I have decided to write a mega-novel, one that I will work on until I die, much like Remembrance of Things Past by Proust or The Man Without Qualities by Musil. My work will be called The Procurement Man. This is the first novel/volume in that work.
THE LADIES PUT FAITH IN THE SHADE
By Toadsgoboad
Segment 1
Introduction: A Hazy Mass of Specifics
This piece was written on 10-6-06, a year and a half before the rest of the novel.
It was impressed upon me a hundred times or more that all one needed was an idea. Of course, were I to make this observation, there were plenty of relatives and older co-workers about to add that an idea wasn’t enough. One must work one’s butt off too, they would say. All well and good, I thought, but it was often hard enough for me to come up with the idea. Oh, I could make plans by the dozen in as many paces while shifting masticated wood pulp bricks at my place of employment and become hysterical at the sheer ingenuity of the ideas that came into my head, but put me in my home office with the children and the wife running about the house in a panic, heavy with samsara, and watch me waste another day in a mindless void, much like the one that turtles and deer must dwell in.
Often it is good to obtain help when confronted with such a difficulty. This help must be in the form of either an inanimate object or someone discreet enough not to blab that you needed help. As I know no one with an ounce of discretion, I went to an inanimate object when I had trouble with this page. I went to a homemade button bearing a picture of Jean Dubuffet.
“Tell me,” I said, “What can I write about today?”
“Try this.” The button said almost immediately. “There was a time when the lands all around this very spot you’re standing on were covered by a vast sea. This sea was soaked up by a giant sponge wielded by a giant named Pourboire. When the sponge was lifted away, there was only one damp spot left. That spot was the contents of a coffee cup held by Lagrober, a herald of the gods.”
“That’s enough!” I cried, covering my face. I threw the button into a drawer along with some other costume jewelry and an obsolete, hand-held video game that cried out to me “write about the ubiquity of computers!” before the darkness closed over it once again.
“I need coffee.” My brain begged. So it was extortion, was it? Well, I refused to give in. I determined that I would get my writing done even if I had to circumvent my brain to do so.
Pace
At my post at the supposed center of the labyrinth/ laboratory, I am removed from direct exposure to the antics of people like the President of the United States and the Rolling Stones. However, I am aware of their existence. Information reaches me by various means. I first learned about Prance Sabot and Dodge Wittles through documents that mysteriously appeared in a shoebox somewhere to the right of my desk. I would have sworn that that box was empty only the day before.
I mention all of this so that you won’t be confused later when I interject myself (who have little to do with the story) into the narrative. Also, I think such an introduction helps to set the tone.
Prance Sabot and Dodge Wittles; co-workers at Wilkes Brothers, a legume research company; and friends since some hazily pinpointed hour in grade school, lived in Squarto, a pretentious bywater in Zone 3. On the day this narrative properly commences they met in the locker room as Sabot was preparing to begin his shift and Wittles was just ending his.
“Are you aware that Burgerson has devalued the curly stem unit’s contribution to the rocket launcher project?” Wittles asked his old friend as the latter struggled into his bear costume.
“No, I’m not.” Sabot looked awestruck.
“I don’t know if it means less money for us or not.” Wittles stared into a corner of the room and pondered.
“Surely it will.”
“That’s what I figure.”
“Well, you’ll have to transfer to another unit.” Sabot was fully dressed except for the golden bear’s head helmet that lay on the bench beside him.
“I don’t think I can do that.” Wittles glanced at his friend. “Dammit, I get screwed every which way I turn!”
Sabot didn’t want to tell Wittles that he had know something of the kind would happen. He hadn’t really known, but he had thought that Wittles’ moving to the earlier shift had been meaningless and perhaps a little risky. Instead, he suggested that Wittles could come back to his shift.
“No way! All the good animal costumes are taken.” Wittles objected.
Settle
“Everyone knows Seattle is a town full of young people.” Carmen laughed at Prance Sabot’s ignorance. “It’s a young people town.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s so much a matter of my not knowing of its reputation as it is that I’ve never heard of it.” Sabot compounded his appearance as an untraveled hick in Carmen’s eyes.
“Never heard of it!” The woman, ten years Sabot’s junior, gawped frankly at the man across the table.
“Nope.” Sabot, who normally didn’t mind the blows to his ego that other men would find intolerable, now began to wish Carmen would drop the subject. Before she could explain all about the town (only one of many she had visited, apparently) Sabot shifted the subject somewhat. “I suppose by young people you mean the thin and attractive.”
“You are bitter, aren’t you?” She was attractive herself, if slightly plump. “But in all the right areas,” Sabot thought to himself. She had dark eyes, heavily made up; a scattering of freckles on her nose; dark, curly hair; and, most exciting of all, a raspy voice. She was clothed all in black.
“People with the entirety of their futures ahead of them. People with no reason yet to suspect that life holds nothing in store for them but debilitation and failure.” Sabot continued, smiling in appreciation of his own bitterness.
Later that evening, as Sabot drove home, he listened to Dr. Shad Canardy on the radio speak about the great threats looming over Zone 3. Sabot began to fret over his failure to leave the land of his birth back when he had a chance. Some part of his mind told him to avoid such distressing talk, but there was nothing else he could listen to on the radio.
“It’s all either bands that I’ve never heard of before or bands from my ‘past’ that are only on to make me feel nostalgic. Besides, I hate not being in control of what I’m going to listen to.” This was more or less how his thoughts ran on the subject.
As soon as he finished paying off the debts he had inherited from his family, he was determined to buy a CD player for his car. That was something he hadn’t told Carmen. He knew what she would say.
“You’re still listening to CDs?”
“If she was a man, I’d hate her.” Sabot admitted.
Basket-Riding Dog
The ailments that Burgerson suffered from were alleviated by the sight of the dog riding in the basket on Lady Bagel’s (Felton Wilkes’ wife’s) bicycle. How proudly he sits, Burgerson thought as he watched dog, woman, and bike moving through the ornamental bean vines that ringed the parking lot. He laughed at how cute the dog looked.
“Something funny, Burgerson?” Dodge Wittles asked as he headed for his car.
“No.” Burgerson replied, though it took quite an effort to summon the coldness proper in a supervisor of his standing. He took a last happy glance at the dog, now almost out of sight, before heading for his own car.
As he slipped behind the wheel Burgerson noted, almost fearfully, that he felt no pain or stiffness. The sudden cessation of these symptoms brought an unwanted bubble of fragile hope to the surface of his consciousness. He forced himself to drive cautiously to his house. Once there, he stepped out of the car expectantly. There was no pain in his legs, feet, or back. He raised his arms over his head and felt no pain. Unaccustomed as he was to running, he yet made an effort at it, sprinting up the front steps to his door.
“Marla!” He called as he stepped inside. He wanted to tell his wife of this miracle that had taken place. He still didn’t understand exactly what had happened, nor was he at all confident that it would last longer than the next minute, but this was the kind of thing one had to share. However, there was no answer. The house’s silence told him that Marla had gone out.
He half expected his disappointment to bring on an immediate relapse, but, as he walked to the kitchen, he still felt great. He had to admit it: he felt great.
“I feel great!” He shouted.
“Who are you?” A voice asked.
Burgerson turned and followed the sound of the voice into the living room, where he found a large parrot perching on a brass stand. A note taped to the stand read, “This Sparky. I bought him today. I have gone out to buy him some special treats. Marla.”
“Sparky?” Burgerson questioned, looking at the bird.
“That’s my name.” The parrot answered.
Burgerson felt a twinge shoot through his left shoulder.
Bottlebrush
Most of the land surrounding Wilkes Brothers was owned by the company. However, there was one small lot, the home of the Maidenhead Bottlebrush Works, that had escaped the company’s imperial ambitions. Periodically the subject of this lone holdout came up in meetings of the top executives.
“I came to work today the back way.” Chet Helmsman announced casually to his fellows around the black table in the Alpha room
“Oh, yes?” Dirk Hooper took his pipe out of his mouth to acknowledge Helmsman’s announcement.
“I saw that Maidenhead Bottlebrush Works is still in business.”
“When are we going to do something about that?” Allen Rains asked. “D.F.?” He directed the question to D.F. Planking, the most senior man in the room, a man for whom the Maidenhead problem went back decades.
Planking raised his grey head from his chest. “Maidenhead, did you say?” He asked. “Well, I’ve asked Lord Bagel several times for permission to have the place burned down, but he still feels that’s a bit risky.”
“Lord Bagel is a wise man.” Helmsman firmly declared.
“Undoubtedly.” Rains affirmed.
“Gentlemen,” Dirk Hooper called out, eyeing everyone once, “to Lord Bagel!”
“Hear, hear!” Everyone cried, banging on the table or punching the air, as was his wont.
One of these executives, Todd Pigger, although banging the table and cheering the surviving Wilkes brother along with his peers, outwardly agreeing to whatever position had supposedly been taken, inwardly decided to look into this Maidenhead business to see if there was something he could do, something that might bring greater glory to Wilkes Brothers and himself.
“What do you know about Maidenhead Bottlebrush Works?” He asked his secretary, Rosalyn.
“The company has wanted their property for years.” The lean, buxom redhead replied. “They made several generous offers, but the old man that owns it won’t sell. Every so often it gets brought up again, but it’s always forgotten again.”
“What’s the old man’s name?” Pigger asked.
“Vic Gaucho.”
The Ass of the Rat
“They tell me you’ve done work for the company before.” Todd Pigger addressed the rangy, haggard fellow on the other side of the desk.
“This and that. Always under contract.” The man’s voice was heavy with the accent of the Southerners, the poverty-stricken, rural people to the south of Squarto. Despite the accent, which Pigger always associated with rank stupidity, Pigger could tell that this man was no fool. There were both menace and resolution in his eyes.
“There’s a place of business around the corner,” Pigger pointed to his left, “Maidenhead Bottlebrush Works…”
“I know it.” The other man said softly, nodding.
“The company wants their land. Now,” Pigger spread his hands, “We’re willing to pay for it, of course, but it seems the old man that runs the place doesn’t want to sell. If…” He paused for effect, feeling melodramatic, “He were to die, perhaps his family might feel differently.”
“They won’t.”
“How’s that?” Pigger snapped, as if someone had contested the fact that the sky is up.
“I know the family. The old man’s two sons are just as determined to keep the business. I have a feeling that goes for the rest of them.”
“I don’t care if they keep the business; it’s the land we want. We’ll pay them more than enough to move their little shop elsewhere.”
“This is a family pride thing. They mean to hold on to that land.” The man seemed certain about this. Pigger looked into his eyes. He rubbed his chin.
“Well, then. What if they all were to die?” He asked.
“That would put things on a different footing.”
Pigger sighed.
“I don’t want to have to do that yet.” He said.
“I’m willing.” The rangy man assured him in a calm voice.
Pigger glanced at him. “Well, so am I, if it comes to that. But it hasn’t yet.” He wanted it known who was in charge. “I want to try something else first. Do you think you can burn the place down?”
“I know I can.” Replied the man, and, receiving Pigger’s nod, he rose from his chair and left.
Snicker
Vic Gaucho had two sons, Bernie and Herbie. They, in turn, had two children each. Bernie had a son aged eleven and a daughter aged fourteen. Herbie had two daughters, aged nine and twelve. The old man’s wife had died several years before. With her passing, Gaucho’s resistance to his sons’ ideas for modernizing the business gave way. He stayed on, running things as he always had, turning out bottlebrushes in the traditional manner, but left the new enterprises to Bernie and Herbie. That he did so was an important part of their plans, for what they were doing was secret. Of course, Vic Gaucho knew what they were up to, even if he didn’t understand it.
He came into the works on Friday as usual, pleased to see that Ralph and Ned, the two college boys who ran the bristle assembly, were more than usually diligent. As he watched them scurrying about, one of them spied him and called out, “Mr. Gaucho, Herbie wants to see you in the back.”
Gaucho nodded and headed towards the off-limits work area everyone referred to as “the back.”
“Dad!” Bernie Gaucho cried as his father passed through the tall, heavy curtains that ringed the work area.
“Bernie.” The elder Gaucho returned the greeting. “You boys are here early.”
“Today’s the day, Dad.” Bernie wiped his hands on his apron. “Let me call Herbie. Herbie!”
The younger of the two brothers appeared at the top of the scaffolding that surrounded their secret project. He waved. “Hi, Dad!”
“Good morning.” Gaucho replied, staring up at the colossal apparatus.
“Herbie, come on down and let’s start the run-through.” Bernie called.
“OK.” Herbie climbed out of the top of the assemblage of machinery and began to descend the scaffolding.
“So today’s the day, eh?” Vic Gaucho asked. “Six months of work. Are you sure you’re ready?”
“I’m positive, Dad.” Bernie didn’t want any more of his father’s doubts, not at this stage. Hadn’t he proved himself with the preliminary tests? Anyway, it didn’t matter. This was it. When Herbie reached the floor, Bernie unveiled the remote control panel.
Pink Beard
Germaine reckoned, not without some justification, that were the arms of the figure she was sculpting raised aloft, it might be mistakenly judged to be in a state of religious devotion. She solved this problem by placing a suckling pig, complete with apple in its mouth, in the figure’s hands.
“They still might mistake it for some kind of religious posture,” Germaine explained to Pamela, her sister-in-law, “As if the pigling is an offering of some kind.”
“Piglet.” Pamela corrected.
“What did I say?”
“Pigling.”
“I like the sound of pigling. It’s cute.”
“And you’re painting this one.” Pamela played along with the subject of the conversation, though she was not all that interested. She was just waiting until it was her return to talk about her latest project.
“Yes. He’s going to have a mighty pink beard.” Germaine glanced at the statue. She and Pamela sat in the wood-floored den, the far side of which served as her studio.
