The Eye of Zoltar

Flesh-eating slugs

We stopped for lunch at one of the many tea rooms that dotted the roadside, each one of them designated, by mutual consent, a neutral area where even rival warlords could stop and have a cup of tea and a currant bun without risking a dagger between the shoulder blades. The lunch was excellent – simple, yet tasty – but the meal was marred by Curtis and Ignatius’ brash behaviour – they thought it amusing to talk loudly, flick food at one another and generally act like the complete idiots they were. We apologised as we left, and were told cheerily that ‘youthful high spirits’ were generally tolerated, but if we set foot inside the café again, Curtis and Ignatius would both be ‘tied inside a sack and beaten with sticks’.

We were back on the road within ten minutes.

‘Hello,’ said Ignatius, who had clambered to the front of the half-track to talk to us.

‘I’m not listening to anything but an apology,’ I said.

‘It was only a little food fight,’ he said with a grin, ‘barely worthy of the name.’

‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘There’s a slug farm coming up,’ he said, pointing to his copy of Ten animals to avoid in the Cambrian Empire, ‘and I thought we should stop and have a look.’

I looked at Addie, and she nodded.

‘They’re quite amusing in a gooey kind of way,’ she said, ‘and who knows? With a bit of luck he’ll be eaten by one.’

‘Oh, come on!’ said Ignatius with a smile. ‘I’m not that bad.’

Addie stared at him in a ‘Yes you are’ kind of way and he smiled sheepishly and rejoined his friends in the back. We took the next turning on the right, and parked in a dusty car park alongside a half-dozen armoured tour buses. Addie told us to go on ahead without her as she’d seen flesh-eating slugs many times. Ralph said he’d not come either, as he had a peculiar allergy to ‘anything without legs, such as cats.’

‘Cats have legs,’ said the Princess.

‘They do, don’t they?’ agreed Ralph in a confused manner, but declined to join us anyway. So myself, Perkins, the Princess, Curtis and Ignatius trooped into the farm.

After paying the entry fee we walked down between circular concrete pits, each containing about a dozen slugs the size of marrows. They were the colour of double cream, had grooves along their bodies, and were covered by a slimy gel that smelt of rotting flesh. The slugs had no eyes, a single mouth with razor-sharp fangs, and atop their small heads were an array of antennae of varying size and function that waved excitedly as we walked past. They were, in a word, repulsive, and if any creature had ‘avoid’ stamped all over it, the flesh-eating slug was it.

‘Woh,’ said the Princess, ‘that is so gross.’

‘It’s about the only placemat design that we are already agreed upon,’ said Ignatius excitedly, producing a camera from his bag. ‘You may be interested to know that we only ever do six designs in a set of placemats.’

‘Is that a fact?’ I said.

‘Yes. Although the average seated meal is only 3.76 persons, you might be forgiven for thinking that four designs might suffice, but no. A dinner of six is not unusual, and by employing numerous focus groups and conducting market research, we have discovered that while repetition of placemat design is acceptable in a group larger than six, in any group smaller than six it is not. Thus, six designs. Clever, eh?’

‘Where’s the nearest Somnubuvorus?’ said the Princess. ‘I want to throw myself into it.’

‘The nearest what?’

‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Laura, stop antagonising the nitwits.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the Princess, doing her best curtsy yet. The matter was soon forgotten and we joined the crowd milling around one of the feeding troughs. The slug farmer was giving a talk.

‘… the slug’s mucus – or slime – can be used in all manner of products from meat tenderisers to skin exfoliant to paint stripper to battery acid, and an adult slug can ooze almost a gallon a day, if kept moist. Any questions before feeding time?’

One of the other tourists put up their hand.

‘Is it true that enriched slug slime is part of Emperor Tharv’s secret chemical weapons stockpile?’

‘That was always conjecture and never proved,’ said the farmer, ‘but knowing Tharv, almost certainly.’

‘Can we wrestle them?’ asked a stupid-looking young man who turned out to be Curtis.

‘This is a farm,’ said the slug farmer testily, ‘not a circus. If you want to fight one, then go to an official slug-wrestling salon, or ever easier, find a slug. They sleep until midday, usually in the damp shade of limestone outcrops. Any more questions? No? Okay, then let’s feed them.’

The farmer went on to explain that keeping intelligent slugs in captivity denied them the stimulation of hunting prey for themselves, so they made them do tricks for their supper. For the next five minutes we watched the slugs balance balls on their antennae, play a passable rendition of the Beer Barrel Polka on descant recorders and then do synchronised backflips, to sporadic applause. The show finished with an entire pig carcass being chucked into a trough containing a dozen slugs. The pig was devoured in a little under thirty seconds and with such uncontrolled ferocity that when the pig was nothing but bones, there were only ten slugs left.

‘That often happens,’ said the farmer sadly.

We walked back outside once the show was over. I bought Mother Zenobia some skin exfoliant for her feet, while the Princess wrote a postcard to her parents.

‘I was disappointed not to see someone being devoured,’ said Ignatius as we returned to the car park, ‘or lose a foot at the very least.’

‘If you cover yourself in lard first you can wrestle them quite easily,’ remarked Curtis, reading from a leaflet, ‘and make a fortune in prize money.’

‘Anyone eaten?’ asked Addie as we climbed back into the half-track.

‘No one even got nibbled, worse luck,’ grumbled Ignatius. ‘Are you okay, Ralph? You look a little … strange.’

‘It’s nothing, dude,’ said Ralph, who did look unusual – drunk, almost, ‘probably the altitude. I’ll be fine.’

‘Did you do anything to him?’ I asked Addie once I’d climbed into the driver’s seat.

‘Not me,’ she said. ‘I went to the loo and when I got back he was sweating and muttering about anchovies.’

‘Mule fever?’ I asked.

‘No, probably just Empty Quarter nerves.’

I looked at Ralph again; he seemed to have relaxed somewhat, although I could see his pupils contract and dilate quite rapidly several times a second.

We drove for another half-hour and presently came across the dormant marker stones that marked the extent of what had once been Dragonlands. There was a large and very chewed sign that read:

DANGER

Empty Quarter

Remain Vigilant or Remain Here