Prisoner of the Molepeople

Chapter 52 - Trapped

As I chowed away on beefy goodness, I noticed the automatic doors of the ballroom swinging shut. From all around echoed the mechanical clatter of locks. Those who hadn't yet escaped tugged at the handles, but the doors wouldn't budge, inspiring another wave of hysteria.

Meanwhile Duthbert walked straight up to Grandma and swiped the radio out of her hand. “You won't be needing this anymore.” He then dropped the radio in a bowl full of red punch, where the device sizzled and crackled. With a beaming face, he turned around and hollered, “I know you're in here somewhere, Ann.”

Next came the voice of Lenny: “Come on, Ann, where are you?” He sounded so close, I peaked over the table to see him standing on the other side.

All this time, Lenny's army hadn't ceased to hurl cream-filled missiles at the security guards, now and then pegging an innocent bystander. Amazingly, the guards, due to the impracticality of shooting in the chaos, had also taken to fighting with food. Soon, whether from self defense or sheer fun, molepeople on every side (or no side) of the conflict were hurling food, filling the air and littering the floor with cream, crumbs, strawberries, marshmallows, meatballs, and chocolate fondue.

The bums, however, weren't fighting. They were stuffing their faces. I'm guessing Lenny had promised them such spoils of war for enlisting.

From another part of the ballroom came the voice of Bobbert: “Hurry up, Ann. We have a limosine waiting out front, and the driver charges by the minute.”

Behind me came the sound of shattering glass, and I turned around to face a string of light bulbs. One of them had exploded, showering the place with shards. Then another bulb exploded. Then all of them exploded. Throughout the ballroom, so many lights were exploding, it sounded like machine gun fire. Needless to say, there were even more screams from the panicking crowd.

“For the last time,” came Duthbert's amplified voice, “there's nothing to be afraid of. As you can see, the new power system hasn’t been fully tested yet. But that doesn't diminish from its awesomeness.”

As he spoke, a shower of sparks hit the table behind him, which was covered with wedding presents and tissue paper. The table erupted into flames.

“No.” Duthbert lowered his microphone, turning to face the blazing spectacle. “Not the presents …”

The fighting was getting even worse. In the heat of the chaos, people were losing their sense, attacking anyone and everyone. One of the bums picked up a punch bowl and drenched an old molewoman. A little molegirl was pulling roses out of a vase and ripping them apart. Bobbert had picked up a stack of china plates and was throwing them against the wall. The Old Sage from Beneath the Grave was stomping on the few wedding presents that hadn’t yet caught fire.

Is this where I belong?

As Gunhilda demolished the wedding cake with a fondue pot, she noticed her sister standing off in the background. Gunhilda extended the pot, but Brunhilda only turned her back.

“Come on,” Gunhilda insisted. “It’s fun.” With a final slam of her pot, the remnants of the cake toppled to the ground.

Brunhilda's eyes were sad. She looked at the floor. She looked at the ceiling. Then her heavy frown lightened. She reached into her purse and pulled out the golden bowl of Fliegenwasser. “You've brought me nothing but grief,” she said to the iron pyrite. Then, fixing her eyes on a pyramid of crystal glasses, she twisted her body like a discus thrower and hurled the bowl. The result was spectacular.

Humans are as insane as molepeople.

As I sat on the floor behind the refreshments table, silently taking all this in, I was horrified to see someone walk up beside me … polished shoes, velvet pants, silk cummerbund. I looked up to see the face of Duthbert, who was investigating the food. His shoulders were slumped. His bottom lip hanging out.