The Order of the Haberdashed Stupendous

The bustling streets of the business district of Arc’otta begin to flood with rainfall from the sudden thunderstorm in the still-clear skies above. Multiple curses echo in the streets as patrons of the commerce take cover underneath terraces and gazebos where space allows. A heavyset woman in a white yet elegant dress, named Shirly, runs towards Philippians Proud Pipe shop where a gang of hacking tobacco connoisseurs stand, shaded under a canopy yet engulfed in cigar smoke that they take turns exhaling after their generous drags from the butt end of their stoggies. As Shirly runs under the canopy, she disappears into the veil of smoke like a cartoon character in a fistfight cloud.

It isn’t unusual weather in Arc’otta yet people of the vast city always act surprised as if they hadn’t been warned by the professional sky watchers from the Mage’s Guild. To many, it is more preferable to complain about the forces of nature that are beyond their control yet completely predictable.

Toward the center of this particular commerce area sits a series of large pavilions which many of the shop-goers are currently flocking toward. With the downpour showing no sign of stopping, crowds form in tight formation under whatever shelter is available.

In the pavilion known to the locals as, Pavilion Green 3, two gentlemen sit at a table playing an intense game of Cribbage. On the iron, bench tabletop sits the unique scoreboard and the men's items of wager. Both men sit with stone gazes, their cards held close to their bodies then their eyes start to shift around to size up the sudden arrival of new spectators due to the rain.

On one side of the table sits a tall skinny man in formal sheek and a monocle sliding consistently off of his face. His thinning hair shines and is matted against his scalp from where his top hat previously sat before he relocated it to the table in front of him. His beady eyes dart from spectator to spectator and then back to his cards. Sweat begins to pour off of his head and underarms as if he had just eaten a habanero popper whole. His eyes then look up and glare at his opponent sitting across from him.

"Seems we have an audience now. You wouldn't have anything to do with this, Nigel, would you?" The stick man suggests.

Nigel answers with a nonverbal shrug and looks to his right where a small tabby cat is sitting. "The fool is so flustered with his lack of skill that he is now blaming me for the weather." He addresses the cat.

The cat says nothing but turns its attention to the instigator, its abnormally long cat tale flapping contently. Nigel continues the play and lays down a King card. "15. Keep it moving, Mr. Bailey, or would you prefer to discontinue our parley?"

His opponent, Mr. Bailey, scoffs and answers. "Of course not." Then he continues his play.

The onlookers watch with genuine interest, even though it is clear that none of them have a clue how this game is played. Yet within the following three minutes, it becomes clear that the game is clearly going in Nigel's favor. At the game's end, Mr. Bailey knocks over the scoreboard in frustration while standing up embarrassed. With all the onlookers, he knows that he has already started a scene.

"Temper, temper," says Nigel reaching across the table to reset the scoreboard to its original position.

"I don't know how, but you cheat."

"I do not." Nigel calmly replies. "Don't twist up your knickers, it's just a game. A game that you decided to wager your collection of lacquered orichalcum."

"Ah, take it you cheat." Mr. Bailey tries to wave off his emotions but is unsuccessful. The murmuring of the spectators has him too distracted and so he makes his exit without a sportsman's goodbye. Nigel collects his pot of winnings including the gemstones he offered up on his own behalf.

The rainstorm lets up as if nature had foresight that the game was ending as well, and the congregation of shopkeepers and consumers disperses in every direction knowing that there is nothing more to see or to say.

When completely sure that the two weren't in earshot of an interloper, the cat speaks to Nigel. "Did you cheat?"

"Of course not. You know me better than that."

"Your words, not mine. And I'm unfamiliar with this bout of entertainment your people call Cribbage. Is it even of this world?"

Nigel ignores the talking cat while putting his loot into his coin purse. "Swph, you play me for a fool. Every time you act ignorant on a subject you then immediately say something that contradicts your former statement. It seems to be the one trademark calling card that you possess other than the ability to be a talking animal."

Swph begins to groom himself, hoping that doing so would unsully his ego.

