Inheritance and Polymorphism

Originally posted on Tales of the Parodyverse.

Characters in this story are owned either by myself, or other posters on
the Board.

I thought I was an orphan. My mother died when I was very young, and my family never talked about my father beyond the implication that there was something not quite right about him. They spoke as if he was dead, and so I thought he was.

I don't like to think of my childhood much. Being the orphan, I was at the far end of the pecking order. My cousins were forever putting me down, and the situation was made worse at school - an orphan is always the outsider.

Eventually, I left home, and struggled to find what little destiny I could on my own. I despaired of finding any sort of meaning to my life. I didn't expect to have it sent to me by UPS.

It arrived, like a bolt from the blue.

As a matter of fact, it was blue - a glowing, vibrant electric blue - and it lay folded in the bottom of the box. On top of it was a journal. Between them, the two objects were to change my life.

According to the covering letter, my father - my real, living father - had recently died in a fire at a night club in Paradopolis. The Organisation he had created had been destroyed by the various legal claims around the fire (apparently, he was held responsible on the legal grounds of corpus non oro and actio personalis monitur cum persona), but I had been left the - apparently indestructible - blue suit and gauntlets that he had been wearing at the time. I had also been left his journal.

The Diary of Desmond Djinn.

I spent the next few weeks reading the journal.

I have heard people say that you never really know your parents. Well, my family had made sure that I never knew my father, and I could see why. He had been a driven man, obsessed with destroying magical creatures after one of them had destroyed his father.

I didn't think he was crazy, though. Some of the creatures he had faced were really bad. You would think that the fairies would be OK, but ... Well, I've seen Troll.

The journal was fascinating reading. He had listed targets, how to take them down, future plans. Such a lot of plans. And so many regrets. The creatures that he was unable to face.

I decided that his death should not be in vain. I am his son, and I will take on a new name to carry on his legacy.

Let the magical world face the vengeance of ... Demrak Djinn

One thing my father was very clear on was that an operation has to be researched. You have to know your target and how you are going to take it out. His notes are full of details and tactics on all sorts of targets.

And they are so much easier when you wear armour made from the skin if a djinn, a skin that forms a magical dead field, dispelling mystical energies, rendering the magical creatures powerless.

For my first target, I have decided to destroy the one creature that he was never able to attack, despite his copious research on the subject. It will be a fitting tribute to his work as well as an auspicious start to my own career.

I am going to destroy a Shoggoth.

The mistake my father made was that he thought in terms of a direct assault on the weak points of the creature in question, and refused to use magic. Iron for the Fay, stakes and poppy seeds for the vampire and so on. In mundane terms, the Shoggoth has no weaknesses. In arcane terms, it has one. Elder Symbols. My father even sketched one, but noted that he couldn't draw a proper one.

I will enrage the creature by slaying its High Priestess, and when it attacks me in a blind rage, I will trap it within an Elder Symbol.

And according to my father's notes, the High Priestess can be found in Soho, London, England.

The life of a Customs Officer of Her Majesties Customs and Excise is not one that is particularly full of excitement. You stand, watching the Green Channel waiting for an idiot to try to furtively smuggle something. Always the idiots - the professionals know how to get away with it. Spot, trap and confiscate.

The real idiots were the ones they occasionally caught smuggling chocolate from Switzerland.

Each country has its speciality idiots, and in the batch disembarked from the latest flight from Paradopolis was surely a specimen to warm the heart of even the coldest Customs Agent.

He was dressed in what the Officer assumed was supposed to be a form-fitting two-piece with matching gauntlets and a hood that totally covered the read like a helmet. The ensemble would have been quite impressive if the person inside it had been a few sizes larger. As it was, the impression was very much of a pint in a quart pot. The lack of girth also meant that the trousers of the suit were being held up with a belt, and - due to the absence of anything to loop the belt through - were slowly working loose.

The effect was further ruined by a cheap suitcase being dragged behind the figure, clearly not under the control of anyone or anything other than chaos.

In England, superheroes were usually good for a laugh. In this case, laughter would be kicking the man when he was down.

"Name?"

"Demrak Djinn."

"Passport?"

The passport was duly handed over.

"Not what it says here, sonny."

