To Err is Neopian

     Anariccia imagined piles of toast in front of her, oozing with puddles of golden butter. Fried Egg on Toast, Grilled Chokato on Toast, Faerie Toast With Butter, Red Eggs on Toast, Snow Toast, Tigerbuggle Jam on Toast, Ichor Ghost Toast, Peanut Butter Toast, French Toast, Disco Toast, Toast on Toast, Chokato Toasties, the possibilities were endless. Her pink stomach grumbled with hunger. Automatically, she rose, went to the kitchen, nose still buried in her book. She found some Hot Buttered Toast on a plate, which she took. Anariccia returned to the living room and collapsed in the same awkward position. The only difference now was that her jaws were continuously working their way through an enormous stack of toast.

     All was well. She could hear the hurried footsteps of Neopets as they ran, trying to arrive at their destinations appearing considerably dry. The sound of the rain as it made contact with the pavement was very soothing as she had just put a rather gruelling set of jobs at the Faerieland Employment Agency behind her.

     Anariccia flipped a page, glancing at the wall clock as she did so. It was nearing midnight. She stifled a yawn, unused as she was to late hours. Her owner was out on a black-tie dinner at Kelp. Earlier, Anariccia had thrown a fit at not being allowed to attend the function, but when her owner gently sat her on her knee and patiently explained what exactly a black-tie dinner was, Anariccia had made a face and said that she hadn't wanted to go, anyway. Her owner had then flashed a knowing smile, grabbed her purse and fled out of the door, only to return to tell Anariccia not to stay up too late.

     Anariccia smiled as she remembered the incident. Her owner would never know she had been up this late.

     Feeling uncomfortable, Anariccia shifted from the couch to the floor. She was nearing the end of her book. Now she regretted having eaten all that toast. She felt queasy.

     Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

     She was rudely jolted from her cookbook stupor. Cursing at the about-to-be-victim of her merciless wrath, she opened the door, only to be looking up at a moustached green Skeith, dressed in a pin-striped suit. He carried a briefcase which looked to be crafted out of horrendously expensive leather. He showed no sign of being exposed to rain, even though he didn’t carry an umbrella. His right arm wielded a gold-topped walking cane. On his head rested a pork-pie hat with a purple band around the brim. His lips were pursed with grim satisfaction. His shoes were shined, so much so that Anariccia could see the reflection of the whole hallway in them. She wondered what a prim-and-proper Skeith such as he would want with her, or any other member of her family for that matter.

     The stranger strode into the hallway without any invitation. She said, “Sir, I may not know who you are, but it is usually considered impolite to barge into anyone’s private residence.” The Skeith appeared not to have heard her. Either that or he had chosen to ignore her comment about his apparently rude manners. Letting it pass, she opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a short, stubby finger bedecked with gruesome, old-fashioned rings to indicate silence. “Please sit, sir.” She beckoned to the nearest armchair. He made no motion.

     Anariccia realised that he hadn’t said a word for the full duration of their brief conversation. There was an awkward pause in which she shuffled her feet and he coughed and cleared his throat. His eyes seemed to bore into Anariccia, who averted her eyes from his gaze. Then the Skeith made a sudden motion. He thrust a fleshy, ring-covered hand into his briefcase and rummaged for a moment. The next thing he did made Anariccia rub her eyes and cry out in wonder. He kept extending his arm deeper and deeper into his bag, until his whole arm was inside. The top of the bag was now level with his shoulder. The Skeith appeared to be searching for something. Anariccia wondered if his briefcase was as untidy as he made it appear to be. She took a closer look at his get-up, then decided that it wasn't. The stranger extracted a small rectangle of paper and held it out to Anariccia, who took it curiously. It was both plain and absurd at the same time. It said: Mr. Egbert/Boris Von Strangleheimer.

     Anariccia had to suppress a giggle. It was the most difficult thing to do at the time and it came out sounding as a cough and a snort together.

     “You have two names, sir?” was the only thing she could think of to say.

     “No.”

     “Forgive me, but why, then, is there a slash between the names Egbert and Boris?”

     “That is my name. Egbert-slash-Boris Von Strangleheimer.”

     He seemed proud of his rather lengthy name. He was now bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, a reminiscent smile on his face, a faraway look in his eyes. Anariccia felt like a character in a play that would otherwise have been extremely comical.

     “What brings you to our home, Mister...” She looked at the card. “Strangleheimer?”

     He snapped back to reality. “I am here to inform you that you have, unfortunately, failed to complete your last job at the Faerieland Employment Agency. We have now, regretfully, decided not to accept any more job coupons from you.”

     Anariccia’s face went deathly white. “F-failed, sir?”

     “Precisely.” A smile was playing on his face.

     “But I can’t have! It isn’t possible!”

     He looked uncertain now. Clearly he had not been told that he would have had to deal with tears and tantrums.

     Anariccia sniffled. She had, indeed, not completed her last job. But that was only because the items had been too expensive and her owner couldn't afford them. But this... this wasn't expected at all! Anariccia had never failed to complete a job, and a lifelong ban from the Faerieland Employment agency was just too much for the faint-hearted Acara to handle. She was about to sink down on the couch in disbelief when Mr. Strangleheimer said something.

     “Please, what is your name?” he enquired.

     “Anariccia, sir. Anariccia the pink Acara...” Her voice trailed off into nothingness.

     The smile vanished from his face. It was now his turn to stammer, but he did nothing of the sort. He collected himself, walked towards the door, placed his sausagelike fingers on the doorknob and said briskly, “I apologise. It seems I have entered the wrong Neohome.”

The End