A bungle of poorly posed puns, allusions and alliterations, to humorously (hopefully) help halloo the Olman Revival in the Amedio Jungle. Viva la Fronds!

In Arcadia, St. Cuthbert and Murlynd were quietly discussing over a rather bland ambrosia repast why people are not wearing enough hats, when in a flurry of feathers Quetzalcoatl flew toward them from affront the golden sundisk, Ixnedraw. He announced in a deific intonation (to call it monotonous would be just too Tonto-ish), “We are having a barbeque in the Amedio. It is god friendly. Will you come? Bralm is bringing mead. It is better than Xuxe’s chicha.”

St. Cuthbert, regorging in his own way at the thought, said sardonically, “Chachi? O frabjous day.” Murlynd, betrayed by his red socks, not knowing his normally white alpaca poncho was pink, turned to St. Cuthbert, squinted against the smoke as he lit a cigarillo, and said in a hoarse, raffish whisper, “Adios, Dios,” then boldly mounted Ixnedraw, thinking its gold better than silver. “Unoerthly heathens!” St. Cuthbert called after them with a friendly wave, zealously and hypocritically proclaiming the obvious, as was his special way. While the outer plane drifters headed to Oerth at a deadly pace, Quetzalcoatl said to Murlynd, “Well, space cowboy, this shall be good, bad and ugly.”

In the velvet darkness of the blackest night, burning bright, a majestic sacrifice was made. The legendary leader, ‘Rantli, had received lycanthropy to become King of the Kanaima, awakening the catatonic cat-men of Hucannea. He had led them in alliance with Telaneteculi to conquer Chetanicatla, the once and future Olman Imperial capital. Together with Zotlatlan, the Everburning Flesh (a noted grill master and epicurean), he slew the Eye-God, Xuxeteanlahucuxolazapaminaco (pronounced … yeah, right) and offered the toothsome carcass to Huehueteotl (Oui!-Oui! to his friends), the Flaming Reptile. Upon that day, the Oerth stood still as the Alligator God warped time to host in the city a barbeque to mark his accession to lead the pantheon and put the fire in the belly of the Olman Revival.

With Murlynd and Quetzalcoatl, a potpourri of gods had joined the party. To the worldly Murlynd, the undulating ground of the crop circle city called to mind Sogo on the Magmous, and he considered changing into clothes more comfortable. Hurakan’s obsidian studded forehead reflected the fires of the Flaming Reptile, forcing all to shake it, just a little, to the drums of jungle boogie. At the center of it all Huehueteotl was accompanied by Spook Dog, Mic; Jaguar, Tez; and Camazotz, all indefatigable with footwork impeccable as they gathered around the round barbakoa, upon which slowly roasted the Prime Prattling Masticator. While poking the meat to check for doneness, to the feigned delight of all, the Flaming Reptile proclaimed, “Yo-ho, I am a buccaneer!” Then, with his distinctive disposition for déjà vu, which can really drive you insane, he doted, “I remember when it was done. Eating Xuxe was so much fun.”

Sanctuary

About Murlynd and Quetzalcoatl, the gods had mingled rotary. But as the food was served, they assembled coterie. With Hurakan, Osprem piningly opined of her prodigal offspring, while Xerbo in tow bemoaned the status quo, what with shipping insurance premiums going up more than semiannually. Procan, licking salt from his hand before quaffing a drink from Xamaclan, mocked menacingly, “Need any help?” Elsewhere, Bralm and Chalchiuhtlicue bugged Llerg about spending too much time with Tlazolteotl (who was then giving him a lap dance), insisting he retire to the Thillonrian peninsula with a nice girl.

Murlynd and Quetzalcoatl settled in for the rest of the party with Itzamna, just in case, who asked the Pink Paladin, “Will you seek out the D’kana for their aid, to help control this Revival any which way you can?” Murlynd though about it as he made small talk with Quetzalcoatl over their meal, “I thank you for dinner. This game that you animals play is a winner. This tastes like sushi, especially with this horseradish.” Quetzalcoatl, who had been considering his molting problem replied, “Que? More wasabi?” To this, Murlynd could only ponder to himself about these strange Olman gods. They were lost in time, and lost in space and meaning.