“I’ve just started a new novel.” Pamela announced, seizing her chance.
“Have you? How many does that make for the year?”
“If I finish it before the year’s up it’ll be four for the year, but I’m not going to rush this one. I want this one to be perfect.”
“Good luck.” Thought Germaine. She had never been able to finish one of Pamela’s bizarre, self-published books. Pamela wrote under the pen name of Henry Sideboard. Her works included such titles as Serving Suggestions, Comatose Condor Regrets, and The Angrier of the Twins. Germaine smiled encouragingly and took another sip of her tea. She was perceptive enough to realize that Pamela (and many other people) probably felt similarly about her own art.
“The new one is called Roger the Ugly.” Pamela continued, unable to keep this information to herself. She thought it rather a clever title, especially since (so far) there was no character named Roger in the book.
“Maybe that’s what I’ll title this piece.” Germaine joked, nodding at the statue. She instantly regretted her flippancy. Pamela’s eyes widened.
“I could use it for the cover art on the book!” She gasped.
Pasteboard Totem
Rather than set out immediately on his mission, Nolan Soker, the man charged by Todd Pigger with the task of burning down Maidenhead Bottlebrush Works, returned to his small camper in the Fetlock Woods and made ritual obeisance to the image of his god, Gurkes. This image, a pasteboard construction housed in the disused bathroom in the camper, was surrounded by as many of its traditional complements as Soker had been able to procure. The photograph of Jennifer Jones, for example, had thus far eluded Soker, so he had kidnapped a woman from the Steerlunger’s Quarter, dressed her in a wig and forties style clothing, and taken her picture. This picture was now glued in place between the packet of ketchup from Chicken Chief and the card bearing the right thumbprint of a bald man.
Soker, who had been raised a Southern Baptist, but had converted to the worship of Gurkes during a lengthy prison sentence, chanted the prayer of supplication to his homemade idol before detailing his plans for committing arson and, hopefully, murder. He gathered a handful of confetti made from a year-old newspaper and a pair of women’s underpants (his kidnap victim had supplied the latter) and tossed it in the air to complete the ceremony.
As he exited the bathroom feeling a curious mixture of satisfaction and anticipation, a sharply executed double rap came at the door to the camper. Soker glanced about at the weapons and extremist literature on display, too much to be hidden with a quick flourish, and cautiously approached the door. A peep through the window showed him the policemen outside.
“What do you want?” He shouted.
“We want to talk to you.” Came the answer.
“Go ahead and talk.”
“We’d like you to open the door.”
“I don’t have to open the door for anybody.” Soker knew his rights. He had made a thorough study of the limits of government authority.
“Are you Nolan Soker?” The policeman asked.
Soker hesitated.
“What if I am?”
“Then you’re wanted for questioning in connection with the kidnapping and murder of Carol Eveningtide.”
Silo
One of the properties that Wilkes Brothers had acquired over the years was an old farm. In buying almost all of the land adjacent to their corporate campus, the company had acted more out of a policy of preparedness than on any specific plan. Thus most of the acquired properties were left fallow. So it was with the old farm. On the northwestern corner of this farm stood a silo, surrounded by the unchecked weeds that covered the rest of the property.
A closer inspection of these weeds, however, would reveal a narrow path running through them from the nearby highway to the silo. This path had been beaten by feet belonging to Dr. Curtis Frank and his assistants Dave and Carlo. Frank worked for Wilkes Brothers in the Theoretical Interface Department, a department created especially for Frank to pursue his own line of research.
Dave and Carlo had parked the company car in the little clearing amid the thicket of mimosa and Russian olive by the side of the highway and were walking up the path to the silo. As they walked they discussed Dave’s relationship with Bridget, his girlfriend.
“I hope to god she’s not pregnant.” Dave was emphatic.
“Well, if she is, you just get it taken care of.” Carlo reasoned.
“What if she doesn’t want to?”
“She’s not stupid, Dave. She knows having a baby right now will not only ruin her life, but yours.”
“I need to make plans to leave the zone.”
“Don’t talk crazy.” Carlo remonstrated, unlocking the chain on the gate that allowed passage through the fence around the farm.
“Crazily.” Dave mentally corrected Carlo’s grammar.
“There’s nothing outside the zone for a guy like you.”
Dave admitted to himself that this was probably true. Still, he longed to see for himself, pregnancy or not. He realized that he was just grabbing at an excuse to leave the zone as he had for nearly ten years now.
“Nothing but monsters.” Carlo muttered.
“Well, we have those right here.” Dave replied, pointing at the silo. He stopped, as did his colleague. The door at the base of the silo was open.
“It’s escaped.” Carlo jumped to the same conclusion that Dave had.
Tape
The tape had been labeled “Luau on Chester’s Planet” and consisted of ninety minutes of the densest of music concrete. Its arrival at The Chicken Chief Disinformation Apostle’s secret headquarters had caused no little confusion.
“Whoever made this doesn’t have access to modern sound cube technology.” One of the masked apostles posited after yet another sampling of the tape.
“Not necessarily.” Apostle Jonas argued. “The tape could have been made years ago.”
“But what about the reference to Governor Grabdel?” Someone else in the room, as yet unidentified, reminded them all.
“Prophetic, perhaps?” Apostle Jamrag offered, glancing at his friend Jonas.
“Come on!” Several apostles groaned.
“There’s another possibility.” The first apostle, whose name was a secret even to the others, put a finger behind his mask to scratch his nose. “The person, or persons, may have opted to use an obsolete technology to make an aesthetic or political statement.”
“That’s crazy. What kind of person would voluntarily use primitive tape?”
Apostle Digby wandered away from the discussion. He walked in his fuzzy chicken’s feet shoes until he came to the Shrine of the Haunted Beak. A gilded statue of a fully liberated and puissant Chicken Chief occupied the niche there. He sighed, disheartened at the ease with which his brother apostles were distracted from their appointed task. Sometimes he felt as if he were the only one who truly felt the sufferings of their enslaved lord. After a few minutes of quiet reflection, he was joined by Apostle Gary, a normally kindly man whose wrath, once kindled (for example in a particularly calamitous protest outside of a Chicken Chief restaurant), could be terrible to behold.
“Where do you think this ‘Chester’s Planet’ is?” Gary asked Digby.
“I don’t know and frankly I don’t care.” Digby huffed.
“Maybe you should.” Gary mused solemnly.
Digby was impressed by Gary’s seriousness. “Why?” He asked.
“Perhaps Chester’s Planet is where our lord is imprisoned.” Gary theorized.
Digby’s mouth fell open. “You don’t mean it?” He gasped.
“We’ve searched our own planet fairly thoroughly.” Gary reminded him.
Glitter
Dodge Wittles was meticulous in the application of glitter to his face.
“This will help me fit in with the young people.” He thought with an eagerness he had not experienced in years. “Not since I started taking tennis lessons.” he realized with the breathlessness that came to him sometimes when the lost expanse of time loomed before him with unusual clarity. “Now for the jacket.” Wittles said to himself as he approached the chair over which the jacket lay draped.
It was white vinyl, covered with red rhinestones. He hadn’t been able to afford the matching pants, so had to make do with a pair of black chinos. As he stood before the full-length mirror he asked himself, “Now, what shoes are you going to wear with that?”
“It’ll have to be black shoes.” He answered. Part of him wondered, however, if the young people would find white shoes a startlingly sexy look. It was too bad the only white shoes he had were a pair of canvas boat shoes. Totally inappropriate. He went with the black shoes he had bought to wear to his uncle’s funeral the year before.
After hanging a rather smart-looking medallion on a thin gold chain around his neck he was ready to head out the door. The young people were waiting.
The Bronzed Toilet was, according to the information Wittles had been given, the hippest (how he gloried in using that word!) bar in the relatively small area that comprised downtown Squarto. He nodded manfully at the dead-eyed bruiser collecting the cover charge at the door.
“Five dollars.” Came the bored request. Wittles could tell by the man’s accent that he came from one of the northern zones, perhaps even Zone 1. Wittles paid and started to walk inside. He turned back and asked, “Don’t you want to see my ID?”
“Nah, it’s alright.”
This was a bad sign. Obviously, Wittles was old enough to drink, but did the man suspect just how old he was? He made for the darkness of the interior where he might pass for a relative child.
“What kind of music is this?” He asked a sufficiently nerdy-looking fellow after enduring fifteen minutes of the most ridiculously vapid garbage he had ever heard.
“This is a dance remix of some old song.” The nerd replied. “Something by Avril Lavigne.”
Chap
Among the many elixirs prepared for the chap by the lady in the airman’s costume was one that resembled, both in appearance and texture, the secret rocket fuel developed by Wilkes Brothers for the Anti-Rocket Commission.
“In taste, however,” The chap mused, smacking his lips, “It reminds me more of the pinkest of pink lemonade.”
“How astute you are!” The lady cried. “Pink is one of the major ingredients.”
“Really?” The chap questioned, pleasantly surprised that he had guessed correctly. “What else is in it?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that.”
As the chap drove back to the memorial compound that evening he grew angrier by the quarter mile over the lady’s refusal to reveal the remainder of the ingredients.
“Do you think your irrational anger may have something to do with the elixir you drank?” The chap’s driving companion, an inflatable doughnut with the legs and arms of a typical Frenchman, asked him solicitously.
“Irrational, is it?” The chap snarled, stabbing at the doughnut with the tire gauge, but not actually coming within an inch of the latter’s vinyl hide. Together they laughed the last quarter mile until the car entered the compound.
“All laughter must cease.” Bruno informed them as they passed by his folding chair. “The Bambatter paid us a visit while you were out.”
“How many dead?” The chap asked as he climbed out of the cramped cabin of the rocket sled.
“None, thank Gurkes,” Bruno handed the chap a sausage to comfort him. “But the infirmary was destroyed.”
“Dammit!” The chap cursed through a mouthful of sausage. “My grandfather built that infirmary!”
“I know it.” Bruno nodded. He approved of the chap’s sentiments. They befitted one of such a noble lineage. “I was born there.”
“Were you really?” The chap wiped his mouth on a rag provided by one of the inflatable goslings standing nearby. “I didn’t know that.”
As they two men walked to the main house discussing the chap’s unprecedented hospital birth, the doughnut fell into a deep sleep.
Cereal Box
The front of the cereal box was dominated by a picture of a bowl filled with the cereal purportedly inside. The monstrous face of a child peered down upon it, delight evident in its eyes and hungry mouth as it took in the bizarre shapes of the individual cereal pieces. These shapes were based on the eight sacred objects of the Kangarooster religion; the various colors in which they appeared were merely to appeal to the happily simplistic mind of a child. The actual sacred objects were reportedly black and silver. The cereal’s name, Talisman Tufts, was printed in red across the upper fifth of the front, obscuring the child’s forehead.
“This is probably a good thing,” Nurseper commented, “For, knowing the model as I do, his forehead was probably covered in acne.”
“Let’s continue to the back of the box.” Hagerson urged.
The back of the box, as discussed in the secret meeting, contained the first installment of Prance Sabot’s new novel, Xeno-Crony, a Story of Strangers and Friends.
“I disapproved of the parenthetical title.” Sabot explained to his guest as the latter shook a handful of Talisman Tufts into a bowl. “Do you want milk?” Sabot asked her.
“No, I’m dairy free.” She answered, picking up a piece of the cereal. Her name was Carmen Frenchest. “How many installments will it take to print the whole novel?” She asked as she crunched on the lightly sweetened breakfast food.
“If they actually complete the project,” Sabot looked dubious indeed at this, “It will take forty different boxes of cereal.”
“Forty!” Carmen put another piece of cereal in her mouth. “A person would have to be pretty devoted to make it all the way through.”
Sabot wondered whether she meant devoted to the cereal or his novel.
“Well, what do you think of it?” He nodded at the bowl, though apparently she thought he meant the first installment.
“I can’t tell yet. I’ll have to see what happens next.” She smiled. Her smile was like a mug of cold milk.
“It is doubtful she will finish reading his book.” Nurseper sneered.
“A woman like that should be reserved for executives only.” Hagerson growled.
Carve
I doubt I’ll get much drawing done today. Orders have just come in for a statue of Bambatter, the creature escaped from the silo, to be prepared. According to the specifications of plan R16, under which the preparation of this statue is to be executed, the statue is to be carved from a single block of mesquite no more than fifteen cubic feet and no less than nine.
Yeeee-HAWWW, indeed.
I must obey these orders for they come from the random outlay of aesthetic directive cards, a set of tools invented by me long before I’d ever heard of Brian Eno’s own equivalent.
“Sure.” Toni the Sassy One sneers dismissively.
Bambatter, a conjunction of a rare bean vine and one or more rhinoceroses, is approximately twenty feet tall. Due to the special nature of the plant mind, he is constantly developing extra personalities as his own pods ripen. Unfortunately, these pods are doomed never to grow into monsters themselves as they do no fall into Dr. Frank’s unique soil mixture as they drop off Bambatter’s central vine.
“These details,” Mr. Norris (Don in disguise) began with the look of distaste on his leathery face, “Are they really necessary?”
“Of course.” The android wearing a Phil mask replied. “One can’t have a proper monster movie without showing the monster. I hate the school of thought that says that not showing the monster is somehow conducive to building the suspense.”
“Is this a movie? I was under the impression it was a book.” Lincoln Strassman, a minor character whose only purpose, aside from broaching the movie or book subject, is to transfer my wood shavings from the workshop to the furnace (and he’s not very good at even that), said with more confusion in his voice than even the most simple-minded reader has in his mind right now.
“Your impressions are shallow.” Snapped the Phildroid. “Get those wood shavings downstairs.”
“I think this is a load of shit.” Toni the Sassy One’s mouth was turned down.
