A Waldron Welcome

The following takes place following: The Butter Lobby

The Master and Widdle Frunkut wandered into Waldron. Waldo was perched on the Master’s shoulder, twitching idly. The town was strange—its layout and architecture resembled small-town America more than any typical British village. In fact, from the accents echoing through the streets, most of the residents seemed to be American.

Devlin Manor lay a short distance to the north.

They stopped near the town centre, outside a 1950s-style diner. A couple of men loitered by the kerb, chewing tobacco. One of them stared at the Master, then spat brown liquid directly onto his boot.

wF: 😏

Before either of them could react, the spitting man was struck in the face by a truncheon-wielding policeman. The man howled, staggering back, clutching his jaw as teeth clattered to the ground.

Policeman: Didn’t I tell you boys not to harass newcomers? Don’t make me say it again. Now get outta here...

The second man helped the first to his feet, and they hurried away without another word.

Policeman: Sorry about that, my friends. I’m afraid not everyone’s got the memo—we’re a welcoming town. We welcome all visitors from all over Waldonia. Well... except Blacks... oh, and Butterburians. You’re not from there, are you?

wF: No sir! We is from Widdlingtons.

Policeman: Widdlington, eh? Big city boys. Well, just so you know, things move a lot slower ‘round here. Waldron is a peaceful, laid-back place. We don’t want no funny business. Other than that—welcome. Hope you enjoy your stay.

wF: Thanks very much, sir! Question: Why you no liken the Butterburians, officer?

Policeman: That’s Sheriff, little fella. Sheriff Palmer. We don’t take too kindly to them folks. As I understand it, pretty much the whole town of Butterbur works for that damn Dragon Butter company.

wF: 😏 Oh really?

Sheriff Palmer: Anyway, it started a while back—this bulky-lookin’ fella showed up in town wearing a top hat and cape. Said he was a travelling salesman, peddling some new kind of butter from a new town south of Widdlington. Called it Butterbur. Bit of an odd character, but we’re friendly folk—and he sounded kinda like Vincent Price, which we liked—so of course, we were all eager to try it.

Turns out... that was a mistake.

wF: Really? How come?

Sheriff Palmer: The whole town got pinkeye. Some of the old folks and the vulnerable got real sick. We even lost a few...

wF: That’s terrible. Isn’t that terrible, Masta?

Master Devlin: ...Indeed. 😒

Sheriff Palmer: We sent a sample of the butter off to Widdlington for testing. Lab results eventually came back... turns out the butter had traces of shit in it. Literal faeces. From some kind of lizard, apparently. So we blacklisted the whole brand—and the whole town. And if I ever see someone from Butterbur show up in this town—

The sheriff paused, took a deep breath, and composed himself.

Sheriff Palmer: Anyway. You boys enjoy your stay. I recommend the inn just up yonder. Tell ol’ Betsy I sent ya—she’ll take care of you.

wF: Thanks very much, Sheriff! We very much appreciate the hospitality!

Sheriff Palmer: You’re most welcome, young fella. We like politeness here. Well—good day...

The sheriff began to walk off.

wF: Oh! By the way, Sheriff... Could you describe this sinister salesman... so we can keeps an eye out? 😏

Sheriff Palmer: Uh... sure. Well sir, he was a queer-lookin’ mixed fella. Looked like he might be Dutch, or Welsh, or French or something... but he also had a definite Chinese look to him. Some kinda multi-ethnic lizard man. Honestly, I mostly remember the outfit—it was real eccentric. He had a purple complexion, scaly, kinda triangular features...

He stopped. Squinted. Stared directly at the Master.

Sheriff Palmer: Come to think of it... he looked a bit like you. 🤨 You ever been out to Waldron Lake before, big fella?

Master Devlin: No... never. This person you’ve described sounds like a real villain. I work for the Masters Council, though, so I’ll be sure to look into it. The only case we’ve heard of was a lutin travelling around offering people strange milk—or sometimes tea—that made them sick. Sometimes fatal. It comes in many forms... but mostly he’s green, wrinkly and curly-looking. With a sinister yet whimsical countenance. Like something out of Dr Seuss.

Sheriff Palmer: Uh-huh...? Well, I don’t remember anything like that, but the butter fiend sure looked like you. Then again... he had this big, long moustache. Was always twirling it. So I guess it couldn’t have been you. Well—you boys take care now.

wF: You too!

The sheriff tipped his hat and walked off into the sun-drenched square.

Waldo turns to the Master.

wF: Well. Well. Well. And to think you chastise Wiffuhuh for selling his potions when you were out poisoning these poor persons!

The Master grabs Waldo by the scruff and hauls him into a nearby alley. He slaps him across the face.

wF: Hey! What's that for?? 😠

Master Devlin: You framed me, you son of a bitch!

wF: How so??

Master Devlin: I didn’t give these people butter.

wF: Well, sure sounded like you.

Master Devlin: It wasn’t! That whole prank was just for you! Then you put me in jail because you gave butter to everyone else!

wF: Ooh, just like when you let that Travers man take the fall? Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time, pizza man!