Nigel stands up and pulls his dark blue vest downward to adjust his appearance. Although well-dressed, his face is overgrown with dark facial hair from the lack of proper care. His eyes are dilated from over-caffeinating and lack of sleep. As he pushes his chair towards the bench, his hand searches for his matching dark blue blazer which seems to have gone missing. "Confound it!" Nigel exclaims.

"Something the matter?" Swph asks. "Your vocabulary doesn't seem to match your temperance as it was a moment ago."

"My Jean-Claud! It seems to have been mislocated!" Jean-Claud is the name of the tailor who produced and customized the prize blazer that Nigel's hand was currently embarking on a frantic excursion to find.

"Perhaps your dear friend and parley partner took it as a consolation prize during your match," Swph suggests.

"I can assure you that he did not. I studied every move of his with the utmost care. Blast! Where could it be?” Nigel spends a few more moments in search of his prize attire. “Oh no! My badge…it was attached to my Jean-Claud!”

“Fantastic then, more layers to unravel.” Swph’s eyes widen with enthusiasm. “A member of the Order without his shiny keepsake of authority? How delightful!”

“It would warm my heart that you find solace in my predicament if this wasn't such an urgent matter, Swph. Perhaps you could assist me in locating my possession if it so suits you.”

“Worry not, my paws are at your service. Your usefulness to me runs thin when your attention is frazzled with the loss of such worldly possessions.”

Nigel winces “There you go again, your rambles about other worlds.”

“Never mind that, let us begin our search officially.”

Swph hops down from the iron table of the pavilion and splashes onto the wet pavement. Nigel slicks back his longer unkempt hair and sets a navy blue fedora atop his head. He adjusts his bow tie and half-heartily tucks his white dress shirt into his trousers before leading the way out of the pavilion.

The mismatched pair scour the streets as high-pressure steam whistles from brass pipes that power the Victorian architectural buildings littered throughout the district. The cartography of this section of Arc’otta showed no attempt to make the city easy to navigate especially for foreigners. Luckily for seasoned inspectors such as Nigel and Swph, the layout is nothing more than a trivial yet elementary logic puzzle designed for school children.

“Swph, I do believe lady luck may be smiling upon us. And your earlier deduction may prove correct." Nigel points straight ahead of them at the back half of Mister Bailey, now wearing Nigel’s Jean-Claud with a top hat.

“My wits are yet to fail me. Quickly, Meal Ticket, let us pursue and end this charade.” Meal Ticket, Nigel found was one of the enduring nicknames that Swph sometimes labels him. Without dwelling on proper forenames, Nigel initiates contact.

“Bailey!” Nigel exclaims, “I believe you have something that belongs to me!”

Bailey's shoulders rise suddenly at Nigel's cry. A beat goes by and Bailey still does not turn to face his confronter. A moment later, Bailey proceeds forward in his original direction in a full sprint.

"Egads! He chooses to flee! Not on my pocket watch. Come Swph, we will follow on foot!" Nigel and Swph chase Bailey through the streets, now growing with congestion of foot traffic.

Bailey violently bumps past citizens traveling in his opposite direction. He nearly topples over a mother carrying an infant in one arm and a bag of navel oranges in the other. The mother shouts in surprise while Swph passes through between her sprawled legs.

"I must say, for an older gentleman, Bailey seems to be curiously athletic." Nigel huffs while trying to keep his pace with the cat. He was at a mass disadvantage, a full-grown man trying to keep up with a light maneuverable feline.

"Save your breath and just keep up. Seems like that would be a given with your sharp and tactical human brain." Swph mocked.

The chase continues on for three more blocks when Bailey suddenly turns west and dashes for the shoreline. Swph turns gracefully down the next alley while Nigel puts his weight into a hearty mud puddle, splashing a gathering of men in tuxedos with such gusto, that they think they are under attack by a flock of seagulls that just finished off a banquet of laxative-imbued treats.