“Nobody cares what you think.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Go file an EEO.”
Segment 2
The Moon Has Never Looked So Tasty
“Where do you think we should go?” Prance Sabot asked Dodge Wittles as the two hurriedly strapped themselves into their seats at the top of the ambulometor.
“I have no idea.” Wittles said breathlessly. With his face covered in glitter and his rhinestone jacket he looked like a visitor from deep space rock ‘n’ roll. Sabot engaged the mechanics with the easy-to-use controls. The ambulometor began to vibrate.
“This thing is built for space, you know.” Sabot hinted.
“OK.” Anything was alright with Wittles at this point.
“That’s where I’m going then.” Sabot looked questioningly at his friend.
“Whatever. Let’s do it.”
The scaffolding began to fall from around the ambulometor. The machine rose into the air as a circular hole in the roof opened above it.
“Prance,” Wittles sounded scared. “I don’t want to go too far out.”
“How about the moon?”
“Sounds good.” Everyone knew the moon wasn’t too far away.
Their voyage occupied less time than one would suspect, based on one’s lifetime of reading on the subject. The ambulometor, more a giant robot than a rocket, was able to take advantage of various footholds along the way that no previous craft could have made use of. Sabot and Wittles were just finishing a game of gin rummy when they came within sight of one of the large signs indicating that the moon was now called Chester’s Planet.
“That’s odd.” Wittles declared, scratching his head.
“Yes. I wonder which Chester they mean.”
“When did all this take place?” Wittles asked, gesturing at the colorful architecture below them.
“Looks like casinos, doesn’t it?” Sabot directed the ambulometor towards a large ‘X’ painted within a circle not far from the entrance to one of the gaudy buildings.
They were greeted by Mr. Purbrick, one of Chester’s top people. He smilingly offered them each a free drink from the tray slung around the neck of a beautiful girl. Sabot asked Purbrick who Chester was.
“Chester is Chester Davis, our founder.” Purbrick replied.
Loopcode’s Apartment
Loopcode, as free-range a chicken as ever declined the “thrill” of climbing a mountain, had his apartment in one of sixteen turrets adorning the David Tranquility Building. He introduced his nephew Cornell to the cleaning lady as she was leaving for the day and then showed him around the place.
“Don’t mind Brenda.” Loopcode instructed. “You do know how to treat servants, don’t you?”
“Just like everyday people?” Cornell guessed.
“Well, in essence.” Loopcode fluttered his eyelids. “You use your best manners. You don’t act like a tyrant from some fairy tale. Say please and thank you and so forth, but never let them become familiar with you. They aren’t your friends and they never will be. Now,” Loopcode drew Cornell by the sleeve towards the living room. “You’ll be staying in the guest room. You can go into my room to look for a book or something, but don’t sleep in my bed and don’t use my bathroom.”
“Oh, no.” Cornell agreed with a look of true horror.
“I want to thank you for doing this.” Loopcode told his nephew. “I can’t abide the thought of what might happen while I’m away.”
This sounded like more manners to Cornell. He was the one who should be thanking Loopcode for allowing him to stay in this expensively furnished, luxurious apartment. To Cornell, this was a rare treat. He didn’t dare let on to Loopcode that he felt this way, however. Further restrictions might be imposed as a kind of “payment.” He walked his uncle to the cab and returned to the apartment.
The first thing he did was go through Loopcode’s LPs.
“An anachronism,” Loopcode had admitted. “But all the more prestigious for being so.”
Cornell selected an album by the long-forgotten Prog rock band Halfling’s Gander and stretched out on the big leather sofa. He fell into a daydream in which he owned and lived in an apartment of equal luxury and taste, an apartment, in fact, the double of the one he was now house-sitting. In the daydream he invited his parents over for dinner.
“This is how you’re supposed to decorate.” He told them with bitterness and condescension in his voice like aspartame in children’s yogurt.
The Gavial Treats its Young to Soapsuds
“Children, children,” The gavial (a red one from Miami named Annie) called its young in from the yard, where they were playing Hose Down the Cowboy.
“Yes, Mommy?” The gavial’s children asked as they came into the kitchen.
“I have a treat for you three. Have you ever tried soapsuds?”
“Soapsuds? What’s that?”
“It’s masses of bubbles created by the interaction of soap and water.” Annie the gavial tried to teach her children a little science whenever she could. Math, too; for instance, after she had placed the saucers piled high with soapsuds before the children, she asked them, “Now, would you say that each of these saucers contain more or less than a hundred individual bubbles?”
“More!” Harland declared instantly.
“More!” Rebecca followed her older brother’s lead.
“I don’t see any bubbles!” Cried Manfred. He looked as if tears were about to spring from his eyes.
“Look closely.” Annie instructed. She pointed the tiny bubbles out. Manfred leaned close to the saucer.
“They’re tiny!” He shouted.
“I told you.”
“How do you expect us to count such tiny bubbles?”
“I’m not. You’ve got to learn to estimate. Obviously, that’s more than a hundred bubbles.”
“It’s more than a thousand!” Harland cried with wonder.
“Yes, probably so. But they’re quickly popping and all you’ll be left with is a plate full of soapy water, so hurry up and eat them.”
In the midst of wolfing down their treat the children looked up at their mother.
“Aren’t you going to have any?” They asked.
“No, I had a honey bun earlier.” Annie replied.
“Ooh, gross!” They scowled. Adults ate such disgusting things.
As they were finishing the last soapy mouthfuls, their father returned home. He looked bedraggled and lachrymose.
“The factory burned down.” He announced.
Trickfish
“How much longer are you going to keep us in suspense?” One of the peasants asked. He wore a bright red cap on his head that gave a festive accent to his otherwise drab appearance.
“Hold your horses, red cap.” I begged, offering the man one of my friendliest, most natural smiles.
“Smiles I have in abundance, magician, but of horses I have none. We are a poor people, used to waiting for the good things that never come, but we won’t wait forever for you to reveal your surprise.”
“Speak for yourself, Hudson.” An older woman dressed in a black trash bag reprimanded the man. “Go ahead, Mr. Magician.” She turned a smiled on me nearly the equal of mine in friendliness, though she was missing a number of teeth.
“Thank you, madam.” I said. “Now, how many of you know what this is?” I held up what appeared to be an ordinary duck egg. Most of the crowd held up their hands. Some folded their arms with open hostility. One man licked his lips.
“Ordinarily,” I continued, “You would expect a bird of some kind to emerge from this egg, now wouldn’t you?” I nodded heavily, prompting them to play along. “However, if I drop the egg into this transparent bucket of water and say the magic words, something unexpected may happen.” My eyes were wide, inviting them to feel the excitement. I held the egg over the bucket and dropped it, saying the magic words taught to me by Sloopy Snorkel, one of the last of the old-time sorcerers.
“Pocahontas Tornada!”
The egg broke on the bottom of the bucket and from it burst the trickfish, a semi-legendary creature related to the hellhound. Quickly expanding to four times in size, it put its canine snout above the surface of the water and drew itself up by its front fins.
“Hello, everybody!” It saluted in a voice youthful, yet full of wisdom.
“The demon speaks!” The peasant in the red cap cried, drawing back.
“I like that hat.” The trickfish tried to establish a rapport with the man, but his fellow villagers surrounded him, warning him that the demon would seize his hat as a hostage to ransom for his soul.
Toodelooger
Learning to count came easily for Karen and Jeff, once the Toodelooger entered their lives. With his big, funny face and unwavering dedication to the job, the Toodelooger made everything so fun.
“I think he’s a giant cat.” Jeff speculated during his and Karen’s trip to Ireland.
“But he doesn’t have any whiskers.” Objected Karen. She and Jeff were sitting in a colorful old pub drinking stout and trying to stay out of the argument two tables over that would rapidly evolve into a brawl if American foreign policy didn’t change.
In the meantime, the Toodelooger, waiting for his two pupils to return, removed his head and revealed himself to be actor Heath Farnsworth. He gestured to a nearby servant and mimed the act of drinking. The servant brought him a plastic bottle of mineral water.
“Where’s Juan?” Farnsworth asked, referring to the director of the TV program on which he, Jeff, and Karen appeared.
“I don’t know, Mr. Farnsworth.”
“Well, could you find out?” Farnsworth demanded sarcastically. “I’m hot and I still have questions.”
“Yes sir.” The servant dashed away, going so far in his search that he even poked his head into the colorful old pub in time to rescue Karen and Jeff from almost certain confrontation.
“Thanks, Milton.” Jeff deigned to say.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Keith. By the way, have you seen Mr. Gomez?”
“No, I haven’t.” Jeff answered and wandered off with Karen to explore the quaint ruins of a castle by the sea.
By the time the servant returned to Farnsworth’s dressing room the director and the actor were in a deep discussion, so he sneaked away to smoke a joint.
“I don’t understand something, Juan.” Farnsworth told the old Spaniard.
“What’s that, Heath?”
“If all of our programming is now going out over the web and being seen on computers, why are the shows still referred to as TV shows? Shouldn’t they be called computer shows?”
“I don’t have any answers for you, Heath.” Gomez confessed.
Reptilian Façade
The front of the building was designed to look like a great, yawning iguana.
“The iguana yawns because it has seen the world pass by before.” The old taco master explained to the tourists, three of whom were our old friends Ron, Paul, and Dudex. Like their fellows in the group, they wore the little white bucket hats embroidered with their names and the vests with the name of their ship printed clearly on the back, but, unlike the rest of the simple-minded slobs from the Slutty Cork, our friends carried the Word of God in their hearts.
“A pagan belief.” Dudex whispered to Ron. Ron nodded in response. Paul, still afflicted with the curse the devil-woman put on him in episode sixteen, found it hard to pay attention. It was all he could do to stand erect in the noonday sun. There would be no snide whispering to him today. If he could only last until they were inside the building.
“Excuse me,” A stout man with legs hairless from middle age spoke up. “But isn’t this building the same building that the Cult of Monkey Rambo used for their headquarters during the uprising?”
Dudex tugged on the sleeve of Ron’s bright red shirt as Ron stiffened at the man’s question. Paul clenched his teeth. Why was this old fool delaying their entrance?
“You have sharp eyes, American tourist man.” The old taco master replied. “Yes, this is the same building. I see that the reptilian façade has not fooled you.”
The stout man turned smugly to his wife standing beside him. She smiled by frowning and swatted him with the information booklet the ship had provided. Her pride was as evident on her face as the years she had spent working the rich, black soil of Vermont.
“Moving right along…” Dudex whispered to Ron and Paul staggered towards the building’s entrance.
“You are in a hurry?” The old taco master joked as Paul passed him. The master, filling in for the regular tour guide while the latter was getting married, beckoned the group forward. They followed Paul into the dim and dusty interior of the building.
“Where is the sacred altar of Monkey Rambo?” Paul croaked, glancing about desperately, eager to restore his enfeebled spiritual energies.
Mesotudic Flute Lude
I was scrounging for change one spring evening in the early 1960’s when a vision of reassuring completeness came to me like a lost opal. My hunger for pastries vanished with the arrival of this understanding and I ceased my scrounging. I no longer cared whether I had written a run-on sentence or not. Everything made sense in my life and fitted into an overall plan. More importantly, I fitted into an overall plan. I strolled out of the Jazzworks skinny tie plant and got into my Studebaker.
“Damn sharp car.” I commented, running my hand over the dash, a little disconcerted to note that the pain had not completely left my wrist.
“Did you get your pastry?” Goose Rampant, sitting in the passenger seat, asked.
“No.” I started the motor. It responded like a man eating a sausage biscuit.
“Couldn’t find enough change?” Goose Rampant, perhaps wanting to know that the time he spent waiting for me in the car had not been wasted, asked.
“No. That’s not it.” I headed the car, not towards the airport as we had discussed earlier, but back towards the site of the dimensional plane’s appearance.
“Where are you going?” My passenger sounded alarmed.
“To face down my darkest fears.”
“You’re crazy. Everyone in the city has fled.”
“Yeah. Too bad I won’t have much of an audience.” I grinned at my joke, glanced into the mirror to admire my still-youthful smile.
“You can just let me out here.” Goose Rampant, always the humorous sidekick, gestured at a gas station on the right, blasted by a beam from the dimensional plane’s beam weapon. Blackened bodies lay amid the twisted wreckage of Studebakers.
“No time for that now.” I let him know. “You mind if I listen to some music?” I put in one of various Urge Overkill CDs into the car’s sterile anachronism and pushed the automobile to greater speed. Within minutes we passed by the remains of the once-mighty bank and drove within sight of the immense, purple, interstellar artifact sitting in the middle of the rubble like a cantaloupe in an overgrown field. I stopped the car as close as I dared.
“I don’t want to get a flat tire.” I explained.
“Your caution is commendable.” Old Goose mumbled.
Hawk Stole Cleaner
It is Yoko Ono’s eightieth birthday. As she celebrates with a cigarette fitted into a nineteenth century ivory holder, a crowd gathers in the streets outside. It is like when Pablo Picasso and Coco Chanel hid in their apartments in Paris, while the rest of the city was at war.
I have come from Baltimore in a special bicycle aircraft to avoid the scrutiny of the secret police. America has them, you know. They look just like any other lawyers, but they dress in t-shirts that say “God Bless America” and bear pictures of tractors. In the pocket of my tunic are the secret documents that will exonerate Mr. Eliot, Ono’s friend and companion of the last fifty years. I had intended to surprise them, landing on the roof and sneaking into the penthouse through a skylight, but my cough, which has gotten no better over the course of the previous year, betrays me.
“Ronson,” Yoko instructs one of her servants, “Let Mr. Cleaner in.” The big Ukrainian opens one of the French doors on the patio and I step in.
“Happy birthday!” I say cheerfully. I know I have a funny face. I know that now after many years of confusion. I know the reaction I will get and why.
