Acquiring the Proper Wiggly Ingredients

[Wyvern]

In a dark dark hideout in a dark dark wood, through a dark dark hallway past a dark dark hood, there’s a dark dark doorway with a dark dark lock… well, a dark dark Almost Dragonic Brand Geld Token Combination Lock™ to be exact, which is only dark because of various malfunctions that prevent it from being shiny. Anyway, beyond the kinda dark lock is a fairly well-lit kitchen, which is brimming with all sorts of dark dark lowlifes… the central of which is a certain overgrown lizard sporting a dark (dark) red apron and a chef hat that doubles as an eye bandana. Wyvern raps a copper soup ladle down on the corner of a kitchen counter, louder and louder until he's got the noisy crowd’s attention.

 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen… thisss meeting of the Almost Dragonic Insatiable Instabaker Gang will now come to order!” Wyvern tucks his soup ladle into the front of his apron and presses his claws together with an evil grin as a number of thuggish faces turn in his direction. “Firsssst of all, let me jussst welcome you all and say that it’sss a pleasure to see so many familiar facesss here! It’d be unfair to start naming names sssince there are many culinary criminalsss who’ve made this organization possible, but ever since the Instabaker Gang’s inception as a countermeasure to the Special Chef Operations Outfit, there’ve been a few lowlifes who have acted as the proverbial gravel in the Instabaker Gang’s giant mudpie.”

 

Wyvern adjusts his chef hat mask with a grin and turns in the direction of a troll the size of a giant icebox, who sports wooden pastry tray armor and wears earings and necklaces that have burnt gingerbread cookies dangling from them.

 

“Ruggabelch the Bassstard Baker.” Wyvern gestures towards the large troll in an amiable manner, watching him pat his giant rolling pin club in one hand. “Known across countrysidesss far and wide for burning down countless bakeries, all in pursuit of the perfect cookie. The brawn behind our organization’s many dastardly cooking utensils.”

 

Wyvern nods and rubs his claws together, then turns to the rest of the crowd until he spots a plump orc dressed like an Italian Mafioso. Two large teeth jut from the orc’s lower jaw like miniature tusks, and bottles of mustard and mayo stick out from the pockets of his finely tailored black suit.

 

“Orkoin Apigadercci a.k.a ‘Condiment Orko.’ The Inssstabaker Gang’s #1 man for all thing’sss condiment related.” Wyvern sneers and waves to the orc, who responds by flashing open his suit and revealing the rows upon rows of condiments lined within. He lets out a haughty snort of a laugh as Wyvern continues, feigning bashfulness. “Regarded as the ‘Condiment King’ in the upper-echelonsss of the orcish mob, he’s supplied condiments to over 600 of the mob’s pickiest eaters. He’s alssso one of the main sources of income for the Instabaker Gang, which is great since you know that *I* ain’t invesssting any money in it!”

 

Wyvern winks to Orkoin, who continues to snort his haughty little laugh over the lizard’s semi-joke. Wyvern then turns and wanders over to a little candy table set up in a corner of the room, which has a sweet pink flowery tablecloth covering it and an even sweeter-looking little old lady in a bonnet working at it. Wyvern raises his claws to the little old lady with a grin.

 

“And who could forget our dear old Nanny McPhiend! I hope I’m not interrupting you here, Nanny?”

 

“Oh nooo nooo deary, not at all.” The little old lady speaks in a very soft and gentle voice, hobbling sweetly over to her confections with the warmest of smiles. “These deadly poison grum drops will be done in only a moment, they’re just fresh out the oven now.”

 

“Oh, well don’t they look good enough to eat.” Wyvern grins as Nanny McFiend slowly goes back to work, and turns to the rest of the Gang with a pleased look. “In case anyone hasssn’t heard of our dessert specialist Nanny McPhiend, she’s the sweetest witch this side of Gretchen and the finessst candy-making villain you’re likely to meet. The kidnapped children she keepsss locked in her basement also ssserve as the Instabaker Gang’sss cleaning crew.”

 

Wyvern pats Nanny McPhiend on the back, then moves through the crowd greeting people in turn until he reaches a small podium facing the assembly of culinary scumbags. He pulls out his soup ladle and raises it to the sky in a salute, then coughs and clears his throat of a few ashes.

 

“Now then, onto matterssss of business. First of all, I am pleasssed to say that we have chosen the main ingredient for the meal that we’ll be preparing for the Mighty Pen’s cooking contest.”

 

Wyvern reaches up and pulls down a diagram with a messy circular sketch on it, pointing out the various cutlets of the figure with the tip of his soup ladle.

 

“His name is Chiroq.” Wyvern traces a circle around the wiggly cabbage diagram with the edge of his soup ladle, smiling sinisterly. “And he’s our main course.”