Baily has put some distance between his followers, spending no time to look back to check their progress. At the next intersection of streets, Bailey gives a quick glance before crossing. Shortly after, Swph approaches the intersection. An ensemble of redhead young men march perpendicular and through the intersection while performing on their brass Sousaphone-like instruments as if the Weasley family decided to have an impromptu parade.

Swph takes a moment to reconsider at the curb giving Nigel time to catch up. "He is headed to the West Bay." Swph begins to bolt into the street, weaving through the steps of the ginger boys in skirts and shouting back at Nigel, "Catch up when you can! I have an idea of how Bailey retrieved your man jacket!" Then the tabby cat disappears into the machine-like steps of the parade.

Nigel stops and hunches over to brace himself on his knees, trying desperately to catch his breath. Suddenly a massive hum vibrates through the streets. A shudder is felt in the bricks beneath Nigel’s feet followed by a sound much like a thunderclap as a massive black monolith springs upward from the ground. Debris plunges up and outward like a volcanic upheaval birthing freshly churned lava. Absolute hysteria follows in the crowds of the streets. Nigel assesses the scene in confusion.

The monolith stands fully erect in the intersection and glows with haunting lights. A strange fog seeps outward from its base illuminating the way for several pairs of ominous eyes belonging to even more ominous shadowy figures. Screams and cries continue from the innocent spectators who, up until now, were enjoying the music provided by the unscheduled entertainment.

As many decide to run for safety, the glowing-eyed shadows pursue like the ghost in a game of Pacman free-for-all. Nigel watches as a pair of women are tackled by a shadow and drained of their life essence in front of him.

“Continue onward like the men you are!” Shouts the director of the parade, “Remember, no one gets through the band!” A bolt of lightning shatters out and into the parade block causing an explosion of debris and dense dust. The sounds of the brass band continue as each musician musters the strength to sound every memorized note at the wrong pitch before outright collapsing.

“Wayward spirits? Here in Arc’otta? Something truly is amiss” Nigel observes and then quickly shuffles in his pocket to produce a brown leather glove with metallic trimming and socketed gemstones. He slips on the glove over his right hand. Yet before he has time to take action, another explosion.

A shockwave of dark particles bursts from the building behind Nigel, A cloud of dirt blankets the streets at Nigel’s feet like a badly planned Quinceña where the DJ filled the fog machine with a bag of Nesquick chocolate powder.

Nigel’s attention turns to the commotion behind him all too delayed. A displaced chunk of a brick wall was already headed in his direction and scurried straight into his head. Nigel collapses with the grace of a butcher’s prized bag of meat and hits the ground.

Sometime later, Nigel awakens to the sound of shuffling on the wet brick streets. He cracks an eye open like a naive kindergartener trying to cheat at a game of heads up seven up. After the initial surprise of still being alive, Nigel focuses on the dust and debris hovering in the air above him. His mind tries to make sixes and sevens of the visual information streaming in through his eyes but there is an obvious lag.

I am alive. And that's swell and all, but my mental processes seem to be at a handicap.

Nigel looks to his left hand. Within an instant, he is able to send signals to move his fingers. Satisfied with his physical diagnosis Nigel begins to sit upright to access his other functions.

With a quick trip through memory lane, he can recall his full name, that he belongs to an organization called the Order of the Haberdashed Stupendous, the year is 413 of the Idiom era, and he is currently standing at the intersection of 14th and Clide streets.

Within a beat, he can make out the shape of a fit yet muscular female approaching him in a constable’s uniform. Within a few seconds, he manages himself to his feet before she arrives at his presence.

“Inspector! Thank the heavens you are well! Do you need assistance?” The officer asks.

“Uh, no,” Nigel answers and then attempts to stumble off in a direction away from the woman. He doesn’t recognize the female but she seems to know who he is.

“Inspector, it's me! Captain Trish. Do you remember? We worked together on the case of the illegal chimps who were imported to Arc’otta. Surely you remember.”

“I know who you are!” Nigel lies, “But my attention is needed elsewhere.” Nigel adjusts his hat, brushes the lingering dust and dirt off his shoulders, and then continues trying to make his exit.