Yoko, however, does not respond as expected. The apartment stinks of smoke.
“Thank you.” She says flatly. “Did you bring the documents?”
“Got them right here.” I pat my pocket. “Now, how about a birthday kiss?” I ask, moving forward, hoping she will say no. Her cheek, however, is offered and it suffices.
“Give them to me.” Yoko commands. I hand over the sealed envelope. Her bony fingers, tipped with long, dragon lady nails, rip at the envelope while I saunter over to Mr. Eliot. He is sitting in his special chair, the one that keeps him upright and oxygenated.
“Looking good.” I say to him, going so far as to jostle him slightly. I glance out the window behind his waxen head. “Not looking so good out there, though.” In the crowd are many homemade signs. The only one I can read from this great height says, “GIVE US THE TRAITOR!”
“My birthday gift to the world:” Yoko says in a decisive voice. “The truth!”
She rises and walks to the balcony, papers in hand. What will happen when she stands before the crowd I can only speculate upon.
Grunt Amigo’s Grunt Signal
The first car I ever bought was a 1978 Grunt Amigo. This saucy compact, imported from the People’s Collective of Rascalongo, was exactly the car I needed. It was inexpensive, good on gas, and looked fairly sharp, considering how ultimately dowdy it was. I liked the fact that it was a small car, too. I am, as you must have deduced by now, a rather large man. I always wanted to be a cute little thing, not some hulking, big-nosed lump. The small size of the Grunt Amigo gave me a good feeling, an illusion, if you like, that I was a compact man speeding through life unhampered by obstacles, unhindered by extraneous baggage. The contents of my car were all I needed.
This illusion evaporated upon my driving into the land of Nong, home to the so-called “white pygmies.”
“Please step out of the car.” The border guard instructed. I obliged, though I could easily have kicked his uniformed ass up and down his nation’s tidy, well-tended fields. “Are you bringing any contraband into Nong?”
“No. I don’t know. What constitutes contraband?”
“Drugs, either illegal or legal without a prescription; firearms; non-native plants or animals; and/or any literature or other media pertaining to the philosophy known as ‘Loath Procurement.’”
“No. Nothing.” I answered, and honestly at that. As I had not yet formulated the philosophy of Procurement, much less its reluctantly proselytizing cousin Loath Procurement, it was quite impossible that I should have anything with me relating to it.
“Enjoy your visit.” The little man, whose entire costume could have been made from a single cotton ball, saluted smartly and waved me forward.
Of course, the great mystery to me now is how the people of Nong knew about my personal aesthetic code and belief system nearly fifteen years before I had even formally adopted it. Special properties were said to be built into the Grunt Amigo, but I have dismissed such a theory. I’ll tell you why: after I had grown sick of the car and moved on to something a little flashier, I sold it to my cousin Rafe. He disappeared with the car into the mountains to the north and was soon forgotten. About a year later, however, I found out that he had killed himself. His body was found only a yard or two from my old car.
Nong
Sandwiched between the larger kingdoms of Spruce and Water Loafer is the tiny nation of Nong. Home to a race of so-called “white pygmies,” Nong has long been a source of mystery to the sophisticates of the American parade. For years little more than speculation has circulated through the tastemakers’ salons and basement odas concerning this fabled land that Chesterton once called “the birthplace of the sandal.” Now I, in conjunction with the National Geographic Society, bring you the first detailed portrait of Nong, the land of the short people.
I spurned the new luxury hotel erected next door to the former palace of the Nong’s deposed monarchy in favor of staying with a friend of my photographer. The old prospector, as he is known, Yam Cucumbrage, lives in an olive oil can on the outskirts of Tamo, the capital city. As only my hand would fit under the can, the rest of my body was covered with a black, plastic tarp.
“Nuken no nuken.” Cucumbrage said to me with his palms pressed together.
“He wishes you a good night’s sleep.” Lincoln Strassman, my photographer, translated.
“Where are you going to sleep?” I asked Strassman.
“I’m staying at the hotel.” That wily traveler answered, climbing into the taxi, his camera case and lens caps swinging back and forth.
“Never mind,” I whispered to Bunflop, my sleeping companion, “We’ll assuage some of our first world guilt.” Nestling the stuffed rabbit close to my neck, I soon drifted away to yet another fanciful realm. In the morning, Cucumbrage explained my dream. His son Slap, a ceremonial dancer in the city, translated his father’s words.
“You are burdened with too much money.” Slap spoke for his father as he sat on my toothbrush while the older man squatted before the fire, chewing his haberdashery. “This McDonald’s you dream of: it is a symbol of Baryos, a powerful demon. You must appease this demon with a gift of money.”
“Whom should I give the money to?” I asked, shivering as the first symptoms of fungal cancer wracked my colossal frame.
“My father will take the money to the temple for you.”
The people of Nong overthrew their king nearly fifty years ago. Since then they have been governed by a parliamentary system. Their chief crop is flaxseed. The national pastime is collecting Formica samples.
Whirlwind Remorse
Some will say his remorse was over his failure to sleep with Anjelica Huston. Those people are wrong, however much they may point to his repeated statements on the subject (all facetious, I assure you) or the often-quoted entry from his diary, “my greatest regret is that I will never sleep with Anjelica Huston.” All of this “evidence” has been misconstrued. I knew the man for over forty years. If anyone can tell you of his secret remorse it is I.
Theron Badcock’s great remorse was not one of omission (as the theologians say), but of commission. In the early spring of 1959 my old friend, who, if he was known for anything besides his enduring contribution to the American songbook, it was his love of the ladies, wrote and recorded a song denouncing Katherine Hepburn.
“Even then I saw through her.” He confessed to me on one of the two occasions on which we discussed his black deed. “I could tell she was nothing more than a New England patrician redhead with a neck like a turkey, not some great sex symbol.” He made a scoffing sound, as I recall, and slopped a measure of cheap red wine down his blasphemous throat.
“But what of her great acting skills?” I asked, sure that he would at least affirm public opinion on that score.
“Great acting skills?” He barked. His nostrils flared with the most merciless of sneers I have ever seen. “I’ve seen Brigitte Bardot deliver lines with more passion and subtlety than that… Yankee ever will.” The man was drunk. He could be excused on those grounds alone. He died of drink in the end, absolving him in a way. Still, there was the matter of the song itself.
“Would you like to hear it?” Badcock asked, turning to his banjo like the executioner taking up his axe.
“No!” I shouted. “Of course not!”
He smiled. “It’s a catchy little tune.” He plucked a chord with that astoundingly unique method he had developed. “Puts ‘Jailhouse Rock’ to shame.” I stood up from the poolside table, declaring that I had no intention of listening to such mockery. I left.
On the other occasion that we discussed Badcock’s peculiar feelings we limited ourselves to a display of pedantry that would do Kevin Costner proud, but I never did hear the song. And that is my great regret.
Talcum Candy
No description that I could set down here can fully express the taste of Dr. Flipflap’s celebrated talcum candy, so I won’t bother. The reason for this is that I have had my memories of this product erased by order of the Tall Council. Instead, I will tell you as much as I can in the space allotted about Mrs. Jones, who I happen to know was, until her death, a great consumer of talcum candy.
Mrs. Jones lived in a tiny house on the otherwise empty stretch of road between Nukentown and Slaggemville. Many times on my way to and from work at the Stupid Hat factory I saw Mrs. Jones sitting on the front steps of her house. I often wondered if there was anything worth stealing in there. Since it was obvious that she lived alone (for how could more than one person possibly reside in that hot dog stand of a house?), and that the presence or absence of her little car was as loud an indicator of her own presence or absence as one could want, it should not have posed any great difficulty waiting for the right moment and breaking in.
However, as I rarely went by her house when I wasn’t either going to or coming from work and had no time to stop on either trip, the opportunity never came up. I contented myself with my fantasies, some of which I wrote down in more or less disguised form and published as the compendium of stories, Excellent Beans. I thought that was that, as they say in the circus.
One day in March of the year under consideration, however, as we were all feeling somewhat depressed over the recent assassination of Marco Polo, jr., I was introduced to Mrs. Jones by a mutual acquaintance. We were all milling about the coffin when Shortcake, the acquaintance, hailed me.
“Toadsgoboad!” He cried. “Got somebody here I want you to meet.” Beside him stood Mrs. Jones. I knew her immediately. For an old woman, she was surprisingly lively and there was a sexy twinkle in her eye that I had not suspected from my brief glimpses of her. “Toadsgoboad is a painter too, Mrs. Jones.” Shortcake informed the lady.
At this she turned a smile on me like a comfortable bed in a quiet room. Of course, we began a relationship, one at first tempered by our mutual grief, then fired by artistic passions and exchanges. Although our trysts usually took place at my studio in the woods, occasionally we met at her tiny house, where talcum candy wrappers, piled high on her bed, vied for space with my feet.
Priceless Mister
His cape dragged the ground as he approached the rude cairn of stones piled over the grave.
“Excellency,” Shabot whispered urgently, “Your beautiful cape!” He made to take up its hem.
“Leave it.” Priceless Mister commanded. “It is little enough that I sacrifice for Dr. Comacow.” He knelt on one knee before the stones, his eyes seeing what remembered scenes of adventures past none in his party could guess. They were all youngsters, recruited from the frontier; they knew nothing of the days of the great ones.
Hoofbeats down the hill interrupted Priceless Mister’s contemplation. He was on his feet in an instant, whirling about. “Archers!” He snapped. The pitiful half dozen boys, but recently trained in their duties, deployed themselves and their bows readily enough; still Priceless Mister rued the lack of seasoned men and the paucity of his current party.
With the other ten youths that made up the force Priceless Mister stood just behind the archers as the two mounted riders emerged from the trees below. They bore the symbol of the Slabber Corporation on their chests.
“Hold your fire.” Priceless Mister ordered. He stepped forward and met the two as they reached the summit.
“Are you Priceless Mister?” One asked.
“I am.”
“Word has reached the board of directors that a company called Wilkes Brothers poses a danger to us.” The rider handed the caped warrior a rolled-up document.
Priceless Mister unrolled the foot-long piece of cardstock and read its contents.
“Thank you.” He said to the first rider. He glanced at the second and nodded. The second rider held up his hand, staying Priceless Mister’s attention a moment.
“And I am to give you this.” He said, reaching into his little canvas bag and withdrawing a box of cereal. “Nevelson wants to know what you think.”
“‘Noodlease?’” Priceless Mister read the name aloud. “Ridiculous.”
“It was the last project Dr. Comacow worked on before he died.” The rider had been practicing how he would say this should it be necessary, knowing how much the dead scientist had meant to Priceless Mister.
Cadged From the Old Flamonde
The red notebook containing the poems that were later to make up Eerinson’s landmark collection, Burned Popcorn (Mercy Pleader’s Sticker Fun, as it was originally called), bore an interesting symbol on its back cover, a symbol that Fletcher Rammikin recognized as a doodle he had made in the ninth grade.
“And here I find it now, blown up to ten times its original size, a corporate logo of some sort.” Rammikin sipped the fake coffee Eerinson had brewed for him and made awestruck faces.
“It’s the symbol of the Coleridge Paper Company.” Eerinson replied, keeping his hand on the paralyzer unit just in case Rammikin should react in some violent, unpredictable manner to the ninth grade memory.
“But how did these people get a copy of my doodle?” Rammikin tried to puzzle it out.
“Observe the tell-tale hand gestures as he puzzles it out.” Dr. Comacow commented to his guest in the observation cubicle.
“I see. Very interesting.” Comacow’s guest, Priceless Mister, was ill at ease with this passive activity. He was no postal inspector, to sit in a hidden chamber and spy on people. He was a warrior! He nervously chewed at the chocolate hog that had been his welcoming present from Comacow. The two men had known each other since their induction into the Brotherhood of Fear.
“The question is,” Comacow pulled at the beard that hung from his chin like a catcher’s mitt dipped in iron filings, “Will he realize the importance of the name Coleridge?”
“Excuse me a moment.” Priceless Mister quietly rose from his chair and exited the observation cubicle through the shower curtain hung to mark its demarcation from the larger work floor of Slabber Corporation. Priceless Mister wandered down the company’s artificial, indoor lake. The water in Rammikin’s fake coffee had come from this very lake, drawn through neoprene filaments up to the surface of Chester’s Planet. The great warrior drew his cape around his oddly muscled torso. Did he feel a chill? Only the man himself could have answered such a question. It was not for him to write down his feelings in the form of poetry and win acclaim on the battlefield of literature as was Eerinson’s lot. Even at this moment Eerinson was contemplating a poem about an old friend losing his mind.
Moat of Amber
Regardless of the fact that my two previous attempts to write this piece ended in failure, I am determined that the story contained herein is the one that I will tell and not some other one about ghostly squirrels feasting on electricity or something. This piece concerns my efforts, while dressed as a giant slug of some repute as a cineaste, to get my puppet, Todd Pigger, to talk about his involvement in the deaths of the Gaucho family and his knowledge of the events contemporaneous to those deaths, such as the theft of the Gauchos’ secret project and the rampage of the monster known as Bambatter. We take up the action just as the ghostly squirrels have completed their feast.
“The power’s out!” I cried as the courtyard was plunged into darkness.
“That or some enormous spacecraft has blocked out the sun.” Todd Pigger cracked. The sarcasm was like chunky peanut butter.
As I fumbled to get a flashlight from one of the inside pockets of my slug costume, Pigger took the opportunity to leap off my hand and disappear into the darkness. I head a door open somewhere and welcoming voices. Once again I was surrounded by difficulties. With Pigger gone I was left with no recourse but to glide away to a comfortable movie house and wait for morning. I followed my phosphorescent trail of slime back the way I had come, through the offices of the Pepper Awareness Board and to the Night Dreamer Theater. The film playing was Moat of Amber, an early work of Claude Chabrol’s starring John Wayne and Basil Rathbone, although a young Aimee Mann can be glimpsed in one scene. She plays a hatcheck girl who sticks out her tongue at Tony Randall.
