic 
bliss?"

"NO, you IDIOTS!" Feldgud blurted, slapping his forehead in 
exasperation.  "BABY OGRES!  At least with the lone ogre we were 
able to maintain a sense of equilibrium --"

Feldgud paused when he saw the dull blank faces staring back at him.

"Of BALANCE," he said.

Now the villagers all said, "Oh!" and nodded in comprehension.

Feldgud shook his head impatiently, then continued, "When it was 
just the male ogre, we were able to keep him in check with raids 
onto his territory --"

"What?" one of the villagers asked.  "You mean those times when we'd 
get drunk and stagger over there with torches and pitchforks and 
he'd chase us back out again?"

"Those were strategic withdrawals, and we weren't ALWAYS drunk!" 
Feldgud retorted.  "But the point is, it kept him from terrorizing 
our village any more than he already has!"

"But frankly, Ger," a villager said, "I don't recall him EVER coming 
over to our village and terrorizing us."

"On the other hand," another villager countered, "I DID hear from 
the cousin of a friend of a friend that his wife's brother's niece 
once saw a shadow at her window for a couple of seconds one night.  
It was probably a tree branch, although they thought it was a 
prowler, but I guess that maybe it MIGHT have been the ogre!"

"Really?" The first villager asked.

"Really, really," the second replied.

"Well, that's good enough for me!"

The villagers all raised a roar against the ogre.

"And look now!" Feldgud increased his intensity to match the 
increasingly boisterous crowd, "Now the beast has a MATE!  Who knows 
HOW many little oglets they'll be able to hatch at one time, or how 
quickly they'll mature?!  In no time at all Typical could be 
endangered not by just ONE such brute, but DOZENS!"

But then one of the villagers said, "Actually, I've heard that 
they're pretty much like us regarding the birth and aging of their 
offspring.  And also that, aside from the obvious physical and a few 
other benign differences, they're mostly like us in other ways as 
well. Maybe we could learn to live side-by-side with them in a 
celebration of tolerance and diversity!"

The villager who spoke looked around him for reactions, but all he 
could see were faces staring down at him with incredulous contempt.

"And you call yourself a Typical villager!" Feldgud spat with 
disgust.

The villager blushed and looked down into his beer.  "I'm so 
ashamed," he moaned.

"PEOPLE!" Feldgud called, his voice now booming, "Are we going to 
stand for this?  Having one ogre so close has been bad enough!  But 
NOW, NOW are we going to stand idly by and allow this -- this 
unsightly UNION of two of nature's MISTAKES to exist right at our 
DOORSTEP?  This is an AFFRONT, I tell you!  An AFFRONT to the 
traditions and sensibilities of our Typical community and our 
Typical mores and values!  If we tolerate this so-called marriage of 
abominations -- allow families of these hideous, ugly beasts free 
reign in our swamps and woods -- then what's next?  Fairies in our 
gardens?!  Gnomes in our yards?!  NO, I say!  We must nip this in 
the bud NOW!  So tell me ... ARE WE GOING TO STAND FOR THIS?!"

"NO!" one of the villagers shouted.

"NO!!" a loud chorus of villagers echoed enthusiastically.

"ARE WE GOING TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?!" Feldgud called.

"No," came a deep male voice from the tavern's doorway.

"NO!!" a loud chorus of villagers echoed enthusiastically.

"Whaaa --" Feldgud stammered, perturbed and deflated, as he turned 
toward the tavern doorway.  Standing there was a tall man of broad 
chest and muscular build and sporting a thick beard of some four 
inches depth, mostly black but streaked with gray, especially near 
the corners of his mouth.  He was dressed as commonly as the other 
villagers, with one important distinction; pinned to his shirt over 
his heart was a six-pointed tin star.

"It's that new sheriff!" the villager beside Feldgud said in a 
fretful whisper.

"Good deduction, Sherlock," Feldgud whispered back sarcastically.

The other villagers at the bar also turned and noticed the tall, 
dark, imposing figure astride the doorway, and each in turn fell 
quiet.  Soon the entire bar was cloaked in silence, except for an 
occasional cough and the tick-tock of the coo-coo clock on the wall.  
After a moment the clock's big hand moved up into the 12-position.  
The clock's little door opened and the small wooden coo-coo bird 
appeared in its doorway.  The bird was about to sound the hour, but 
noticing the scene before it thought better and went back inside the 
clock instead, shutting the little door behind it.