"Ah. That's my secret identity."

How the hell did Immigration let this one through? More to the point, how did the theory of natural selection let this one through.

"OK. Open it up."

After a brief struggle, the case was placed on the counter and opened. The contents of the case could be categorised in the following terms:

• A large, bound journal.


• A sword that had been wrapped in the travellers clothes to protect it in lieu of a scabbard.


• A large number of rags that had been wrapped around the sword.


• The remains of an obviously hand-made wooden bow, which had obviously not flexed as well as the case.


• A number of equally hand-made arrows that had perforated those items that had not been shredded by the sword.

"You are aware that it is illegal to carry concealed weapons in this country, sir?"

"..."

"Step this way please, sir."

The remainder of the search was ... not pleasant.

At length, Demrak Djinn escaped the clutches of HM Customs and Excise, although they did confiscate his suitcase. They were kind enough to direct him to Soho (an easier journey than he had thought), and he eventually managed to find a hotel for the night. Judging from the queue outside it was a popular hotel, but he had great difficulty explaining to the clerk at the front desk that he only needed a room for the night. The clerk seemed to have difficulty understanding the concept. The hotel employed a lot of maids as well. They seemed to be equally confused about their jobs. Most of them didn't even have decent uniforms.

Next time he was in London, he was definitely not going to stay in Kings Cross.

According to his fathers journal, his first port of call was someone called Rev James Harlsden, who had initially been listed as having been involved in the summoning of Elder Creatures - although a later note indicated that he seemed to be guilty of nothing more than being seen with someone resembling the High Priestess.

The next morning he rose bright and early, and spent much of the day trying to replenish his weapons. The best he eventually managed was a broom handle, a Stanley knife and a mallet from a hardware store. After much whittling (and a couple of sticking plasters), he managed to make himself a couple of stakes.

This took him until the evening. Desiring to put off going to his hotel for as long as possible, he went off in search of this Rev Harlsden.

After an extended hike looking at all the churches he could find (and there are a lot in central London), he finally found a small church tucked round a corner in Seven Dials. The notice board outside was fairly simple, and proclaimed:

The Church of St Eustachius, Seven Dials
Church of England

Vicar: The Rev. J. Harlsden

Below this, it listed a set of "Daily Offices" and "Sunday Offices". Why such a small church needed so many offices (and, more to the point, how they fitted them in the building) was a little beyond him.

Still, the lights were on and the door was unlocked, so he went in.

The church was laid out in a rough cross shape. The bottom length of the cross was taken up with rows of wooden benches with a corridor down the middle. The top length of the cross was much narrower, and had two rows of the same benches, running parallel to the walls. Beyond the benches was a rather large structure emblazoned with crosses.

Part way down the corridor, someone was sweeping the stone floor. Demrak initially took him for one of the caretakers, when the person looked up and smiled. He was about six feet tall, had greying hair, and was wearing a grey suit with one of those strange white collars. Evidently, he was the vicar.

The vicar leaned his broom against one of the benches and started to make his way towards the entrance. As he passed under the middle part of the cross (where the ceiling rose abruptly), something detached itself from the rafters and swooped towards the figure.

Demrak wasted no time. He drew one of the stakes from his belt (causing a few splinters and dislodging the others) and with a scream, ran towards the creature.

Taking everything in to account, it was a good charge. The bloodthirsty yell was very well done and the weapon was in almost the best place for a stab. Alas, the charge also caused the other loosened stakes to fall out of the belt, and thus loosened, the trousers worked free of the belt.

Charging with trousers round one's ankles is seldom a good idea. Demrak tripped over, and nearly speared the vicar. Fortuitously, the creature somehow got in the way, and immediately exploded in a shower of dust.

"Vampire." spat Demrack, once he managed to stand up, pull up his trousers and regain his composure. "Easily sorted. Are you OK."

It turned out that the vicar was indeed OK. He took Demrak into his office - a very small room at the bottom end of the church (obviously they fitted all the offices in by making them very small), and turned out to be very helpful in the area of High Priestesses. Apparently the High Priestess in question was called Ebony, and could usually be found around lunch time in one of the many Soho cafes.

As Demrak turned to leave, the Vicar handed him a small, coiled object.