I had written an article on this film for Slug Slander denouncing its anti-Lesbian subtext, but now, forced to actually watch the thing for once, I was compelled (by my own slimy conscience) to admit that the Duke of Cargill was right in calling me “an ill-informed snob and a snail to boot.” In the scene where Lassie receives the flag at Miss Mercy’s funeral I got a little choked up. The man sitting two seats to my left heard my sob and offered me a rag.
“Thank you.” I said.
“Don’t mention it. By the way, I’m Stan Hagerson.”
“Well, for Heaven’s sake!” I snorted. “I’m Toadsgoboad.”
“You don’t look like it.” Hagerson let me know.
Segment 3
Token Destructo
The smallest of the dogs made his way down to the water’s edge and confronted the wild-eyed stork who hunted there for airplane glue among the weeds.
“Flockadler,” He addressed the stork, “Did you write that editorial in the paper yesterday?”
“Editorial?” The wild-eyed stork repeated. “What editorial?”
“You know the one. Everyone is talking about it. The one about turning our backs on the traditional veneration of Uncle Skyback.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about and no, I did not write any editorial.” Flockadler the wild-eyed stork trampled down a blotwort and examined its base. No airplane glue there.
“I think you’re lying.” The smallest of the dogs cocked his head and looked at Flockadler as if he were a cat wearing a crown. As a matter of fact, Flockadler was wearing a crown, but as it was made of blue cardboard and resembled no crown the dog had ever seen, any ramifications of such a comparison are best left to a writer like Calvino.
“Get the hell out of here!” Flockadler snapped.
“I’m a dog!” The small one objected, until the stork repeated his previous action, this time with his long beak instead of words. The dog scampered away and Flockadler returned to his unending, mostly fruitless search, but not for long. His mind turned over the dog’s words. He turned to look at Uncle Skyback, the large, lumpy mass with the semi-animate face rising from the middle of the water.
“‘Turn our backs on the traditional veneration, eh?” Flockadler said to himself. He flapped his wings once or twice and rose into the air.
Watching him fly closer and closer to the lumpy mass of Uncle Skyback were Mr. and Mrs. Comfrey, sitting in their cramped box atop the old totem pole.
“There goes that irreverent stork.” Mr. Comfrey rasped through the steel nubs in his gums.
“I bet you he wrote that thing in the paper yesterday.” Mrs. Comfrey lifted a cup of hot Tang to her lips. “It sounds just like the sort of thing he’d write.”
“Only he can’t write.” Mr. Comfrey countered. He watched as Uncle Skyback shot a load of scalding mud into the air, killing Flockadler. “Old Todd Pigger told me.”
Prunoto’s Devolvement
Neil Sedaka once famously said, “One’s ambitions should parallel one’s conditions.” Now, whether or not the advice of a mere pop singer should be taken as readily as one would accept a prescription from a trusted and well-educated physician is as silly a question to ask as whether or not Sedaka actually said the above quoted line. Certainly Clerk #1, who wondered to himself as he was walking home in the fog if Sedaka said the line to Barbara Walters in their 1979 interview or if it came from his 1981 autobiography, A Handful of Gravel, did not ask himself either of the two questions, but maybe that was because he wasn’t a cynic like you.
As Clerk #1 reached the end of the pavement he took a wrong step and fell into what scientists have termed a “fog fist.” The ancients, whose knowledge of such things in many ways exceeded that of we modern people, called this rare phenomenon “asking the Pleiades for a favor.” Who are we to judge their poetic worldview? Clerk #1, as he tumbled end over end into the steamy maw of the fog fist, would have found such imagery comforting, had he known of it. His, however, was but a miserable education, ill-preparing him for responding hopefully to sudden, desperate situations. Perhaps he could have taken heart in the Sedaka quote, but of course it had flown right out of his mind the moment that wrong step had landed, not on the dirt path that led to home and its waiting comforts, but in the still-unexplained workings of the fog fist.
When Clerk #1 had still not appeared an hour after his usual arrival time, the other occupants of his home, Plonky, the dwarf swordfish; and Crystalline, a would-be debutante of dubious pedigree, fell to debating possible predicaments their housemate and rent-provider might have encountered. A fog fist was the first of these to be discounted.
“Could have been a fog fist.” Plonky suggested through the aqua-speaker, which not only allowed him to be heard from his tank, but translated his fishy babble into English.
“Nonsense.” Crystalline was quick to dismiss the idea.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Plonky agreed with a shrug of his stunted beak. “Today was payday, too, wasn’t it?” He added after a moment of reflection.
“Yeah.” Crystalline sighed.
Ask for the Windshield
The endless rearrangement of the sofas was beginning to pall. Although a generous selection of the works of William Carlos Williams and E. E. Cummings had been made available, still Winston was finding it hard to pass the time.
“I prefer Leo Sayer to tell the truth.” He commented to one of the sweating workmen. “It’s funny how the stuff that was dominant at the time is not what is discussed now. It’s all the fringe stuff that the mainstream and the cognoscenti looked down on that gets the attention.” He added, but the workman and his end of the sofa moved away into the darkened depths of the room. Winston shouted after them, “Kind of like how Academicism in painting was completely subsumed by Impressionism and its children!”
“They’re not listening.” A voice, quiet but sonorous, spoke behind Winston.
Winston turned and saw, not a boiler suit-wearing mute, but a short man in a green corduroy suit.
“That’s obvious.” Winston recovered from his surprise enough to reply.
“Mind if I sit down?” The man asked as he came around to the front of the sofa.
“Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” The short man pulled at the knees of his trousers as he sat. “My name’s Red.” He smiled and offered his hand.
“I’m Winston Bagee.” Winston laid emphasis on the second syllable.
“I’m here, somewhat belatedly to be sure, to inform you that there has been a mistake, to offer an apology for it, and to attempt a rectification of that mistake.” Red in the green suit stated in his rich, broadcaster’s voice.
“Really.” Winston looked about. Throughout the enormous, sofa-filled room, he could dimly perceive the workmen silently shifting sofas around.
“Yes. This is not the place for you. On behalf of the powers that be, I apologize. “Now,” The short man smiled. He had what amounted to a white man’s afro on his head, though it was completely natural and not a salon-built affectation. “If you like, I can take you away from here.”
“Sure.” Winston replied uncertainly with a nod. He stood as the stranger did and followed him to one of the thick pylons that held up the roof. Red did something to some levers on a box mounted on the pylon and Winston suddenly found himself lying in a hospital bed surrounded by fat women and flowers.
Gathering of the Moon Elk
The time had come for Chip to leave. He picked up the bag his grandmother had sewn together the night before from scraps of an old dress she had worn once.
“And I do mean once.” She emphasized.
“I’ve got the bare bones of my collection in here.” Chip thought. He wished that he could have taken the whole barn with him, but such packaging would have been impractical.
“Guess I’ll be heading out then.” He said manfully, ignoring his reflection in the inside of the storm door.
“Guess so.” Uncle Kip matched Chip’s manful-ness grit for grit.
With a sigh equal parts disgust and resignation (and that’s hard to achieve) Chip stepped outside and onto the automated ramp that carried him up into the smooth-skinned silver ship.
“Welcome, Señor Chup.” Master Emery greeted the earthman. “You have brought your material possessions? Good.” He led Chip through a maze of narrow, tightly coiled corridors to a sac-like room where a swelling nodule rose from the floor at their entrance.
“The phewozfut will serve as any piece of furniture you may need.” Master Emery explained. “It also contains the controls for your entertainment system. But then, you do not expect to be bored. Do you?”
“No, I guess boredom isn’t…” Chip began.
“Speak up, please, Señor Chup. I am not an adept at deciphering your mumblings.”
After the six-appendaged creature had left him, Chip sat hesitantly on the slowly moving red nodule. He looked about for a place to store his bag. An opening appeared in a pseudopod stretching out from the left of the phewozfut. Chip dropped the bag inside and sat quietly for some minutes, letting his thumbs bow mutely to each other.
“Um, entertainment system?” He finally asked uncertainly.
The room darkened and the “wall” opposite him seemed to open onto a milky realm of indeterminate depth populated by an array of red and blue circles.
“Too bad I only brought one book.” Chip mumbled.
Crypto-Salami Alabaster
Pixy had rooted around in the costume box until she found what she was looking for. With her teeth she pulled the old pink hat out from under the other items and danced over to Mr. Bob with it. Mr. Bob was deep in conversation with Ms. Rugmere. He absently reached out to take the hat from Pixy’s mouth and tie it on her head as Ms. Rugmere interrupted her own story about the mechanical trees on the edge of town to say, “She knows what she wants, doesn’t she?” She nodded at the little dog.
Mr. Bob glanced back at Pixy as the latter proudly scampered away, the old pink hat’s brim flapping up in the air.
“She’s something else.” Mr. Bob commented, wasting no creative energies on describing the eccentricities of his dog.
“Where’s she going?” Ms. Rugmere asked. She refilled her cup with the odd-tasting apple cinnamon tea.
“Oh, probably to see the mechanical trees.” Mr. Bob fantasized.
“You can’t mean that!”
“She heard us talking, probably got intrigued, and decided to investigate.” Mr. Bob smiled. He ran the frozen gelatin concession and was widely considered not only a kindly man, but a happy one.
“But I’ve just been saying how dangerous they are!” Ms. Rugmere protested.
“Well, Pixy doesn’t understand the fine distinctions of English, just the general import of it.” Mr. Bob explained away all inconsistencies.
Pixy did head in the direction of the stand of mechanical trees, but not with that goal in mind. She was led onto that path by the flight of a large butterfly that fluttered always out of her reach until Pixy suddenly found herself in the midst of the trees. The butterfly ascended among their strangely leafed branches, drawing the dog’s nose into the air.
The mechanical trees were performing their daily realignment maneuvers. They moved with precision, subtly influenced by each other. It was rare that so many of them were gathered together. Their programming mandated this peculiar interaction in such cases.
With a slight adjustment of interlaced branches, the trees killed the butterfly. As it spun earthward, Pixy’s hat no longer counted for anything.
Sensible Dervish Wallet
The kite-making community was aghast at the recent comments of Fisher, director of the neighboring coffee klatch. Special ambassador Travers, a Malden graduate, and therefore no fool, declined to make any public comment regarding Fisher’s earlier, provocative ones, yet he did speak privately with Klambo, an influential coffee klatch member.
“So good of you to see me on such short notice.” Travers said smilingly as he approached the large, orange ottoman on which Klambo sat. He extended his hand in the Western manner. The kite emblem on his lapel glittered like the Europe of yesterday.
“I am always happy to see my most valued friend.” Klambo replied, taking Travers’ hand in his own. “Please, have a seat on this ceremonial miniature of the Triumphal Arch.”
Travers threw back his coat tails and did so.
“Would you like some coffee?” Klambo asked.
“Please.” Travers enthused. He had learned to drink coffee at Malden, although he secretly still harbored primitive reservations about it. Intellectually he knew there was nothing wrong with it, but the little boy inside him still listened to Mama’s superstitious warnings.
As they sipped and their hearts raced, Travers and Klambo discussed the director’s intemperate words.
“Of course all kites should not be burned.” Klambo agreed after Travers had made his opening remarks. “You and I are men of the world. We both know that.”
“My colleagues are afraid, however,” Travers got to the heart of his concern, “That small-minded people in our community will believe that such an attitude is common among people of your klatch.”
“And it may be common—among equally small-minded members of the klatch, of which there are more than a few.” Klambo admitted. A sour look fluttered the flag of his face. “Adding orange juice to coffee!” He shuddered.
Travers started to ask what response should be made when the single peal of a bell interrupted him. “Excuse me a moment.” Klambo begged. “The diaper service is here.”
A Precision of High Esteem
Stillberg’s ideas about comedy had led him to some strange conclusions. For instance, and I think just one will suffice, he affixed the skull of a rattlesnake to the brim of his grandfather’s Homburg and wore the resulting creation to the library.
One day, returning home laden with books, Stillberg found his mother at the kitchen table with a man in a black suit. She had prepared coffee in deference to form, although Stillberg could see at a glance that the man had not touched, and did not intend to touch, his cup.
“Merrit,” Mrs. Stillberg called as she saw her son advancing through the hall. “Come meet Mr. Bringer.”
Stillberg put down his books on an ancient chair and turned to shake the stranger’s hand.
“Going to be doing some reading I see.” Mr. Bringer smiled. His flesh was translucent. One could see tomorrow’s beard waiting beneath the surface like a pond full of tadpoles.
“Yes.” Stillberg answered foolishly.
“Merrit, Mr. Bringer has some good news for you.” Stillberg’s mother prepared her son for the worst as best she could.
“Why don’t we have a seat?” Mr. Bringer suggested. He insinuated himself behind his untouched coffee once more, leading Stillberg, who wanted nothing more than to get upstairs and dig into The New Golden Book of Japanese Abstraction, to sit down beside his mother.
Stillberg removed his funny hat and hung it on the chair to his left. Mr. Bringer, sitting opposite, acknowledged its presence among them.
“Is that a rattlesnake skull?” He asked.
“Yes.” Stillberg answered. He wondered how on earth a man such as this Bringer would guess that so easily, but, ah yes, it must be the teeth.
“Merrit,” Mr. Bringer began softly, “What do you know about your grandfather?”
Stillberg raised his fingers from the tablecloth in a listless grope for vague details.
“Not much, eh?” Bringer prompted knowingly. “Well, what would you say if I told you that your grandfather was still alive and working as a comedian in Guam?”
