2.1

My home base is a little ways down Fiat Street, in the second story of a brownstone whose ground floor contains a ritual-sacrifice-themed luau restaurant named Piggy Longstocking's. I attempt to usher Mouse up the stairs to my office / living situation, but he seems enamored with the décor he spies peeking through the front window of Piggy's.

“Yes, Piggy Longstocking's is a singular establishment,” I declare. “The way Piggy's works is, ya come in, and there's mood lightin' and some slow broodin' horror movie soundtrack playin' low in the background. The hostess who greets ya is covered head to toe in a black robe with a hood that obscures some but not all of her face. She is young and she is beautiful and she gazes upon all who enter her lair with scorn. I have made a point of datin' each and every hostess that Piggy Longstocking's hires. They have excellent taste, the management at Piggy's.”

“Those hostesses also have excellent taste,” Chester interjects. “As soon as they get a mouthful of Mujo, they spit him right back out.”

“Ya give the hostess yer reservation, and she points ya to yer altar,” I continue. “There is no menu. There is only pig. The pig is advertised as long, but in truth, the pig is short. It roasts upon a rotatin' spit above a stone fire pit in the center of yer altar. You can bring yer own robes from home or rent the robes provided by the restaurant. Whether you're a practicin' denomination of some diabolical secret order or simply a group of theater kids celebratin' openin' night of the high school musical, you and yer people can chant, drink, carve up yer pig, and have yerselves a proper evenin' 'bout it. It's great, but a touch expensive, so ya gotta do it with a group. Piggy's is a huge hit with the tourists,” I conclude, guiding him gently up the stairs before he can inquire about a reservation.

Mujo Morell: Cosmic Detective is written in gold and magenta paint on the smoked glass of my door. Beneath my name and title are the words 'Metaphysical Investigations, Private and Otherwise'. Below that, I've composed a list of my services, to brush away some of the mystery clouding the enigmatic yet evocative phrase: 'Cosmic Detective.'

My services include (but are not limited to):

Soul Retrieval

Hex Removal

Sigil Crafting

Egregore Extraction

Oracular Performance Art

Servitor Obedience Training

Chiromantic Massage

Cryptid Identification

and

Extraterrestrial Diplomacy

“I painted it myself. The landlord complained, of course. But nobody in this town ever gets their security deposit back, so what does he expect?” I say, unlocking the door.

Having already started my morning with a healthy breakfast of extraterrestrial diplomacy, I wonder which, if any, of the other items on my menu this 6 AM client of mine is interested in sampling. Unfortunately, my secretary – who is really just me, in the past – has failed to jot down any helpful information regarding said appointment. All that's written on the day planner on my desk regarding Friday, July the 10th, 6 AM are three cryptic letters, separated by a period: 'Mr. E'.

Mr. E. I read those three letters again and again, but if I've hidden any secrets within those crisp graphite lines, I've hidden them well. Mr. E. E is for... Ecstasy? Eldritch? Echols?

“It's been another busy week in Hashton,” I announce to my guests. “But that's just how I like it. I need a couple big jobs a month to keep the lights on, and then a handful of smaller ones to keep life interestin'. And believe you me, there's always work for a Cosmic Detective in this town. There's been a sea monster sightin' over in Beetlerudd's Lagoon. A chthonic cenote opened up beneath a playground swingset in North Hashton. And there's an inauspicious storm cloud hangin' over the unicycle repair shop 'cross the street, and whatever's comin' out of it, it sure ain't rain,” I say, peeking through the blanket hanging over my window. “Though with all this high strangeness afoot, I must confess I do not remember the circumstances of my upcomin' appointment. What time is it now?”

“5:50,” says Chester, gazing at the blank patch of wrist where he does not wear a watch. “Ten minutes until your mystery meeting, and that's provided the sap doesn't show up early. I'm disappointed in you, Mujo. What happened to the 'outrageously high levels of neurological functionality' you so frequently claim to possess?”

“You make a lotta claims 'bout my exclamations,” I counter. But it's a valid question. How did I manage to muck this up? Perhaps it was something as simple as a brief phone call slipping into the midst of an otherwise rambunctious day (of which there have been quite a few this summer). Normally, I would have had any number of questions for a new client, particularly a new client insistent upon this most noxious of early morning hours. But perhaps the sustained pressures of an overstuffed schedule have dulled my usual attention to detail. “That must be it,” I say, holding the stem of my pipe to my lips.

I take a small puff of wisdom wisps. They taste like lemon drops, but as soon as the wisps hit my lips, I abort my inhalation. Yes, my anxious gut brain demands a sedative to soothe its rumblings, and baby, I empathize. But I cannot afford to garble my first impression with my mystery client. Already, what little wisdom I did take in is mingling with the marshmallows in my system, the two of them emphasizing each other as they accentuate the room around me, zealously over-saturating colors and heightening contrast with wanton abandon. I attempt to ground myself, only to be confounded by the sudden and unexpected buoyancy of my office floor. What should have been solid structural integrity gives way to the pitch and yaw of the deck of a pirate ship on a turbulent sea. Well, I cannot deny my present circumstances. The only sensible option is to go with the flow. Luckily, I keep a pirate Cap'n's tricorn hat on hand for just such occasions.