Master Devlin: SHUT UP! You poisoned this town and blamed me! Why are you so determined to ruin my life? How dare you??

wF: Didn’t you hear the man? He described you perfectly.

Master Devlin: I did, but it wasn’t me. It must’ve been you.

wF: How could it be Wiffuhuh?

Master Devlin: You're always in disguises.

wF: Wiffuhuh disguised itself as the Masta? Ha. Tall order! Preposterous, in fact. Wiffuhuh can manipulate its size somewhat, true—but not that much! And how many other big, bulky, multiethnic lizard men are there around here?

Master Devlin: I DON'T KNOW—BUT IT WASN’T ME!!

wF: You must think Waldo a prize fool... Gotta say, Stan. It's not looking good for you. This is pretty damning...

Master Devlin: Waldo is a prize fool. Anyway—it doesn’t matter. We need to get out of here. We can't stay.

wF: Don’t be so hasty, pasty. What’s the harm in looking around first? This town is real swell! It looks like Twin Peaks or something!

Master Devlin: We can't stay because you framed me for poisoning these people!

wF: Oh, Sidney. We've been over this. It wasn't Wiffuhuh. You're just passing the buck.

Master Devlin: Fine. Then it must've been Ed! Of course it was. It’s always Ed!

wF: Oh Stan... now you're blaming our Lord? Why must you—

Master Devlin: ED! ED, GET DOWN HERE! NOW!!

Ed pops out of a dustbin.

Ed: Yes? You rang?

Master Devlin: Why did you frame me for poisoning this town??

Ed: We’re going a new direction with the show. Focus group results came back—people really liked the “political advisor Stan” arc, but they hated when you slipped into creepy butter fiend mode. Ratings dropped. It’s never tested well.

Master Devlin: So you framed me?

Ed: Yes. Well. It was very disrespectful of the Master to try flying off to the Maldives instead of taking valid criticism. Plus, I stayed up all night crafting that map and generating a bunch of new locations yet you'd rather leave the county... It hurt Ed’s feelings. So you had to be punished.

Master Devlin: And how do you know the Master hasn’t already been to those places?

Ed shrugs, ducks back into the bin, and pulls the lid down.

Master Devlin: Oh no you don’t! Come back here and—!

He lifts the lid. Ed is gone.

wF: The Masta should be nice. Especially to our creator.

Master Devlin: The Master is nice. But Ed is a crook who loves to torment me. Just like Waldo.

wF: If only the Masta would take a telling and pay for his crimes like a man, he wouldn’t be tormented so much.

Master Devlin: Yes, well—Waldo needs to pay for his crimes. He’s a total psycho!

wF: Preposterous! Wiffuhuh doesn’t poison people.

The Master nearly chokes.

Master Devlin: ...I'm sorry?? You must be joking.

wF: The butter poisoning—that’s all the Masta. But anyway. Let’s just move past it. The point is: the Masta behaved in an undignified manner and incurred the wrath of the Editor once again.

Master Devlin: Waldo is a murderer.

wF: Past Waldo. Waldo is reformed. A noble goblin! He now champions for good...

Master Devlin: Hmm. That remains to be seen.

wF: We won’t let you down, sir.

Master Devlin: Wait a minute… When I said we were going to this town, you asked if you could slaughter. What kind of reformed goblin says that? Care to explain?

wF: Um... Well... No, sir. Not particularly.

The Master sighs.

Master Devlin: No. I didn’t think so. And let’s not forget—I just removed seven knives from your person.

wF: Self-defence?

Master Devlin: I highly doubt that. You really are full of shit, Waldo.

wF: Look—it’s not our fault, sir! The Editor writes the scripts—we just say the lines! It’s not Wiffuhuh’s fault he’s always rewriting things mid-scene. Beams 'em directly into our antennas...

Waldo points to his three hairs.

wF: So take it up with him! He’s the writer. Well, mostly. There’s the co-writer man too. Or maybe a co-producer. We don’t really know who he is—but we calls him the Sky Masta.

Master Devlin: I don’t care, Waldo. You never take responsibility. You blame the Editor. You blame past or future Waldo. You blame me, call me a terrible teacher. It’s never Waldo’s fault. No, no—it can never be Waldo’s fault. What a terrible thing to suggest. You are an arse, Waldo. 😒

wF: Don’t be that way, pastry. You do the same, anyway.

Master Devlin: How?

wF: Like just now! You do bad butter stuff, then tries to deny. Pass the buck. Plays the victim.

Master Devlin: Now look—I don’t deny doing the butter stuff to you, because you deserved it. But I never buttered these people! It was Ed! He basically admitted it!

wF: How? The sheriff described the Masta!

Master Devlin: The Editor can make himself appear however he wants. He’s a spiteful trickster. And a total jerk.

wF: Heresy! Sacrilegious blasphemy! Please Masta—say what you want about Jebus, but leave the Editor out of this! You don’t want him to turn you into something... unnatural.

Master Devlin: I don’t care. The Editor will do whatever he wants anyway. Now—shall we move on?

wF: Yes! But to where?

Master Devlin: I don’t know. Explore the town, I guess. It’s what you wanted.

wF: Capital!

Season 6 continues in Goblin of Peace