Before Sylvester the Jester...

[Drassil]

[Lord Fear has contacted Sylvester Hands via the Pool of Veracity. After a long wait...]

Lord Fear: Hands... Hands. Yes, there you are. Unpolishable as ever.

Sylvester Hands: Afternoon, yer lordship. 'Ang on, why aren't you calling me up on the vieswcr... the scriewvee... the big wall?

Fear: I got the old pool back off Treguard. He had to get rid of it after Majida fell in while fishing out pencils and got burned by the aqua veritatis. It served its purpose.

Hands: But it's so much smaller than the wall.

Fear: In the world of technomagical viewing devices, smaller is better. Sadly for you, that doesn't apply to brains. I still have to keep adjusting the picture manually... [He makes the devil horn gesture and rotates it over the water] ...but one of these days I'll go hands-free. Pun intended.

Hands: None taken.

Fear: Right. Well that's as much chit-chat as I can bear, so down to business. Oh, by the way, we're speaking on an ultra-secure channel. You can never be too careful. Which is what I'd say if I invented a way to travel into the past and met your parents just before their wedding night. Heh, what a ridiculous fantasy. Your parents having a wedding night. They can't have done, because you're a bastard.

Hands: It takes one to know one.

Fear: Hands, your compliments have come on leaps and bounds. Well done. Now, I have a burning question for you.

Hands: Cooked or raw?

Fear: No. I've been watching your encounters with dungeoneers and other folk, and time and again you introduce yourself with that ridiculous "'ands, like feet, but up the other end of yer body" routine. Isn't it a mite pretentious? Why not just "Hello, I'm Sylvester"?

Hands: It's so they don't get me mixed up with any other Sylvesters.

Fear: There are no other Sylvesters. You are, thankfully, unique.

Hands: Beggin' yer pardon, yer lordship, but how can you be so sure I ain't the only Sylvester?

Fear: Because that's just the way it works. There wasn't a Sylvester, then there was you, and there will never be another. With so many other names to choose from, it just would not happen.

Hands: But, yer lordship, I've been watching Brookside...

Fear: Brookside? Oh yes, I forgot: your ironic interest in soaps.

Hands: ...And Brookside's got two Jackies.

Fear: I happen to know that they're spelt differently. One is Jackie, the other is Jacqui, q-u-i.

Hands: I know I should. It leaks pus whenever I wink at Marta.

Fear: Not "cure your eye", "q-u-i"! The point is, Brookside may have bent the rule but it didn't break it. There may yet be other imbecilic misfits in the Dungeon, other greasy-haired chamberpots on legs, but there will only be one Sylvester.

Hands: The thing is, I've been havin' this recrur... recurdl... the same nightmare over and over, where a lost clown comes to the Dungeon, and 'e's stuck for a name, so 'e steals my name because it rhymes with jester.

Fear: So does Lester. And Chester. He'd pick one of those. Or he'd think of something completely original. It wouldn't be hard. Good grief, I'm starting to feel like an agony aunt. And the agony's all mine. Let me sum up. It is absolutely ludicrously unthinkable that the Knightmare Dungeon will ever have another inhabitant by the name of Sylvester. And you can trust me on that. I know your brain has probably not been able to retain the golden rule that I AM ALWAYS RIGHT. Though I did order you to get it as a tattoo.

Hands: I did. And when I saw your call coming in, I read it again as quick as I could.

Fear: So that's why it took you an hour to pick up.

Hands: Yeah, but it confused me, because why would I 'ave a tattoo telling me I'm always right if you're always right?

Fear: Remind me to send you for a trip under the old lion's head to get that tattoo removed. Look, I obviously need to convince you otherwise you'll never let this go, so listen up. In the impossible event that another Sylvester ever makes an appearance, may my nose grow for having lied to you, like Pinocchio.

Hands: Who?

Fear: Sorry, I'll rephrase. Like Piconic... Pincocchi... like that wooden puppet from the fairy story.

Hands: Ah. Gotcha.

Fear: Wait. Dealing with you with an even bigger nose might kill me. There's still time for me to modify the spell slightly before it cast-locks. In the impossible event that another Sylvester ever makes an appearance, may my head grow. Not that I have to worry about it happening anyway, because...

Hands: Because you are always... left.

Fear: I'm always left to deal with the scum of the Underworld. Well, Hands, I must dash. Let's do lunch sometime.

Hands: Really?

Fear: Yes. In separate timezones. Dismissed.