Mouse is looking at me expectantly. Those big puppy dog eyes of his are downright irresistible, and I promptly hand over the bowl and the lighter. “Whoa,” he says.

“Now Mouse, the first thing ya need to know about Hashton is that this lovely smuggler's cove of ours was founded by two competin' teams of scurvy pirates. Those dashin' renegades set the tone of this city three centuries ago, and it's been capers, schemes, and rum bottle democracy ever since. Dare I deviate from such hallowed traditions? No, I dare not. Embrace our local customs, friend Mouse, and together we shall fly high the freak flag. So without further ado, let me welcome ya to me Pirate Ship, me matey. Let the guided tour commence!” I announce, presenting the room to him with a 360 degree sweep of my arm. “Thar's me meditation nook, in the starboard corner behind the door. Grok the cozy cushions and the comfortin' tapestries. Grand place to ride out a transoceanic voyage and/or de-harsh a mellow.”

“Marshmallow,” says Mouse.

“Arr, matey. I don't think I'm ready to give ye one of those quite yet. Now, in the rear of the meditation nook you'll find me non-denominational altar, where I keep a little rogue's gallery I like to call 'Trickster Alley'. Now why do we celebrate tricksters? To make sure they know that we're always keepin' an eye on them, of course!” I declare, glancing over in Chester's direction only to find that (to my great relief) the phantom has vanished. “Let's see... we got Heffish the Lighter Bandit over here and Hummel the Bong Dropper over there. Feast yer eyes upon Pixix, the Imp of Imperfect Timin', often accompanied by Blubberin' Blutl, the famous spiller of all those secrets best kept stashed. From the Isle of Sunwen comes Mapparap Ran Di, a.k.a. She Who Makes Grown Men Stare At Bosoms. From Borealand hails Skuarthag, the Troll of Alpine Overconfidence, scourge of all they who imagine themselves capable of survivin' in the wilderness. Out of the jungles of Tututerrelembi stumbles Ma Frumpett, the Witch of Injured Genitals. And slippin' down from the snowy slopes of Kugelwenst slides the Limbless Noktaulder, singin' it's serpent song of deaths unlikely and nightmares impossible. Last but not least, this here jovial fellow with the corncob pipe be the one and only Bob Dobbs. Yonder framed photograph of farmer and goat, thar be me parents. And the glossy 8”x10” of young ragamuffin and animatronic snake, thar be a snapshot from me glory days. Now, wander aft, and we come to me creation station, featurin' an easel and acrylic paints for the craftin' of our Jolly Rogers, and a guitar and solid state amplifier for the composin' of our sea shanties. And here in the middle, this desk be me helm, and this be where I get the serious work done.”

“Spurious quirk fun,” says Mouse.

“Aye, the most serious,” I confirm. “Fortunes be made and then lost upon this flat wooden surface! Hearts be won and then broken and then healed in the briny waters of forgiveness! Tragedies be averted and/or poignantly observed from a safe and comfortable distance! This be the place where matters of life and death become me daily itinerary. This helm be me chessboard, matey, and when I sit at me desk, all of Hashton becomes me pawns.”

“We done like gods?” he asks.

“Do not accuse me of megalomania, me matey,” I reply. “I may have the power to decide the fate of this gentle city, but I would never go to such despicable lengths as to claim it. Arr, this be no press gang, and I be no rear admiral. I be a pirate cap'n in a pirate sea, and it be me solemn duty – nay, me exuberant responsibility to ensure that all me fellow pirate cap'ns find their pirate ships and set sail for yonder free horizon.”

“Feet arising,” Mouse says, his eyes aglow with mythopoeic awe.

“Consider this the segue with which I acquaint ye with me Cap'n's chair,” I say, continuing the tour. My Cap'n's chair is a cradle of netting filled with pillows – some cute, some sexy – and hammock-slung between two wooden bars. The whole pendular contraption dangles from a hook on the ceiling, and if I make too abrupt of a movement when I'm getting into or out of it, it will start to rotate. “And up thar in the southeastern corner be me private cabin.” More netting and more pillows, strung up by the ceiling. Beneath my net bed, there's a rice paper screen, which I pull aside to reveal a pile of dirty laundry next to an almost identical pile of clean laundry. Above my laundry, there's the dangling rope ladder I use to get up to my net bed, and also a small trampoline for when I'm in the mood for a more gymnastic ascent. “I'm workin' on me levitation game in the hopes of one day retirin' both ladder and trampoline, but for now Lady Gravity still keeps me in her thrall. Arr, she be a cruel mistress,” I note. “Now if ye don't mind, me matey, I need a quick moment to meself in the head.”