"What're these?"

"Rainbow Braces." replied the Vicar. "Invaluable for Children's Addresses, although I suspect that your need is greater than mine."

Demrak thanked him, and after a few moments training, managed to master the art of attaching braces to trousers. He left the church with the trousers staying up, but with the waistband now flopping around at waist level, giving the effect of a slightly anorexic clown.

The Reverend James Harlsden walked back to the middle of the church. As he did so, another figure fluttered down from the belfry. This was a

"Are you OK, James? That idiot didn't try anything stupid, did he?"

"No, my dear. I'm fine. Although I would like to know exactly what that idiot could do that wasn't stupid."

As he spoke, he stuck a drawing pin in his thumb, and allowed a drop of blood to fall onto the ashes of the departed vampire. Where the drop fell, the ashes started to boil up into the form of a young boy.

"I appreciate the attempt," commented James, "but even at my advanced age I am quite capable of dodging."

"Sorry." replied the other vampire, dusting himself down. "Want us to go and deal with him?"

"No, thank you. Now why don't you and your sister go and brew up some tea. I need to give Leoni a call."

It is perhaps merciful to place a veil over the fate of a man in an ill-fitting electric blue bodysuit and rainbow braces who tries to pump the combined cafes of Soho for information, especially when Leoni has put the word out. They may not have superpowers, but they have a terrible weapon in the form of Strong Italian Coffee. And it is amazing how often the toilets are closed for repairs.

Let us not forget that, although the people of Soho have seen everything - including people going to the Rocky Horror Show - American idiots in Spandex (or, in this case, glowing blue with rainbow braces) costumes are still something like street theatre. Particularly if they explain to everyone that they are "Looking for Ebony".

There are some things that you just shouldn't say in a red light district.

So, we shall take a little break here, and rejoin Demrak Djinn when he finally gives up on the cafes and the coffees, and decides to visit the Admiral Duncan pub on Old Compton Street, that famous haunt of those who are a little ... fey. And other strange people, of course.

The pub was dimly lit, and rather full. He managed to find a table that was only occupied by three other people who introduced themselves as Stewie, Sean and Simon. They appeared to be having some sort of drinking contest, but Demrak had trouble working out the rules.

Given that the pub served food, he ordered a meal. No drink, of course. The three gentlemen indulged in a round, supposedly by Sean. For some reason the barman ignored the drinks order totally, serving two mugs of Horlicks to Sean and Simon) and a double scotch which he gave to Stewie, along with the bill.

The meal was quite good (according to Simon, who appeared to be the gourmet of the group, the pub served the best pub food in the area), and Denrak found himself starting to relax. Apart from the visits to the toilet, that is. During the meal, the trio ordered another round of drinks. Again, the interplay was a little odd - Simon was supposed to buy the drinks, but again the barman brought a double scotch and two Horlicks, giving the bill to Stewie.

By this stage Stewie, who appeared to have little tolerance for alcohol, was well on his way to sozzled. He stood up, and announced: "Boysssh. I'mm buyin' th'next round.Whatsywant?"

Sean and Simon didn't answer. They had their heads on the table, and were making a sound not unlike "ZZZZzzzz....".

"Paaaady!" Stewie yelled at the barman, "Why chaant you get a shimple joke right?"

He sat down again. "Reet noo. Y'll be the laddie thatsh looking for Ebony, will ye?"

Demrak nodded, not quite sure where this was going to lead.

"Y'll find her down Sherri's Place in Berick Street." He said. Then he rose and weaved his way to the bar.

Demrak was out of the pub like a shot. He didn't notice Stewie suddenly recovering from his "drunkenness" and flipping open a mobile phone.

"Sherri? Some Idiot after Ebony heading your way ... Can't miss him. The sapleen is in some sort of Electric Blue suit ... No, not the Videos, even if he does look like the sort who buys them ... OK. Thanks. I'll tell them. Bye."

He turned to his companions, who had equally suddenly woken up. "This round's on Sherri, and...." he added, turning to the barman, "You'd better bloody well get it right this time."