The sheriff stood still, but his dark eyes slowly traversed the 
room, taking everything in.  After a few more moments he began 
taking long, slow strides into the tavern and across its floor, his 
large black leather boots making loud clopping sounds with each step 
on the wooden floorboards.  He eventually stopped in the middle of 
the room, placed his hands on his hips, and again looked around at 
the many tense faces.  When he spoke it was with a deep, commanding 
voice, absent of emotion in itself, but capable of invoking fear and 
tepidity in those that heard it.

"There will be no vigilantism on my watch," he announced.  "No 
pitchforks.  No torches.  I've been hired to make sure that things 
stay quiet here.  They shall."

"But what about the ogres?!" Feldgud asked with surprising boldness.

The sheriff -- who had been speaking to no one in particular -- now 
focused a burning stare directly at Feldgud on his seat at the bar.  
The stare spanned several seconds -- during which the other 
villagers seated at the bar all slowly slid off their seats and 
timidly slunk off to the sides.

"What about them?" the sheriff retorted.  "The same goes for them as 
for you -- if they cause trouble, they will answer to ME.  Do you 
have a problem with that, Feldgud?"

Feldgud blushed.  He didn't recall being introduced to the sheriff 
before.  "H-how did you know my name?" he stammered.

"When I took this job I made it my business to familiarize myself 
with all known rabble-rousers and troublemakers.  Your file happened 
to appear under both categories."

"Why?" Feldgud asked with renewed bravado.  "Because I stand up 
against threats to the Typical way of life?"

There was a communal gasp from the tavern crowd, then all eyes 
turned to the sheriff in dread anticipation.  The sheriff just 
continued focusing his hawk-like stare at Feldgud for several 
moments, then a mirthless smile crept to the corner of his mouth.  
Oddly, it did not make him look any less foreboding; in fact, it 
seemed to have the opposite effect.  The sheriff then crossed his 
arms and asked Feldgud, "So ... have you heard either of these ogres 
actually issue a threat?"

"Their very PRESENCE is a threat!" Feldgud said.  "How can we be 
expected to live so close to such monsters and be able to go to 
sleep with both eyes shut at night?  Think of our children!"

"Oh?  And exactly how many children have been stolen away by these 
terrible 'monsters'?  Eh?"

Feldgud just stared back at the sheriff for a moment, then 
responded, "It's only because we are able to make them FEAR us with 
our raids that they don't DARE try anything so overt!"

"Fascinating logic, Feldgud," the sheriff mocked.  "But have you 
ever even CONSIDERED an alternative -- one of simple co-existence?  
A lot of the people in Duloc and Far Far Away, once they got to know 
these particular ogres, actually ended up thinking rather well of 
them."

"I don't CARE what the dunces in Duloc or the freaks out in Fa Fa 
Land think!" Feldgud spat.  "We are simple Typical villagers who 
have to actually LIVE day in and day out downwind of those stinking 
ogres and their detestable swamp --" suddenly Feldgud stopped, his 
eyes growing wider as if he had just had an epiphany.  "Hey, that's 
it, isn't it?" he asked.  "Far Far Away.  That's the connection! 
That's why the overlord appointed you sheriff -- to make sure that 
nothing happens to that frog king's precious ogress daughter!  Isn't 
it?  One noble doing his royal buddy a favor.  Who CARES how it 
affects the common villager?  You're not so much a sheriff as a 
royal bodyguard to a blue-blooded, green-skinned beast!  A literal 
toad's toady!  I'm surprised they trusted you, the way they say you 
screwed up your old job over in Nottingham --"

The sheriff, who had been slowly but visibly starting to fume during 
Feldgud's tirade, now strode forward toward him with a purpose.  The 
villagers in the tavern gasped in anticipation, and Feldgud's eyes 
shot wide open like a deer's in coachlights as the sheriff quickly 
closed the distance.  When he reached the sitting, quivering 
Feldgud, the sheriff grabbed the front of the villager's shirt and 
literally lifted him off the chair until they were staring eye-to-
eye.