Stillberg thought about it.
“I guess I’d have to hear you say that first.” He wisely replied.
Cobalt and Mint
The distractions of the Tall Man’s Equipage catalog, with its multitude of exquisite photographs of hats, handkerchiefs, ties, pocket knives, and Laurel and Hardy cufflinks, kept Bajel on the sofa for over an hour, slowly turning the pages. He had noticed a strange smell for some time, but thought nothing of it (something cooking, he unconsciously figured) until a particular hint of mucilage struck him.
What is that, he thought. Bringing the catalog along, Bajel went to the kitchen.
There on the stove, emerging from an immense stew pot Bajel had never seen before, was a purple octopus with big, orange eyes that stuck out on the sides of its throbbing head like the Taj Mahal and its reflection in the water. It had a serrated beak that had just cleared the lip of the pot as Bajel flung his precious catalog of dreams (with a presence of mind he was later to be remembered for) safely onto the counter.
“The peppermint contains a genetic defect of uncommon veracity!” The octopus roared as its powerful tentacles, pink on the underside, their suckers a near-translucent white, spilled out of the pot larger than geometry would normally allow, carrying it man-sized, steaming and dripping, onto the floor.
“I am its spokesman!” The octopus continued, advancing towards Bajel.
No matter how slick and dominant he would have looked in a full suit of clothing from a high class haberdashery like Tall Man’s, Bajel had no warrior blood in him. That stuff had petered out with Grandma. He bolted, foolishly it seems in retrospect, towards the back of the house.
“And the front door was so close.” Mary Comber, inspecting the sucker marks on the walls with Inspector Dick Delight and his “friend” Snivel, rued in a whining, nasal voice that won her no friends among the hard-boiled school.
“It’s not so hard to understand.” Inspector Delight lectured. “He panicked. I probably would have too. Don’t you think so, Snivel?’
“Whatever you say, Dick.” Snivel sighed and kept his eyes on the ceiling.
Later that month a package arrived with the distinctive Tall Man silhouette stamped on its six sides.
“Now I know there is a Higher Power!” Mary gushed to Ed, her new “handyman.”
She withdrew a pair of socks and a tie from the package, each imprinted with the repeated image of a purple octopus.
Terrarium Betts Bed His Cones
Thomsen named his latest play after an obscure magic trick, one popular during the Vaudeville era, so he claimed. Hobart, his roommate, looked over at Thomsen and Thomsen’s guest, the elegant Elaine.
“His work is becoming formulaic.” Hobart thought. “Not that that’s necessarily bad.” He added as he turned back to the magazine he was reading. Just before his consciousness became once more absorbed in the adventures of Flockadler the Stork, bird adventurer, he wished that he could tell Thomsen that he thought his work was becoming formulaic.
“What’s it about?” Elaine asked.
“It’s about a man who is invited to his old high school to give a speech.”
“A commencement speech?”
“No, he’s not famous enough for that, although he is successful in his own chosen field.”
“What does the magic trick have to do with it?”
“Not much. In a story, you can get away with the title having absolutely nothing to do with its content, but in a play there must be some kind of reason for the title, so I’ve had to include a line where the main character mentions the magic trick. It seems he wanted to be a magician as a child. That wasn’t my original intention, but…” Thomsen left his sentence unfinished as he hadn’t thoroughly formulated his thoughts. He flapped his hand like a bird flying away with trivial details.
“So you were determined to use this particular title and it didn’t much matter to you if it mean anything within the context of your play.” Elaine, elegant as she was, showed yet a strain of exasperation. Thomsen didn’t realize it yet, but he had been dropped an indefinite number of steps down her scale of respect.
Hobart realized it, though. He left Flockadler fighting his way out of the underground fortress and looked at Elaine.
“His work is becoming formulaic.” He said. He glanced at Thomsen.
Thomsen gaped.
“In what way?” He demanded.
Flockadler escaped through the absurd medium of a magic taco.
Distortion From Milk
For my one hundredth birthday party Romulus, one of the Zone Drones from Stereoworld, arranged for me an hour of old-fashioned privacy in the oil-filled well of isolation. Even my brain chip was temporarily disconnected.
“Thank you, my good acquaintance.” I said as I turned the coupon over in my hands.
“I wish I could have gotten you something more prestigious.” Romulus frowned. He had peculiar ideas about me, but on the whole rarely provoked violent fantasies.
The hour, as expected, went by all too quickly.
“And thoroughly undocumented.” Trevor, a friend from Guam, shook his head in regret. Even as I was sponged off he was receiving the audio-visual input of twenty-two “friends” from throughout the world.
“It’s not so bad.” My voice came muffled form under the towel. “I managed to remember what comic books used to smell like.”
“Oooh!” A nearby group of children, faces smeared with icing, shuddered. They squealed with playful disgust.
“Well, I know it’s not likely, but I think my present can top that.” Trevor held out the tiny, edible envelope.
Inside was a card covered with multi-colored question marks.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise.” Trevor’s smile was so wide I could see the stars in its dark corners.
“How do I find out what it is?”
“Well, you redeem it, of course.” Trevor gestured towards the redemption kiosk, a jolly-looking, anthropomorphic box sitting against the wall under the portrait of Barack Obama.
“Who wants this?” I asked the children, holding up the empty envelope. They screamed, fell to arguing over it; one obese boy, already ill from my comment about comic book odors, slapped a little girl in his struggle to get the treat.
Leaving them to fight it out, Trevor and I wheeled over to kiosk. I pushed the card into the slot not expecting much. My present turned out to be new legs, each a hundred feet long, with which I walked far away.
Segment 4
Can We Broker the Aldonkey Marine?
All things super were copyrighted by Detective Comics under the rules of the Defense of American Values Act, recently rammed through Congress by the lame duck administration. Thus, one could no longer say “super burger,” “super sex,” “super brokerage firm,” “super vasectomy.” You get the idea. I was discussing the matter with O’Halloran, who seemed more than usually put out by the whole thing.
“You mean you can’t even say ‘super bubble and squeak?’” He demanded—demanded of the absurd universe.
“In the privacy of your home I guess you can,” I tried to make the old boy feel better. “But as far as marketing is concerned, no.”
O’Halloran took a swig of ale. “My Aunt Minota runs a sandwich shop near the border. A small place, you understand. The kind of place where you go in and order and take the food with you.” A wistful glint of early days in the bosom of his family came into his eyes. “She’s marketed, as you say, her bubble and squeak as ‘super bubble and squeak’ for years. Now you’re telling me she can’t do that anymore?”
“It violates the copyright of Detective Comics.” I said. “I didn’t make the rules, O’Halloran. Congress did. Write them a letter if you’re so worked up.”
That knocked him down a bit.
“But why, man? Why?”
“Well, for one thing, Detective Comics is afraid that consumers might become confused. They might think that your Aunt Minota’s super bubble and squeak was a legitimately licensed product of Detective Comics and buy it out of loyalty.”
“But that’s crazy!”
“There’s more. It also potentially limits the creative freedom of their writers. What if, for instance, they wanted to create a new character, a giant, living blob of bubble and squeak? They wouldn’t be allowed to call it ‘Super Bubble and Squeak’ if your Aunt Minota had an identically named product, would they? Or, say Superman baked up a dish of bubble and squeak with his superhuman superpowers and all the other super characters in the super universe wanted to call it Super Bubble and Squeak.’ What then?”
“I guess when you put it that way, it sounds logical.” O’Halloran admitted. He drained the rest of his barrel of ale in one overly human gulp.
Clamicious Brigando
Every time I falsify the exchange rate I am reminded of the town square. Don’t ask me why; the connection is tenuous at best. During the days when I used to sit at a small table there and scribble my supposedly symbolist poetry, I had no idea that one day the power to affect the finances of other men would be placed around my neck like a baritone saxophone.
It seems to me that, ideally, a saxophone should be as tall as its operator. This is just one of the many thoughts that obsess me as I sit here in my office on the uppermost level of the Monetary Tower. Aside from perusing a small stack of daily papers and issuing my weekly pronouncement, I don’t have many obligations. I wear exactly what I want to work: a suit in the early 1960’s style, skinny lapels and narrow tie. No pleats in the pants. I’ve left the coveralls and bucket cap far behind.
Of course, life still has its share of difficulties. Only the other day I was working in the tunnel that will eventually lead into the back of the music store when Miss Turnip, of the secretarial pool, put her head in at the entrance and announced that Mr. Comatoose wanted to speak to me.
“What, on the phone?” I asked, setting aside the automatic shovel for a moment.
“No sir, he’s here, in the office.”
I sighed. “Very well. Tell him I’ll be right there.” As I put my coat back on I wondered what my tailor, for that is who Mr. Comatoose was, wanted with me. Surely my bill was fully paid up.
“Only one way to find out.” A little winged figure like a cherub, some aspect of my conscience, I suppose, told me.
“Yes, I know.” I snapped. Don’t you hate it when your own brain treats you like a child?
“Mr. Comatoose,” I said, advancing on the little man with my hand outstretched. “What brings you here?”
“I’m sorry to bother you at work, Mr. Toadsgoboad, but I have something here I think you dropped” He held out a tightly folded piece of paper.
“Is it a secret code of some kind?” He asked as I unfolded it and scanned its contents.
“No,” I laughed. “Well, kind of.”
Little Grocery Stores in Small Towns
“Just before she summoned the great machine, Queen Briganda sneered wordlessly at me.” I told Mr. Snooker, expecting a reaction.
“She did not!” He reacted, as I expected, with incredulity.
“She did. And, of course, I wanted to sneer right back, but I had no time.”
“Of course.” Mr. Snooker reached into his bag of crisps and scrounged about in the crumby remains.
“I had to ready myself for the machine’s appearance, its terrible onslaught.”
Mr. Snooker sucked his fingertips clean. The rumpled image of Jack Crisper smiled up at us from his home on the bag. I remembered the feeling I had that day as I turned to the immense, slowly opening door through which the dread machine would enter. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Queen Briganda’s purple cape flapping as she climbed the rope ladder to safety. Anger mingled with nervous anticipation coursed through me.
The machine, a fifty-foot tall armored squid floating over the ground on duostatic thrusters, was obviously programmed to focus its destructive energies on whatever poor creature was standing in the target, the co-centric black and white circles where I was chained. Its serrated beak kept uttering the nonsensical phrase “sabba dabba” over and over as it advanced.
When I told this part of my tale to Mr. Snooker, he replied, awestruck, “The ritual war chant of the Pelosi!”
“If you say so, Mr. Snooker.” I rolled my eyes. What did Snooker know? A loser many times over, he was retired from the Department of Quarries and Mines, a subsidiary of the Bureau of Reclamation and Geologic Commercialization. I had met him at a fundraiser for the local zoo.
“I like bears” was the first thing he had said to me.
Now, looking at him with his shiny fingertips and equally shiny head, I wondered if he was really worthy of hearing the rest of the story.
“Well, obviously you escaped.” Mr. Snooker said at last. I had drifted into a reverie, staring across the room at the legion of policemen holding back the eager crowd that had turned up.
“Yeah,” I drawled. “Yeah, I escaped.” This was said with as much concern for the man’s feelings as I could muster.
Spin the Square
In time with the waves that slowly licked away the shoreline the hands of the wind-up man sitting in the window of the beach house beat together. At first, Natalia worried that the ocean was moving abnormally fast; then she wondered at how slowly the wind-up man must be moving. Ultimately, like the rest of us sitting around in the beach house on that overcast day, she came to accept the situation, like a tomato plant accepts piss for rain.
“It is a beach house, isn’t it?” Bob wanted confirmation from the only person there whose intellect he respected—me.
“Yes, Bob.” I smiled indulgently.
“Hey, guys,” Florida snapped her fingers and looked at everyone as brightly as a flashbulb. “Let’s make papier maché masks!”
And so we did, one tearing the stack of old newspapers into strips, one mixing up the flour and water, another scrounging among the junk in the captain’s room for stuff on which to hang the papier maché, and one last person at the window, watching for the cops.
“Why can’t you do this?” I asked the wind-up man as I peered at the tiny section of the road that could be seen from my vantage point. His answers, paraphrased in the next month’s National Review, caused more of a stir than their actual import would seem to merit.
Natalia’s mask made her look like a monkey from the Bonzo planet. She adopted a voice like Gregory Peck’s and began lecturing us on our moral duties.
Bob’s mask was intended to be some kind of monstrous jack o’ lantern, but I saw the unconscious depiction of his mother within. I kept my observation to myself. To whom among that crowd could I tell such a thing?
“What do you think of my mask?” Florida asked me as she joined me at the window.
“Are you supposed to be the Spirit of Summer?” I asked.
“Close.” She laughed. “I’m the sun! The sun’s a woman, you know.”
“Time for Toadsgoboad to make his mask!” Someone shouted in authoritarian tones.
I demurred good-naturedly, but, at their insistence, sat down to create. My mask, which rendered me indistinguishable from the wind-up man, saved me from arrest when the cops later burst through the door.
Going Down Like A Walnut
Saving buttons in small glass jars, Probos struck me as the most frugal of the Battery brothers. None of them was a spendthrift, of course. The difficulties they were having securing their inheritance ensured that. Those small glass jars, however, arranged on the shelves in the companionway, were what really drew my attention. I determined to steal one or two.
The buttons within were organized by color for the most part. On my numerous trips through the companionway to the small, but serviceable textile mill and back, I picked out with my eyes the jars containing the orange buttons. These were the ones I wanted.
It worried me a bit that Probos had seen me looking the shelves over. I wanted him to think that I had never even noticed them. I had diverted any future suspicion as best I could, however, by yawning loudly as I turned away, catching Probos’ eye and muttering “buttons” dismissively. That evening at supper I expended more effort than usual in charming the three brothers and their mysterious guest, the so-called Madame Germaine, who wore a papier maché mask to conceal her true appearance.