Sherri's Place was indeed in a small alleyway just off Berick Street. It appeared to consist of a doorway guarded by a heavily made up girl with what appeared to be a very bad blonde dye job. She was simultaneously falling out of an extremely tight top and trying to balance on a very small stool whilst wearing a pair of shorts that did not look so much sprayed on as inserted underneath the skin.

The door itself was rather battered and chipped, and had a card with the enigmatic legend "SMAK UPSTAIRS" pinned to it. The card also had a picture of a rather busty cartoon schoolgirl with a prominent ... bottom ... drawn on it. Denrak decided that he really didn't want to know.

"What'r you lookin' at?" asked the girl, speaking round her chewing gum.

"Well," Denrak said a little hesitantly, "I'm looking for Ebony."

"Twenty Quid."

When this was duly paid, the girl led him into the building, down a short corridor (not going upstairs, to his great relief) and into a large room that looked like a rather down-at-heels night-club. At one end was a stage where an oriental girl was doing a dance that didn't seem to involve too many clothes. Dotted around the room were tables and chairs - mostly two chairs to a table, and mostly occupied by older men and younger women. At the far end was a small bar. Standing at the bar, talking to the bargirls, was the only unattended male in the room, who appeared to be wearing some form of white oriental hooded pyjamas

The girl gave Denrak a small shove and yelled "Eb? One of yours!". She then disappeared back to her stool.

A young black girl appeared from behind the stage. She was dressed in a very brief set of briefs and a halter top that was not so much halter as completely halted. Both items of clothing followed the apparent dress code, which was "too small, too tight". She advanced on Denrak with the confidence that only a complete lack of shame can give.

"Well, what do you want, big fella?" She asked, favouring him with a very suggestive wink.

"Errmim (ahem) I'm looking for someone called Ebony..." he replied, trying to back off.

"That's me!" She said, closing in.

"She's s-s-supposed to be a High Priestess!" he stammered, feeling that he was losing control of the situation.

"Hey, I'm broadminded. I think Sherri has a nun's outfit somewhere. I can improvise.". By now she was right up to him, and his line of retreat was hampered by the random tables and chairs.

"I ... Errr ... But..." he said, somewhat incoherently. The girl was now pressing up against him, and he was not exactly sure what to do next. In his confusion he failed to notice the girl making two significant hand movements in the area of his trousers.

There was a ping, followed by a rustle. This was the natural result of the front clips on the braces being released, followed by gravity taking its course.

The girl back-pedalled with a shriek, leaving Demrak with his trousers round his ankles. "You filthy..." she started, then "PJs!" to the gentleman at the bar.

Demrak had never been thrown out of anywhere before. It wasn't an experience he particularly wished to repeat. He landed in a heap on the pavement, and lay there for a few moments.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The voice came from one of the local policemen.

"We have had a number of complaints about a person answering your description soliciting in the area. If you would like to accompany me to the Station?".

Demrak laid back in his bed. Deported! That would never have happened to Father.

As he slept, a white-robed, dark-skinned figure appeared in his room, abstracted the Journal and Djinn Suit and then disappeared again.

And Demrak Djinn was seen no more.

Footnotes:

Many thanks to HH for making the suggestion that not only rescued this story, but actually made some of the plot a little more logical.

For one of Desmond Djinn's appearences, we can visit the Hooded Hood's Archives - this story (by Visionary) also includes a picture of Desmond Djinn in his armour.

His fall was chronicled in the Heart of Darkness, specifically the second of the Chapter Tens (Identity) and Chapter 11 (Dead Man's Parts)

Corpus non oro = Dead men tell no tales.

Actio personalis monitur cum persona = Dead men don't sue (Thanks due to Abigail's Big Table of Useful Latin Phrases for this one)

Demrak Amsterdam Gin is, of course, a variety of gin. According to Wikipedia, it is distilled five times with seventeen botanicals.

Kings Cross is, amongst other things, another Red Light District. It is a generally run-down area and is very rough. There are a couple of hotels in the area, and at least one of them is largely used by the local prostitutes - or so I am told by one of our contractors who had to stay there on one occasion.

St Eustachius is the patron saint of hunters. Soho, which is the district next to Seven Dials, used to be a royal hunting ground before London expanded out. The name of the place was derived from So-ho, which was a hunting call.