Wunderlich and Pendergast

Once, two men lived next to each other. One was named Wunderlich. The other was named Pendergast. They lived in a new development, and both moved in as construction concluded. Their relationship was amiable, and they often swapped stories and gardening tools over the white picket fence separating their properties. Over time, though, they grew suspicious of one another, and of various peculiarities in the other's behavior. They had lived there for a period of a month at the time of the story.

Pendergast walked over to the fence separating their properties and shouted. "Hey! Wunderlich! When can I have those gardening shears back?"

Wunderlich appeared from a doorway and walked toward Pendergast. "I still need them!" he shouted. "What do you want them for?"

Pendergast looked at Wunderlich and refrained from answering. In truth, he had called for Wunderlich for an entirely different reason; which reason he promptly proceeded to act on. "Wunderlich, I wanted to ask you something."

"Go ahead," said Wunderlich, a little confused.

"It has come to my attention that there is a strange, sickly green aura about you at all times, and that on my approach, I hear strange whispers of damnation and the grave," Pendergast noted to Wunderlich.

"It seems possible that the latter condition stems from your character rather than mine," Wunderlich responded reasonably.

"Furthermore," Pendergast continued, "You have a strange habit of floating several inches above the ground when distressed or distracted - as now."

Wunderlich looked down at his feet. Somewhat sheepishly, he lowered himself to the grass. "It seems hard to deny," he answered.

"And lastly, your flesh is usually covered with heavy clothing and gloves, even in the heat of autumn - and whenever I see your flesh, it appears to be rotting away, emitting the horrific smell of the grave," Pendergast accused.

"I find that offensive to me on grounds of personal hygiene," Wunderlich replied.

"Do you deny it?"

"Well, not as such."

"Then," Pendergast concluded, "I find it within myself to suspect that you are an undead, spell-casting abomination animated by foul magics and the blood of the innocent; commonly known as a lich."
"This is true," Wunderlich admitted, "But I should note that there are extenuating circumstances."

Pendergast drew a sword, shining white with a holy aura, and charged at Wunderlich. Wunderlich, thinking quickly, uttered a word stinking of unholy power and blew Pendergast back into a wall. Pendergast fell down and moaned.

"For instance," Wunderlich explained, "I myself have never attacked you, before this moment - which I should say was rather justified by self-defense."

Pendergast moaned again.

"Furthermore," Wunderlich said, "It is not as though you are without certain suspicious characteristics. For instance, I have noted that you often depart your home at odd hours of the night, arriving home sometimes just before dawn."

"It is possible that I have a night job," replied a recovering Pendergast.

"Also, the ground where your laundry-water tends to puddle is unusually often filled with diluted blood," Wunderlich continued.

"It would take unusually keen senses to notice that," Pendergast said.

"You will perceive that I have unnaturally keen senses," Wunderlich noted, pointing to his eyes. They did appear unusually well preserved.

"I will accept this for the moment, then," Pendergast said, drawing himself to his feet.

"For my final point," Wunderlich said triumphantly, "You seem to possess a rather sharp sword - an unusual item for a suburban homeowner - in addition to enchanted, laquered plate mail and a set of shuriken."

Pendergast threw a half-dozen shuriken at Wunderlich, diving to the side as he did so. Wunderlich, thinking quickly, cast another rune into the air, creating a crackling electromagnetic aura that deflected most of the projectiles. One of them lodged in his shoulder. He flicked at it unthinkingly as he came to his conclusion.

"Thus, sir," Wunderlich said, "I rather think you to be some manner of self-righteous serial killer; possibly, a terrorist."


"I prefer the term 'vigilante', myself," Pendergast demurred. "Further, I cannot help but note that my poisoned shuriken seem to have unusually little effect on you. Usually, my victims are on the floor crumpled into fetal balls by now."

"It's the unlife," Wunderlich answered apologetically. "Makes me rather good at dealing with poisons."

"An oversight," Pendergast noted. "I'll try not to repeat it."

They looked at each-other. Wunderlich broke the silence. "To avoid further damage to the lawn, and also the fence, I feel that we should talk, rather than fighting."

"Agreed, for the moment," Pendergast said. "Why don't you begin?"

"All right, then," Wunderlich replied. "I might as well explain why I'm a lich. Through a rather unfortunate series of events, involving rather too much liquor, a series of increasingly enthusiastic girls, and an incurable disease gained by the combination of those factors and myself, I found myself in the position of likely dying within two months."

"Unfortunate, if preventable," Pendergast sympathised.

"At this time," Wunderlich continued, "I was possessed of a rather great deal of magical power - and the thought occurred that I might thus put myself into a state immune to such diseases. I gathered the necessary components, harvesting innocent blood from my fore-finger, and extracted my own soul, placing it in a very well-hidden box. Thus, I became immune to permanent destruction by any means save that of the destruction of that box, rendering me immune to that disease - if somewhat impaired cosmetically."

"You, yourself, were innocent enough to power the ritual?" Pendergast inquired, surprised.

"You sound unusually knowledgeable on the matter," Wunderlich said.

"In my outings, I have slain liches, though, sadly, none so powerful as you," Pendergast explained. "The same principles apply to you, I think, and should I make another attempt, I am nearly certain I should be successful."

"I do not like the way this conversation is going," Wunderlich confessed. "Let us turn the subject to you."

"I was once an ordinary man," Pendergast explained, "much like yourse-well, perhasp not."

"Perhaps," Wunderlich concurred.

"Upon my father's untimely death, however, I gained a legacy of terrible power. My father's lordship, making me Lord Pendergast. This sword," said Pendergast as he patted his sheath, "imbued with the grace of the Archangel Michael himself; this ring," pointing to his left ring finger, "which grants me divine strength and agility; and this armor, crafted in the age of the first smiths, immune to any weapon not of my ownership. So that this legacy might not go to waste, I swore a mighty oath: to destroy all evil beings and abominations unto nature. You perceive, of course, that you fall under the latter category," Pendergast inquired dutifully.

"Quite unfairly," Wunderlich complained, thinking furiously.

"Well, I suppose that's that, then," Pendergast said, bowed, and announced, "Die, monster!" as he charged, sword glowing brightly at his side. He crouched, anticipating another blast.

Wunderlich, instead, spoke three dark runes in sequence, forming a pair of garden shears in his hand. He stretched out his arm. Pendergast, surprised, made no move to evade it, and spitted himself soundly on it.

"Ow!" exclaimed Wunderlich as Pendergast's sword, falling from limp fingers just inches from Wunderlich's leg, burned his flesh with its sacred energies. "That hurts!"

"Are those my garden shears?" Pendergast asked, his breath bubbling. "Also, I believe that you have punctured my lung."

"Yes to both, I'm afraid," Wunderlich answered.

"Damn," Pendergast said.

"...were I to heal you, would you cease your unreasonable attempts to cease my existence?" Wunderlich asked his wounded opponent.

"My oath would rather preclude it," Pendergast said, shaking his head. "In addition, I now have some slight grudge against you, and would likely continue my attacks in any case."

"Alas," said Wunderlich, and, with twelve runes that threatened the very fabric of sanity and reality, banished Pendergast, internally bleeding and ever closer to death, to a pocket dimension.

Pendergast lay there.

"It occurs," he speculated with his dying breaths, "That I may have erred at some point."