Chapter 3

Harry slammed his book shut. It wasn't really a book, because the pages were made of lasers and the words were made of headless women making godless love to dragons made out of motorcycles, but it was still reading.

"Gumbledorp, if you don't stop, we'll starve, and no one will be around to kill everyone in the universe if we get around to bringing everyone back to life after we killed them."

"I am no longer Scrumblegort."

The ancient man dropped some of the planets he was juggling.

"The worlds have shifted. I am Dumblecop, of the Darkmeal."

He flexed one of his legs, which was made of pistols, and kicked a planet in half.

"Bugger your Darkmeal, faggart of a thousand suns."

Dumblecop sniffed.

"And what of it? Is it a sin, should a man feel like faggarting a sun or a thousand? Why should the suns heave through the void, if not to be skewer't bypon ourn fagpoles?"

Harry cast a glance at the book. Unsavory sounds emanated from a particularly damned chapter. He was hungry. He looked at a nearby cup. It had a faded brown film on the bottom. He thought about chumpits.