“I may need to ask you a few questions then.”

“Am I being charged with a crime?” Nigel takes a glance back at the captain whose expression has become more frustrated. “Then if not, leave me be. It seems like you have work to do here.”

There is no shortage of damage or casualties at the scene. A great number of businesses are completely destroyed and innocent civilians crying in agony. Nigel continues to walk away but the captain pursues him at a distance.

There is something off about this encounter and Nigel is able to recognize that fact. But the injury to his head has also impaired his mental functions.

What is it about this woman? The clues are there but I can't seem to…

Nigel continues in the direction of the west bay, completely aware of his trailer. Within twenty minutes they arrive at the pier overlooking the bay and Nigel begins to shuffle over the railing and down the grassy slope overlooking the water's edge. Trish pauses for a moment, looking for a more stable route to no avail. She then follows Nigel down his choice path.

A sandy bottom coats the floor along the water and Nigel focuses his eyes on his feet browsing the rocks and sea shells. He takes a moment to swat down and pick up a handful of shells before stuffing them into the pockets of his slacks.

“What are you doing?” Trish asks but is ignored. Instead, Nigel continues his path along the bay shuffling here and there inspecting the sandy beach. After a few minutes, he comes to a stop overlooking the watery plain. Trish keeps her distance waiting for the man to do or say something, anything.

Instead, Nigel takes a seat right on the sand in the bay. Trish waits patiently eager not to break the silence until Nigel does.

About half an hour passes with neither speaking to the other. All that can be heard is the distant steam and passersby chatter up on the streets. It isn't until the street lamps start turning on that Nigel finally rouses upward, staring into the distance on the sandy shore.

He sees movement which is unmistakably a creature with something attached to it. Nigel stands up and brushes the sand off of his trousers before continuing down the bank. Trish closely follows behind him quietly.

“Swph!” Nigel shouts as he approaches a bit closer. There is no answer but Nigel has made a positive ID. Both increase pace towards each other until Nigel sees that Swph is carrying a top hat in his mouth.

On arrival, the cat releases the hat to the ground and commands, “Quickly! Equip the apparel and say the words ‘return to me!’”

“I don’t understand…” Nigel begins.

“Just do it you imbecile!”

Nigel bends over to pick up the top hat clearly belonging to Mr. Bailey and sets it atop his head. “Return to me,” Nigel commands. At first, there is nothing to witness but then there is a whistling sound in the wind followed by a blur in the air. Visually, it looks like interlacing in a badly encoded video from television and then Mr. Bailey pops into existence in front of Nigel.

“Blast it!” Bailey shouts as he stumbles to try to escape. Nigel quickly trips him to the ground instead.

“What in the seven hells is going on here? And did that cat just talk?” Trish asks.

“It is a long story that I fear we may not have time for,” Nigel answers as he looks over to the street lamps. More have turned on during the events that just developed. Nigel hurries to reach down and pull his Jean Claud off of Bailey who offers little resistance. “If you have pockets, quickly fill them with sea shells,” Nigel instructs those who will listen.

“Why? You are acting very strange.” Trish answers.

“Do as I suggest or don’t. It makes little difference to me.” With that Trish picks up a handful of sea shells from the sand and fills her cargo pockets.

Nigel then moves away from Bailey over to Swph. Now with his Jean Claud back on him where it belongs, Nigel reaches into the inner jacket pocket and produces a collar with a cloth pouch centered on it. The pouch is filled with a bead-like material that emits a sound like chains rubbing together. He puts the collar on Swph who does not protest.

Meanwhile, Bailey tries to crawl away from his captors. Upon rousing to his feet, he has the sudden urge to snap his fingers to a steady beat. His legs start to buckle and sway to a rhythm that only he can hear. With a few vocal doo wops, Bailey breaks into an uncontrollable dance as he shuffles his way down the bank and towards an unknown destination.

“Ok, I really mean to know what the Dill is going on here!” Trish exclaims in frustration.

Nigel’s answer was simple. “This Missing Hour begins.