Chapter 31: Where editorgirl Went

The night before Jeph's funeral, the Fobsters met at editorgirl's house to discuss their plan of action.

"Let's kill everyone who might know," said Th. lazily from the couch.

"Is that your answer to everything?" asked editorgirl. "Have another brownie."

"Pretty much," said Th. to the first, and "Thanks," to the second. He chewed noisily.

"We need to start by figuring out how we're going to handle the funeral," said the Queen. "Who was Jeph closest to?"

The Fobs, as one, pointed to Master Fob.

"What?" said Master Fob. "I barely knew him. Talk to Melyngoch, they were pretty friendly."

Melyngoch pursed her lips. "I'd rather not discuss that."

"Look, funerals aren't that difficult to figure out," said Edgy from his perch on the couch where he sat with his arms wrapped around his long legs. "Someone dishes up a pot of funeral potatoes,
someone does decorations, someone says some nice things, someone cries."

"Or in Jeph's case, someone laughs," mused Th. musingly.

"Ooh, I call funeral potatoes," cried the Queen.

"Decorations," grunted Melyngoch femininely.

"I guess I could say some nice things," said Master Fob hesitantly. "I am a master of fiction, after all."

"Among other things," mumbled Melyngoch slyly.

"That just leaves crying, and brother, if you think I'm going to cry - " started the Marchioness.

"Is it only me, or does anyone else remember that the only reason we're staging this funeral for Jeph is because we're attempting to hide the great secret of the 'your mom' joke?" editorgirl's voice was calm and clear above the babbling.

"Oh, yeah," said Th. "We kind of got carried away, there."

The Fobs looked penitently at editorgirl. she cleared her throat. "There's still something we need to talk about that we haven't mentioned yet," she said.

"Do we have to?" asked Master Fob.

"I know it's unpleasant," said editorgirl. "But we can't shy away from it any longer. Don't you remember what the one-eyed gypsy woman said?"

"So well," sighed Edgy. "'Wal-Mart will be the harbinger of a new evolutionary age. Buy lots of stock early.'"

"Not that one." editorgirl rolled her eyes.

"'The one that suggested I start a belly-dancing emporium in Hoboken, New Jersy?" asked Th.

"Was that one technically one-eyed?" asked the Queen. "I thought she was just caught in a long wink."

"I believe that the one-eyed gypsy woman that editorgirl is referring to is the one that told us that Master Fob would become a raging, homocidal maniac should the secret ever be revealed." Petra spoke in her usual incisive way. The Fobs said, "Oh, yeah," as one.

"So, the way I see it, we have two choices," said editorgirl. "We can kill Master Fob -"

"I vote kill," said Th. helpfully.

"-or, we can bury the evidence of the secret back in the Tibetan mountains," continued editorgirl. "That way, we'll know it's safe."

"But we'll still know the secret," said the Queen.

"I won't tell," said editorgirl.

"Nor I," said Melyngoch.

"Not me," said the Marchioness.

"I was kinda planning on blogging about it," said Edgy. The Fobs stared at him, and he shrugged. "Mum's the word."

"I'll only tell the King and our seventy children," said the Queen. "But it stops there."

"There's no logical reason to tell," said Petra stoutly.

"Are you sure we can't kill Master Fob?" asked Th.

"How do you spell 'bereaved?'" asked Master Fob, his pencil poised over the notebook where he was jotting down Jeph's eulogy.

"The point is, one of us is going to have to go back to the mountains and bury all the evidence. One of us is going to have to miss Jeph's funeral tomorrow."

"Me!" All the Fob's hands shot into the air.

"Now, that's no good." editorgirl tucked her pencil behind her ear. "Let's talk this out."

"Well, it should be someone who understands poetry," said Melyngoch. "Remember how we had to answer that poetic riddle in order to make it through that snowy mountain pass? I bet there will be one just as difficult on the way back."

"So clever, to use a rhyming sestet of dactyllic stress," murmured the Marchioness. "I imagine the way back will be something hideously hard like...limericks, or...prose poetry..."

"Whoever goes should be able to stomach large quantities of rice pudding," said Petra from the corner, where she sat hunched over her laptop, the Google screen shining backwards on her face. "According to Google, there's been a rise in activity among the rice-pudding-loving people of the Alps. Our intrepid explorer could very well be forced into a tribal competition of some sort, much like we were when we travelled to Milan."

"And yet, he or she needs to be charming enough to talk to the reclusive monks in the hills," pointed out the Queen. "Remember that jolly round man who was so excited about John Cusak? We need to be able to meet these people on their own terms."

"And proficiency in making brownies is key," said Th. "Remember how we repelled those randy mountain goats with panfuls of brownies?"

Th. reached for another brownie and stopped, his hand in midair. Slowly, the other Fobs focused their gazes on editorgirl.

"Oh, very well," said editorgirl when she saw where they were looking. "I'm always cleaning up after you guys, anyway. But if Master Fob goes crazy and destroys the world, at least everyone will know it's not my fault."

"I still say we kill him," said Th. sulkily, picking up a brownie.