Chapter One
Mounting Doom

Very far indeed, in both distance and time, it seemed to him now from those leafy avenues of Bagshot; avenues that once rang with bird song, and where the still waters of ponds had been speckled with emergent flowers, and the sounds of buzzing insect wings had filled the warm air. Professor John Ronald Reuel Rowling wrenched his mind back from those friendly thoughts into the present and, with suppressed rage, he removed his surprisingly heavy and pounding head from his hands and tried to look normal, whatever that was. He had a bastard behind the eyes.

“Confound and confusticate these people” he muttered, “How can this have happened?”. He looked at the confused faces of his followers. ‘Those incompetent fools have failed me’, he reflected, and said out loud, “Oh God! I feel like a pig shat in my head.”.

Just two minutes before, he had been poised to strike a devastating blow on his opponents, leaving them weak and leaderless, and him triumphant, with nothing between him and the Vice Chancellorship. Within the next two, or within an hour at least, he could expect the attentions of …. the Brethren.

‘How had things come to this pass?’ he thought. ‘No matter!’, his ego interjected. He would escape and find another way. ‘I have been both careful and cunning’, he decided, but the negative emotions prevailed. “I am surrounded by idiots”, he screamed, “What has happened?”.

What, indeed, had happened? Before we can explore the events that led to this decisive point in the life of this sordid little ego, we must allow Vol ….. No, we should use his real name; we must allow Professor Rowling his petulant outburst of frenzy. He was having a petulant frenzy. He was petulant and he was having a frenzy. Here’s some of it:

“Aaaaaaargghhhh! I hate you, I hate you! You bastards! You’ve always hated me! God hates me, the bastard!” He paused. “No, no, I’m calm. I’m OK. It’s alright now. Phew!”. He straightened up.
“Damn and blast you all!”, boomed Rowling’s voice as once more hatred became his primary emotion, and fury overtook him. He stood up, flailing about frenziedly, and screamed, “You will all pay for this, bastards! I’ll take the bastard axe to you!”. To his astonishment, he was being man-handled by a security ‘operative’. ‘How dare they?’, he thought, as his incredulous expression was further expressed in words.

“Howw da-a-a-a-re yo-o-ou!”, he bellowed. He turned towards them, face contorted with venom, but apparently, his power had evaporated. Not even his will, once mighty and indefatigable, now remained true to him.
“Cool your boots, man.”, said the security officer.

What indeed had happened? What had happened to Professor Rowling’s plan for domination of the University of Middle England, faultless and ruthless in equal measure? He had been cunning, skillful, persistent and patient, overcoming adversity and enduring setbacks, but always single-minded. All his thoughts and stratagems had remained focussed on the one goal, as he steadily positioned himself nearer to its attainment. Now, he stood there, blinking, with the fearful look of a hunted animal. As his mental faculties faded, his only thought was that it was gone.
“It is gone. It is gone.” is all that he would say. His colleagues and associates looked at their leader askance.

“What is gone, Professor Rowling?”, but he hardly heard them. He didn’t know them. He suddenly found that he knew nothing. He crumbled mentally and physically, flopping to the floor, but it was not obvious to observers what would come next. The small figure of Hermetica Stranger, friend of Hapless Potts and, especially Roland Weasel, stood unnoticed amongst the gathered crowd. She looked at Rowling’s apparently dejected demeanour. ‘What is going to happen?’, she asked herself, ‘Would he suddenly rise up, and strike them down with some terrible blow? Or perhaps make a dramatic escape by leaping out of the room through the window, to be dashed to the ground three stories below, or perhaps to disappear, not to be found or seen by anyone, until the day his prophecy was fulfilled and he rose again to dominance in another place and time.’ Mingled fear and respect filled the minds of many present, and also loathing. Yes, loathing and disgust. ‘That was it’, thought Hermetica, ‘people can finally see him for the despicable and narcissistic creep he really is; a bullying dictator finally exposed and vulnerable. Helpless without the support of those he controlled by devious means, a disgusting wet faecal deposit smeared across the pavements of the lives of all those unfortunate enough to have had their paths cross with his’. She paused to reflect, ‘I wonder if I’m being just a little over-dramatic there’, she thought. She looked at empty space for a moment. ‘Nah!’.

“Silly tit”, came a rather posh-sounding voice from nearby. It was the outgoing Vice Chancellor, who was standing over the slumped form of Rowling. “Yes, silly tit!” chimed in another voice, this time that of the Pro Vice Chancellor for Science, Professor MacDonald Trumperbottom.

Another voice joined theirs, “Silly willy tit tit”, sang the chaplain, looking rather pleased with himself for being ‘street’, though he thought better of it, and sidled away quickly. Soon, the whole assembled gathering was singing, “Silly willy titty tit, silly tiiiitty titty tiiiiiit!” to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, whilst clasping hands across chests in the traditional manner as they danced around Rowling’s now seated, but cowering form. This merriment continued into the small hours after someone went to the off-licence and brought back a considerable volume of sherry, and Mrs Yorreth emerged wisely from the kitchens with some pastries and cakes she had made earlier. Rowling meanwhile was led away, eventually to be taken to a hospital for a full check-up. He spent several years in a home for the feeble, visited by no-one, eventually becoming known as Sour-arse, since he refused to associate with the other residents, and claimed that he was intellectually far above them and everybody else outside in the big bad world. When any visitors came to the home, however, Sour-arse hid in his room.