"Listen, PUNK," the sheriff snarled.  "You seem to have more teeth 
than most of the people around here.  I suggest, if you want to KEEP 
it that way, that you never mention 'NOTTINGHAM' around me again!  
There were some misunderstandings there -- mistakes were made -- and 
yes, now I'm having to start over  in this backwater mudhole.  But 
if you think that means I've lost my edge, then you'd best think 
again!  In fact, it makes me that much hungrier, and I've already 
chewed up and spat out more fat gristle like you than I care to 
remember.  So you'd best never let me catch you looking in the 
direction of that swamp with so much as a lighted match or a salad 
fork in your hand, because if I do you WILL be going DIRECTLY to 
jail, you will NOT pass 'go', you will NOT collect two hundred 
dollars, I do NOT accept get-out-of-jail-free cards and I will NOT 
release you no matter HOW many times you roll doubles.  UNDERSTAND?"

Feldgud gawked at the sheriff a moment longer, then gave a quick nod 
and a little whimper.

The sheriff's snarl morphed into another horrible, humorless grin, 
and then he said, "Good.  I'm glad we had this little talk."  He 
then released Feldgud, and the villager flopped back down onto his 
seat.  All spirit of rebellion now evaporated, Feldgud sat cowering 
under the sheriff's steely glare. The sheriff grinned down at 
Feldgud for a few seconds more, then turned and strode slowly back 
towards the tavern door, the crowd as silent and his boots as loud 
as before.  The sheriff opened the door, then turned back around and 
looked across the faces of the tavern's occupants.  "You may carry 
on ... gentlemen," he said.  "Just don't get carried away."  He then 
exited the tavern, the door swinging shut behind him.

All eyes slowly slid from the now shut tavern door back to Feldgud.  
The man blushed brightly and quickly swung around in his seat so 
that he was facing the bartender.  "Give me a double Scotch!" 
Feldgud ordered, but then said,  "Blast, no, that reminds me of that 
rancid ogre's brogue.  Give me a Bourbon instead.  Wait -- no -- 
that reminds me of royalty.  Blast!  Just forget it!"

Feldgud was about to bolt from his chair and out the tavern door 
when a sedate voice beside him said quietly, "You know, there are 
other ways to take care of 'ogre problems.'  More ... discreet  
ways."

Feldgud turned to see that the seat beside him was now occupied by a 
thin, dark, goateed man dressed in crimson tights and matching 
woodsman's hat along with tall boots and a short cape.  In his right 
hand he was holding a knife with which he was attentively whittling 
a piece of wood that he held in his left hand into what was starting 
to resemble a small musician's pipe.

"Come again?" Feldgud asked.

The man gave a small jerk of his head toward a far corner of the 
tavern.  "Come," he said softly.  "Sit with me at my table.  We'll 
have more privacy for our ... transaction."

The man calmly got off his seat and headed toward the far corner.  
After hesitating a moment, Feldgud followed.  They eventually 
reached a relatively quiet both which featured a small table upon 
which sat a mug of partially consumed beer and a wooden plate which 
held a half-finished food dish.  The two took seats on opposite 
sides of the table.

"Just who ARE you?" Feldgud asked.

"A bit more quietly, please," the stranger asked, casting his eyes 
about them, not in a nervous way, but rather with meticulous 
thoroughness.

"All right," Feldgud said more quietly, "who are you?"

"I am a professional ... exterminator," the man in crimson said 
carefully, his voice low but easily understood by Feldgud.  "I 
specialize in rats, but I do offer to eradicate other ... inhuman 
pests ... for a fee."

The blood that had rushed to Feldgud's head when he blushed at the 
bar now all drained from it.  It had been one thing to talk of 
leading a haphazard gaggle of villagers in a wild rush through the 
ogre's swamp.  But to talk of 'extermination' so coldly ... Feldgud 
realized he was on the verge of entering a whole new league, a 
league he wasn't sure he was ready for or even WANTED to enter.  The 
bargain seemed somehow Faustian to him, an impression strengthened 
by the color of the man's outfit.  But to be rid of the ogres -- to 
finally be free of the monsters and remove the menace from this 
precious village -- wouldn't that serve the greater good, and wasn't 
that worth temporarily suspending those principles that were 
currently gnawing at his soul in protest of this proposition?  
Feldgud decided that yes, it was.  It was a sacrifice that he was 
willing to make.  It wasn't like they were talking about REAL 
PEOPLE, after all.

"So," the man in crimson said, seeming to sense Feldgud's inner 
decision, "I heard you say that you would like to get rid of this 
new ogress that inhabits the swamp?"