“And then I escaped out the window with the books hidden under my shirt!” I laughingly concluded one of my droll anecdotes. This met with the pleasing sound of the applause of men and deep “ho ho ho”s.
“I declare, Mr. Toadsgoboad,” Madame Germaine said as she straightened her mask. “You are an original character!” Her mask was a grotesquely distorted likeness of Ed Asner. I acknowledged the lady’s remark with a nod and helped myself to more grape juice.
“Won’t you have a drop of the real thing?” Stratos, the eldest of the three brothers, asked, shaking a crystal decanter in the air as gently as a mother chimpanzee jumps from tree to tree with her newborn at her breast.
“No thank you. I must remain sober.” I replied.
“For what?” Probos asked. Was there a gleam of suspicion in his black eyes?
I excused myself awkwardly and lurched from the table. My thief’s instinct told me that the time had come. I slipped down to the shelves and put a jar of buttons in each of the pockets of my coveralls. Thus laden, I slapped my bucket hat on my head and entered the textile mill, eager to begin my shift.
Grease for the Queen Affrontal
The broken apparatus, locked away in the cupboard, weighed on Prance Sabot’s mind. I told him to forget about it, but he couldn’t. His buddy, Dodge Wittles, was no help. He encouraged Sabot to break into the cupboard and examine this object that so consumed his imagination that he spent valuable study time drawing pictures of it.
“That cupboard has nothing to do with you, Toadsgoboad.” Wittles countered my avuncular warnings.
“Do whatever you want.” I divested myself of involvement, bringing a magazine up to my nose.
Wittles pushed Sabot. “Go on.” He urged. “Do it.”
Sabot took a step toward the cupboard. He looked back.
“What do I use to open the door?” He asked.
As Wittles looked around for some makeshift tool, I pointed towards the crowbar rack.
“A whole rack full of crowbars!” Wittles announced. “Take your pick.”
“Are you going to help?” Sabot asked. He hefted a gauge six.
“It’s a one-man job, Prance. You don’t need my help.” Wittles pushed his friend forward with his fingertips at his back.
I brought one eye around the corner of the magazine. The cupboard towered over Sabot. The door, ornately carved with images of somber nineteenth century children and inlaid with mother-of-pearl (for the eyes and teeth), was secured with a heavy brass lock in the shape of a giraffe.
“It’s a giraffe.” Sabot noted as he came within range.
“Do it.” Wittles hissed.
Expecting, so I guess, dark forces to contest his assault, Sabot gingerly fitted the end of the crowbar into the jamb. His first, timid movements produced no results, but, warming to the task, he soon wrenched the door open with violent action accompanied by choice, wrathful words.
“Is that it?” Wittles asked, rushing forward.
“Yes.” Sabot whispered.
“Do you think it can be repaired?”
Not only was the apparatus repaired, but, utilizing advanced techniques, I was able to make it operate better than before.
Lord Peppersuit’s Grits Explained
The giraffe gaffe, mentioned only once in six months’ worth of dispatches from Hefter, our agent on the nearby station, was yet the one thing of interest to be found in all those many papers. In secret council with the Turnblatt boys and their mother, Mrs. Turnblatt, I debated the possible significance of this so-called giraffe gaffe.
“Let us assume it’s true;” I began. “The lock on the cupboard was actually in the shape of an okapi—what difference does it make?”
“A hell of a lot.” Mrs. Turnblatt was emphatic. “Going by the fuss they made over it on the station.” She tapped the pile of dispatches with her marker.
“What’s the name of that station, by the way?” Sturgis Turnblatt asked.
We all looked at each other. Nobody seemed to know.
“I’ll go find out.” Roger Turnblatt volunteered, getting to his feet.
“No, it’s not important.” I called. The young man continued out the door, placating me with a wiggled pinky.
“It’s important to me.” Sturgis insisted.
“You don’t seem to see the importance of things unless they directly concern you.” Mrs. Turnblatt looked sharply at me.
“This does concern me.” I objected. “They’re calling my observational skills into question.”
“You’re not mentioned by name in these reports.” The old lady pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter…”
“There he goes again!” Sturgis interrupted.
“…everyone here knows I said the lock was shaped like a giraffe.”
“Only those who have read your account.”
Something in the way she said that arrested my attention.
“What does that mean exactly?” I asked coldly.
“Well,” She leaned back from the conference table. Her stout bosom, though aged, arrested my attention as well, but only momentarily. “That’s a rather limited audience, isn’t it?”
“Don’t you dare impugn my…” I started, stabbing the air with my marker, but was interrupted by Roger’s return.
“It’s the Lord Peppersuit.” He announced breathlessly.
Dope Hoper Got Me Socked
The partially denuded body of Richard Dreyfus was discovered in a crate labeled “machine parts” by the newly authorized Imports Inspection Force.
“Mr. Holland’s Opus sucked.” Frantzen, elected crew chief by his fellows on the force, said bitterly, almost angrily, as the actor’s body was dragged from the otherwise empty crate.
“I thought it was rather touching.” Sailbot, with his wings of gray, countered.
“He hasn’t done a good movie since The Goodbye Girl.” Another member of the overpaid force put in his opinion.
“His movie-making days are over now.” Frantzen watched as a couple of the boys knocked together a crude coffin from boards salvaged from the A Cerola.
“Was Jaws before or after The Goodbye Girl?” Sailbot asked.
“Before.”
“That’s funny.”
“Why?”
“The clothing and sets in The Goodbye Girl are so much more dated than those in Jaws.”
“What about the mayor’s suit? The one with the anchors all over it?”
“That just shows you Spielberg’s superior skills as a director.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Well,” Frantzen interrupted his men’s discussion. “Anybody want to say anything?” He nodded at the grease-stained box lying on the edge of the pier.
Sailbot, Cowboy, Goober, Tommy, and Hunk looked at each other. Each either raised his shoulders or shook his head.
“No.” Sailbot said to Frantzen.
“OK then. Pitch him in.” The chief pointed at the dark, stinky sea.
A couple of men stepped forward and took hold of the coffin.
“Wait!” I cried as I burst out of another crate nearby.
“Who the devil are you?” Frantzen demanded, his unlit cigar floating in space before his astonished features.
“Toadsgoboad’s the name.” I replied, rushing to the coffin.
“And your game?” One of the force, whose name I didn’t catch, asked.
“Coffin inspector.” I answered. I examined the coffin carefully for the nine points of good coffin construction, and finding them all absent, I still let it go.
Completion of the Loop Means White
After my uncle died I went through his storage shed looking for items worth appropriating. Most of the stuff in there was worthless. I didn’t need a penis pump, much less two of them, nor any of the approximately fifty pounds of literature on how to get rich quickly through real estate. I found a plaster statue of a hound dog, which I found amusing and took for my own. I later shot it to pieces with my BB gun. There were a few LPs in good enough shape to be sold. None of them was anything that I would ever listen to: Conway Twitty’s early 70’s material and similar country pop from the same era by like artists.
The thing I found that really excited me, however, was something I couldn’t believe that my uncle had actually owned. It was a fused boron loop, sometimes known as a smoke ring by the ignorant rednecks that lived around there. I found it in a box full of cheap Christmas decorations and old hotel soap, so who knows if my uncle had been its true owner or not? A couple of other family members had used the shed for storage over the years. Of course, I couldn’t picture any of them ever owning anything quite so “cool” (we have got to stop using that word) as a fused boron loop.
You don’t know what a fused boron loop is? Don’t know what it is useful for? I’ll tell you. It has many uses, the coolest (damn it) of which is probably the contacting of the dead.
For instance, say I wanted to contact my dead uncle. I would take the loop and fit it in a simple bracket (easily made from a wire coat hanger) and light a fire under the loop while loudly calling the dead person’s name.
“Maurice!” I would call. “Maurice Chandler! Come back from the dead!” After a minute or two the dead person would respond, his face appearing within the loop.
“Lance, how are you, son?” My uncle would probably say. Then we would have a little conversation, speaking of regrets and lost opportunities.
“Real estate is a fascinating business.”
In the event, however, I did not contact my uncle. I used the loop only once before I accidentally broke it (firing BBs through it at the plaster hound dog) and that was to contact Jack White.
“Jack White!” I called. “Jack White! Come back from the dead!”
“Who is this?” The rock star asked, appearing in the loop. “I’m not dead!”
“To me you are.”
Take Flesh for the Back Wretch
Don clawed his fingers through his hair.
“I can’t take any more of this!” He moaned.
“Quit moaning.” Phil begged. “You got what you wanted.”
“I didn’t want this!” Don snapped. He looked up at Phil like a crazy man. His hair, perfectly styled only moments before, stood up like the feathers on the head of the smooching bird of Java. His eyes were red, either from crying or from holding back from crying. The Mark of Desmond, branded into his neck two days before, was still red and swollen.
“Come off it.” Phil looked out the window at the fields of sorghum below. “You knew the risks. You’re not a kid anymore.”
“Nobody told me the risks might include infestation from another dimension!”
“You should have listened to your parents.”
“My parents! Don’t get my started on them!” Don’s voice was heavy with hate. “If it hadn’t been for them, I’d be in New York right now! Or Shanghai! Living out my dreams!”
“Didn’t they warn you about spiritual warfare?” Phil’s voice was teasing, but there was a pedantic edge to it.
“‘Spiritual warfare?’ What’s ‘spiritual’ about another dimension?” Don demanded. He threw himself about in the big wooden throne.
“Maybe that’s where the spirits come from.”
“Phil, I’m not infested with spirits; I’m not possessed. I’m infested with silicon based mites!”
“Maybe our ancestors didn’t have adequate terminology to describe their encounters with the xenomorphs. They used words like ‘spirit’ or ‘god’ and passed them down to us and we mistakenly interpreted them in a magical context, so to speak.”
“You’re talking out your ass and I’ve had about enough of it!” Don leapt from his seat.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Phil barked, stepping forward.
“The soon-to-be ex-grand vizier!” Don seized his friend by his sumptuous robe. Together they struggled, thrashing about the room. In his frenzied state Don soon overpowered Phil and threw him out the window. Breathing heavily, he stared down at his friend’s broken body until interrupted by a servant at the door.
“Your majesty,” the man said, “The sorghum crop is read to be inspected.”
Droll Indulgence
The tiniest of the goats was transferred to the hold of the prajamujan (a kind of interplanetary hovercraft) and tethered by cables of biofeedback mesh to the warpladle monitor. I explained to Prance Sabot and Dodge Wittles that the warpladle was, in essence, the motor for the prajamujan.
“Which is a kind of interplanetary hovercraft.” Sabot wanted confirmation.
“More or less.” I replied.
“And what purpose does the goat serve?” Wittles asked.
“The goat provides a direct index to the vessel’s minute-to-minute functioning through the unique properties of its metabolism.”
“Like a canary in a coal mine.” Sabot enthused, happy to have grasped this technologically advanced concept.
“Like a finger in the wind.” Wittles added, certain that his simile was more nearly accurate.
“Well…” I equivocated, not wishing to discourage either of them. “You’re close, both of you.” Together we watched as the passengers’ luggage was loaded.
“Whose trunk is that?” Sabot asked, pointing at a huge brown leather box being manhandled into the hold.
“It’s mine.” I told him.
“Yours?”
“You’re going with us?” Wittles asked.
“Of course. And what’s more, I’m going to take care of these problems of yours back on your planet.”
Sabot and Wittles glanced at each other.
“You mean Earth, right?” Wittles asked warily.
“For all intents and purposes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. It’s time to board the craft.” I started forward. The two men hustled to catch up to my titanic stride.
“It is Earth, right?”
“Gentlemen, each time you leave a planet, when you return you do so to a slightly different one than the one you left. It is the same as time travel, as I explained to you earlier.”
Cat’s Tongue Feeler Brassiere
A thinking machine made of wood, powered by the flow of a river, standing atop a hill and worshipped by the people living in the valley below, has been a recurring subject of my stories. This essentially sentient machine, named Paraftylloben by the humans who serve and venerate it (who knows what it calls itself?), has been the driving force behind the invasion of many worlds. In their zeal to spread the news of their god’s glory and the benefits of being in its service, the humans of the valley have created a formidable army and sent it forth in wars of conquest. All of this, of course, is at the very least approved of by Paraftylloben, if not outright actively urged. Certainly the humans would not have gotten far in this endeavor without its help.
What no one knew, however, was that, as great as Paraftylloben’s computational powers are, being used to aid in military strategy and agricultural and financial planning, a significant portion of this power was held in reserve for the machine’s own purposes. Deep within the heart of the colossal structure lay a fiercely protected chamber in which mechanical arms, equipped with brushes and ink, drew cartoons on large pieces of paper for their guiding intelligence’s amusement and aesthetic gratification. This went on for many years.
Ultimately, Paraftylloben felt the need to share these creations with someone. It had to be someone of equal intelligence, artistic drive, and breadth of aesthetic vision because, more than just displaying the work, it (I’ll say “he” from now on for my own convenience) wanted a meaningful discussion about them and an exchange of ideas on like matters. It should come as no surprise to you that his thoughts turned to me. Not only was I the being that nearest approached his situation and position in existence, but also contact with me had the advantage of keeping his secret activity secret. I received word of Paraftylloben’s request for a meeting through a coded message sent by courier.
Utilizing my mastery of the tunnels that connect all the worlds that I know of, I made my way to Paraftylloben’s hidden interior chamber.
“Greetings, Toadsgoboad.” These words were written on a sheet of paper.
“Greetings yourself.” I replied.
“I cannot hear you.” Another message was written. “You’ll have to write your answer.”
