Tarquin, the munchkin receptionist, had heard of the Lion, but never before seen him. He had built himself up to become a lion of such stature and such muscle that he could fill an elevator by himself. He had conquered the whole of the West, which had been rumoured to be under the Old Witch’s control. It was said that even she was a more leniant dictator.

The tale of the Tin Man had been relayed across the land. Jerome had once thrown a brick at a man of tin, and Tarquin suspected that this was he. Looking at this pitious droid now made Tarquin’s heart sink just a little. It was rumoured that he killed munchkins and stole their hearts to be his own.

The poor scarecrow on the crooked chair should have been put to retirement years ago: it was this that had lead him here to plead once more for life, when he should be fading for death.

And the woman. She was a hero. And now she was mad.

Looking at these past-time heroes, Tarquin could hardly beleive that they ever deserved that title.