"Yes," Feldgud whispered.  "Well, both ogres, actually."

The 'exterminator' smiled crookedly.  "I do not think that you can 
afford both right now.  But I tell you what.  You pay me cash to get 
rid of the female first, since that was your stated preference.  
Once that is done, and you see if you like my work, then we can 
negotiate a payment plan for the male."

Feldgud licked his lips.  He had to make sure they were really 
speaking the same language, so he asked, "Exactly what do you mean 
... 'get rid of'?"

"I will arrange for her to suffer a tragic ... accident."

"But if they find her dead, they'll trace --" Feldgud began.

"SHHHHH!" the stranger quickly silenced Feldgud.  "Don't fear," the 
man said.  "When they find her ... IF they find her ... they will 
realize that she is but the poor victim of a terrible accident, just 
as I said."

"But the sheriff --"

"Won't be able to prove a thing."

Feldgud felt his heart pound.  He then had a terrible thought, 
looked over towards the tavern door where the sheriff had left, and 
then back to this stranger.  "This isn't a trap, is it?"

The man in crimson chuckled briefly.  "No, my friend, it is not.  It 
is business transaction.  Nothing more."

"But ... how do you plan to ... accomplish this?" Feldgud asked.  
"The female's not as big or strong as the male, is she's still 
pretty powerful.  Plus she's able to do this ... this ..." -- 
Feldgud waved his hands in the air in awkward karate chop-type 
motions as he tried to recall the term -- "... this Haiku thing ..."

"None of that matters," the man said dismissively.  "I will never 
get near her.  She will likely never even see me."

"Then how --"

The man in crimson stopped whittling on the little wooden pipe, laid 
down his knife, then brought the pipe to his lips and blew a few 
test notes, although not too loudly, his fingers nimbly working the 
holes.  Then he said, "Music hath charm not only to sooth the savage 
beast, but when wielded by someone with the proper knowledge and 
equipment, to bend it to one's will as well.  I shall be able to 
lead the ogress wherever I wish.  So tell me ... are there any 
particularly notorious local features -- high cliffs, dangerous 
rivers, et cetera -- near these ogres' swamp?  I know that quicksand 
pits are often common in such localities and would be useful to our 
purposes."

"No, no quicksand pits that I know of, but ..." Feldgud thought for 
moment, then his eyes brightened and he said, "There IS the Devil's 
Drainpipe!"

"'Devil's Drainpipe'?" the man repeated, intrigued.

"Yes," Feldgud said, "it's an almost bottomless pit that opened up 
some time ago along what's now an old abandoned road that runs along 
the base of a valley and over a cavern.  Nothing that falls in THERE 
has -- nor do I think could -- ever see the light of day again.  
Plus it's only a couple of miles from their swamp!"

"That sounds ideal," the man in crimson conceded.  "Now, I just need 
two things from you.  Meet me back here in one hour.  Bring me a map 
that lays out the landscape between the ogres' swamp and this 
'Devil's Drainpipe'.  Also, you may bring me my payment, a sum of 
..."  the man looked around them for a second, then leaned forward 
and whispered the amount in Feldgud's ear.

"That much!" Feldgud whispered back hoarsely.  "I can't afford 
that!"

"Then may I suggest that you DISCRETELY take up a collection amongst 
your ... followers," the man in crimson said, gesturing toward the 
villagers that had reassembled at the bar.  "And do not fear.  Once 
I receive payment, performance is guaranteed.  I do not go back on 
my word like a certain feline former associate of mine who succumbed 
to a misguided sense of honor.  Fortunately for you, I have no sense 
of honor whatsoever.  Just a sense for business."

"Very well," Feldgud said, rising from his seat.  "I shall return in 
an hour's time, Mr. ... Mr. ...?"

The man in crimson laid the little pipe down and picked his knife 
back up.  He calmly held it up in front of him, examining the sharp 
instrument for several seconds.  Eventually he said, "They call me 
... 'The Piper'."  With that, The Piper dramatically plunged the 
knife blade down into the item sitting on his wooden plate -- a 
piece of strawberry rhubarb pie.  He then carved off a bite-sized 
piece of the pie and shoveled it into his mouth, then began chewing 
it slowly ... very slowly ... one corner of his mouth smeared with 
some of the pie's blood-red filling.