[Wyvern]

Plan A: Door-to-Door Sabotage

 

Wyvern clears his throat of a few ashes and carefully adjusts the spotted bow tie clipped to his suit collar, setting his crimson briefcase down on the ground next to Patham’s doorstep and adjusting his wings uncomfortably under the itchy fabric of his suit. The overgrown lizard stands in silence for a few minutes, checking the time ever so often by glancing over at a clock in the corner of the hallway, and staying put until the minute hand ticks over to the scheduled hour to commence Operation “Prices so Good They’ll Provoke a Kidnapping.” Wyvern lifts a claw and knocks on Patham’s door three times, accidentally scooting the pennite’s welcome matt to the side with a swap of his tail. He glances once more quickly at the clock on the wall before Patham’s hoots alert him of his approaching presence. The door creaks open an inch, still locked by a chain from the inside as Patham peeks his head through the crack.

 

“Oh, hi there Wyv. What can I do for you?”

 

“Hiya Patham.” Wyvern flashes a little claw salute and strikes a toothy grin. “I was wondering if I could speak to the wiggly cabbage of the houssssehold, actually. Ssssee, I have these Almost Dragonic Brand Wiggly Cabbage Proof Kidnapping Nets™ that I’m selling wholesssale, and I was wondering if-”

 

The door shuts before Wyvern even has a chance to continue...

 

 

 

Plan B: The Condiment Orkestra

 

Condiment Orko scratches his noggin and pulls a map of the Pen’s tower quarters from the tip of one of his jutting teeth, examining it left, right, sideways and upsidedown before finally grunting and tilting his head twice to the left. A gang of twenty some goblin bodyguards scrambles over to the door that Orko is signaling to, their dark black suits and tin-can walkie talkies hardly hiding the fact that they measure at about half of Orko’s size in height… which is small even by goblin standards, considering that Orko is short for a pudgy orc. Orko smiles a gloating spoiled grin and tucks his hands behind his back, slowly wandering up to the door as the goblins rap on it loudly and holler:

 

“Pen resident Patham! Come out now, the Condiment wants a word with ya! No funnybusiness!”

 

The goblins continue knocking very loudly on all angles of the door until Patham opens it a crack again, causing half of said goblins to topple over and perform protective bodyguard rolls. Patham glances around until his eyes meet the pampered orcish ringleader of the group, who he stares at uncertainly.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

“Orkoin Apigadercci.” The plump orc extends a hand, which Patham hesitantly shakes. “You must be the one they call Patham. I hate to bother you at this hour, but me and my associates here are on a routine inspection of household condiments. Strictly business. Real brief. I was wondering if we could come in for a quick look? Will only take a minute, really.”

 

Before Patham has a chance to respond, one of the mini-goblins shoves himself forward and unhooks the chain lock, letting the strange gang push their way on through and leaving the head of the household looking rather annoyed.

 

“A nice pad you got here Patham, though a welcome matt woulda been nice.” Orkoin ignores Patham’s glum expression and proceeds to set about inspecting the pennite’s quarters, taking his leisure time and pausing as he notices a tall white jar on an oaken counter. He plucks the jar from its location and inspects it curiously, sniffing at it and licking his lips. “Is this…?”

 

“Natural smelling salts for rodents.” Patham sighs as he shoves the displaced welcome matt back in front of his door. “They pass the inspection, don’t they?”

 

“Oh yes, errr...” Condiment Orko clears his throat a little and tucks the white jar into the back pocket of his suit. “Of course I’ll uhhh, need to take it back to headquarters for a closer inspection. C’mon goons, let’s go.”

 

The goblin bodyguards file out along with Condiment Orko, who takes Patham’s favorite jar of smelling salts with him but completely forgets about Chiroq and his original mission objective…

 

 

Plan C: Brute Force

 

Ruggabelch the Bastard Baker grunts to himself as he lumbers over to Patham’s welcome matt, his large troll hands and bib armor still white with baking powder. The angered twist of his lips relays the annoyance of having to ditch the latest batch of troll muffins for a common ingredients operation, and the breaths from his nostrils are loud enough to hear down the tower stairway. The Bastard Baker lifts his massive rolling pin to knock on Patham’s door, only to smash the entire entrance of the pennite’s quarters in at the first knock. He ignores the shocked expression on Patham’s face as he stomps into his quarters, splintering the demolished door under his feet and searching left and right for anything with leaves that’s small and circular. After successfully managing to knock over half of Patham’s furniture and creating a large troll size dent in the arch of the pennite’s hallway, Ruggabelch arrives at the guest greenhouse quarters where Chiroq rests. He squeezes his way into the room and grabs the famed wiggly cabbage, stuffing it into his rucksack as the cabbage’s psychic protests are lost on the baker’s tiny brain. Ruggabelch marches off with a satisfied grunt, leaving Patham to stare slack-jawed at his wiggling rucksack of kidnapped goods… He forms another dent in the owl’s entryway upon exiting.

 

Mission: accomplished.