Sighing, I resigned myself to a long evening.
Dwarf Entropy
The difference between soup and the dangers into which I and my companions Prance Sabot and Dodge Wittles stepped the minute we arrived on the Earth is negligible, even if, as I readily admit, subjectively perceived. Soup is (generally) hot and wet, a state metaphorically similar to the one in which we found ourselves. But enough about this nebulous connection.
“Danger is all around us.” I warned the two men. We were standing, along with our bags, by the side of the road, waiting for a ride. “See those men over there, the ones in the gorilla costumes?” I whispered, nodding towards the other side of the road.
Sabot and Wittles looked up from their rain-soaked comics.
“Eyewitness guards.” I identified them.
“Whom do they work for?” Sabot asked. Taller and darker of complexion than Wittles, many would have said he was the more attractive to the ladies of the two, but for his friend’s reputation as a swordsman (an old word for “player”).
“Todd Pigger.”
“Todd Pigger?!” Wittles repeated, drawing fearful stares from Sabot and me. “Has he grown so powerful while we’ve been gone?”
“Maybe. Or it could be King Granny who’s in charge now. It’s hard to tell with interplanetary travel.” I rubbed my week-old beard. Almost time to shave.
“Look,” Sabot hissed as a wheeled transport slowed before us. “You said you were going to help us, not get us confused, or worse, killed.”
“Sometimes being confused is worse than being killed.” I stated sagely. I got on the transport first, flashing my Penultimate Pass Card at the driver. “I’m covering for these two as well.” I told him.
“Doesn’t work that way anymore.” The old man replied.
“Now, look here…”
“Pass card only good for the bearer.”
“How much then?” I asked.
“Twenty dollars for each of them.”
“Forty dollars?!” I barked. “Have either of you got any money?” I turned to the beneficiaries of my heroic resolve.
“No.” Sabot told me. Wittles shook his head. “We blew it all on Chester’s Planet.”
“Only one thing to do.” I said before commandeering the vehicle.
Polyato
My diet isn’t going so well. I don’t really want to talk about it. There have been three or four periods in my life when I have been skinny. These periods weigh on my mind like a lost fortune. I so badly want to be skinny again. The trouble is that the times that I became skinny in the past were, in truth, accidents. I sort of fell into skinniness. I try to replicate whatever it was I did before, but it doesn’t work. I work out; I’ve stopped drinking alcohol and caffeine; I quit eating meat, cheese, and ice cream; I drink lots of water, but nothing’s happening.
I eat too much. That’s funny to say when you live on beans and oatmeal, as I do, but that’s the real bottom line.
I won’t cut back (that much) on my eating. It’s my one source of pleasure, outside of painting, playing the guitar, drawing cartoons, and entertaining you with little stories like this one. Sex? Don’t make me laugh. That stopped being pleasurable the day my parents had half of my penis chopped off in the name of tradition inviolate.
I wouldn’t mind so much the weight issue if I didn’t strongly suspect that I am actually gaining weight. I’m overweight now, but my exercise regimen holds it all together fairly well. But if I get any heavier, no amount of exercise will be able to conceal the horrible truth of my horrible gut. I can already see it staring to protrude.
Posture: that’s the key. I need to start walking like a king reviewing his troops.
It’s not that I want to be able to display myself down at the beach. I’d have to look like a rock star (my old, regretfully abandoned ideal) before I’d go without a shirt in public. No, it’s that I want to look good in my clothes. Tuck in my shirt and look like Lee Marvin and Charles Bronson descending those stairs in the German mansion in The Dirty Dozen. They were wearing corsets, you say? Well, maybe Lee Marvin was; I don’t know, but that’s not the point. Appearance is what counts. That and comfort. I’m not about to start wearing a corset.
Maybe I’ll go back to eating a pound of baby-cut carrots for lunch every day. I seem to remember those as happy times.
Speaking of Mundane to Wilson
Her real name was Gimlet O’Feardan. As instructed, however, I addressed her as Wolfling. She was our contact at the safe house.
“Why can’t we just go back to our own homes?” Prance Sabot asked as we huddled around the pot-bellied stove.
I waited until Wolfling had left the room before answering.
“Your homes have been confiscated by the local militia.” I explained.
“But my goldfish!” Sabot wailed.
“If you show yourselves anywhere near the corporate campus or employee housing, you’ll be detained and questioned. Do you want that?”
“How do you know all this?” Wittles asked, squinty-eyed.
I sat back, a lofty smirk on my face. “I have sources.” Was all I would say.
Later that night, after Sabot and Wittles had been shown to their rooms, Wolfling and I climbed up a narrow staircase to the observatory on the roof.
“Here’s a number through which you can get a message to me if the need should arise.” I told the woman, handing her a card from the pocket of my coat. I leaned back against the railing and looked out over the city. I thought I could make out the lights of the Trickfish Building, scene of one of my more bizarre mishaps. I sighed. Was I damned to eternal adventure?
“You’re not leaving already, are you?” Wolfling asked. She had brought along a bottle of wine and two glasses, but since I refused to partake of any, drank directly from the bottle.
I detected a questing lilt in her voice. I realized that my sigh, so romantically uttered, might have been misinterpreted. I kept matters strictly on business.
“Yes. Those two will be safe enough here. I promised I’d take care of their little problem for them and I will, but I can’t do it with them underfoot.”
“Surely you can stay a bit longer?” Wolfling moved closer, resting her ample rump against the railing.
“I’m married.” I said after a pause.
“I see.” She nodded after a pause of her own, one long enough for me to take a quick look through the outdated telescope.
Harbinger Exceeding Tuna
The language of the tree-dwelling bird people of Fourth Forest is not hard to understand if you have a symbiotic brain interface hat as I do. I had kept this hat (known as the Gearender) in my bag up until I entered the forest, not wanting anyone to see it prematurely. Now, as I approached a charming welcome booth at the foot of a great tree, I was able to make sense of the chirping gibberish its two attendants were engaged in.
“Look at this one, Chuck.” One said to his comrade.
“Bet he wants directions.” The one known as Chuck replied.
“Let’s tell him the wrong thing.” The other suggested maliciously as I stopped in front of them.
“That would not be wise.” I told him, one of the Gearender’s tentacles snaking its tip out to provide a translation of my words. The callused edges of it suckers, ground together with subtlety and precision, made the proper sounds. “I would report your actions to your superiors.”
The one not called Chuck gaped wide-eyed at me.
“Forgive us, sir.” Chuck jumped in. “What assistance may we provide you?”
“I’m looking for Chancellor Depew.” I said. “I have an appointment with him.”
“Yes sir. It’s the third tree back from the third tree to the left.” He pointed with a feathered finger.
“Thank you.” I started away, but was called back.
“Sir, you might find it easier to take the stairs.” Chuck indicated the staircase just behind him that led up to the interconnected catwalks high above. Despite their name, the bird-people are flightless.
“Thank you.” I nodded at him, sparing a glare for his companion.
Within ten minutes I was waiting on a bench in Depew’s receptionist’s office. I was overwhelmed by the stunning abstract expressionist painting on the wall behind her desk. I had just begun to see a scene of conversational intimacy within it when I was called back to see Depew himself.
“Mr. Toadsgoboad,” The old bird-man smiled, extending his hand. “What can I do for you?”
“Tell me who painted that picture outside.” I answered.
The Freshest of Hat Cans
After the party I followed Dan and the woman in the red shirt through the stone arch that marked the western border of Cayotoville. My gums had sore places from all the hard, salty snacks I had eaten. As I looked furtively about I remonstrated bitterly with myself for indulging in such things at the party. My refusal to eat any of the cheese or cake was little consolation. I glanced at my watch as Dan and the woman walked up a short flight of steps to the entrance of a townhouse (think Stanyan Street). Another half an hour and I would be allowed to satisfy my thirst. It was a rigid rule of mine not to drink anything within an hour of eating.
“I was sure they would have good tap water in their district.” I later told Jerry Lancaster.
“You had already determined to enter the townhouse?” Jerry asked, amazed.
“Sure.” Was I being coy or cocky? Are they two aspects of the same thing?
“How did you know to follow this Dan in the first place?”
“It was something I overheard him say to our host, Lord Godfrey.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s a big shot in the bird-people’s Arboreal Assembly. Anyway, I heard him say, ‘as we in academia something something.’”
“And that was enough to make you suspicious?” Jerry’s eyebrows bent into ‘W’s, a certain sign that he found what I had said hard to believe.
“It was exactly the kind of suspicious talk that I was waiting to hear. Anytime you hear someone going on about academia and their exalted place within it, be suspicious.”
“I’ll remember that.” Jerry rolled his eyes. “So then what happened?”
“Well, as I presaged with my earlier remarks, I entered the townhouse through sneaky means and went immediately to the kitchen sink.”
“I take it then that you had waited a half an hour before breaking in?”
“No, the circumstances being what they were, I decided that I could risk drinking a glass of water on a full stomach. After all, what if I were caught before I had a chance to rehydrate?”
“And were you caught?” Jerry asked.
“Oh yes.” I answered with a wistful chuckle.
Supper Hotdog Benefit
Someone ate the miniature whale that had been presented to the colony by the missionaries. Its bones were found under longhouse #2. Suspicion immediately fell on Franklin Becoy, a recent immigrant. However, as he offered conclusive proof that he had been watching television all night, no punitive action was taken against him.
“I guess it will always remain a mystery.” One of the elders told Zavo, one of the missionaries.
“I guess so.” Zavo sighed bitterly. He turned to Chazel, his comrade. “That whale was supposed to be a symbol of Degrosam’s benevolence for these people.” He complained.
“I know, Zavo. I know. But these things happen.” Chazel had developed a relaxed attitude towards life that sometimes irritated Zavo. It did so now. As I entered the colony on the back of a small, but strong donkey, the missionary stomped in frustration past me towards the surrounding forest.
“He goes to be alone.” Chazel explained to me. “Good morning, stranger. What brings you to Black Turnip colony?”
“Just looking around.” I replied out of habit. “Actually,” I added as the robed man before me wrinkled his brow in confusion. “I’m traveling to the eastern side of the city the long way around. I had no idea this place was even here.”
“The colony was only founded six months ago.” Chazel explaind.
“Ah.” I nodded, uninterested.
“Are you hungry? Perhaps you would like a snack?”
“Perhaps he’d like some whale meat!” One of the colonists, Ded Hensley, I believe his name was, shouted, stepping forward with a harvesting implement in his lean, brown arms. “He obviously is the one that has eaten the sacred dwarf water lord!”
“No, no.” Chazel objected. “He bears the sign of the vegetarian.”
It was true. On the lapel of my coat I wore a button with the image of a rampant koala on it, an internationally recognized symbol of vegetarianism. As I looked down at the button proudly, my donkey spoke for all of us when he said, “This wasn’t much of a story, was it?”
Negative Surfacing Mask
In our reading we learn of the seven-headed kangaroo god, dressed in a red vest and floating upwards from the bottom of the Well of Modality. If we have been diligent, and checked out each footnote, we know to bring along a bag of American chestnuts to appease the god when we go for our assigned visit. Due to the blight there are no more American chestnuts, but, for a man in my position, with my plethora of contacts, obtaining a bag full from the secret imperial reserve on Roachador is not a problem.
The seven-headed kangaroo god, whose name it is my privilege to know is Carludo, strongly objects to the “yee-haw” sound that some ignorant rednecks have in the past made in vain (and embarrassing) attempts to elicit some kind of favorable reaction from him. As a further example of my goodwill I dragged one of the more egregious and obnoxious “yee-haw” people along to the Well of Modality and allowed Carludo to tear him to bits with his fingers of iron, the same fingers of iron that subsequently cracked open chestnut after chestnut and popped them into one of seven mouths, not one of which, incidentally, bore the slightest resemblance to the mouth of an actual kangaroo.
“Why are you called the kangaroo god?” I asked, once it became clear that Carludo was relaxed and in a conversational mood.
“I am venerated by the kangaroo-people.” He explained. “In truth, however, there are many beings venerated by the kangaroo-people, so I am actually a kangaroo god, not the kangaroo god.”
“Yes, but surely the only seven-headed kangaroo god.” I pointed out.
“Yes, that’s true.” Carludo admitted. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’m killing time until I enter the city.” I explained.
“The city of Squarto?”
“Yes, I believe that’s the name.”
“Just killing time, eh?”
“Yes. Obviously I didn’t want to mess about talking with the rednecks around here.”
“So you came to me.” Carludo’s seven heads each seemed smug.
“That’s right.”
“Well, let me show you something.” The iron fingers pried open the pouch on Carludo’s furry belly and out popped Jerry Lancaster, grinning like an idiot.
The Corn-Based Throbber Doctrine
The scales were removed, not from my eyes, which remained as blinded to life’s realities as ever, but from the workroom floor.
“But how,” Stammered Flossie, a D-grade employee, “How will we weigh the pallets?”
“You won’t be weighing the pallets anymore.” Feebler answered from his seat at the luncheon table, his pale, hairy fist around a turkey leg of Flintstone-like proportions.
“Then how will we keep track of our productivity?” Was Flossie’s follow-up question. The word “productivity” was one she had not known prior to coming to work for Wilkes Brothers.
“Productivity,” Feebler began, pausing to put down the turkey leg and wipe his mouth on a rag, so important was this topic, “Will from now on be measured directly from the biological data of each employee. Wireless feeds attached to your headgear will transmit this data to the central Digivac compupliance.”
No one said anything. They all glanced at each other, eyes full of uncertainty. Finally, I spoke up.
“What form will this data take?” I asked.
Feebler had to look around the bottle with the candle jammed in its neck to see me. I don’t think he liked what he saw. I’m sure he didn’t like what he had heard or what he had to say in answer.
“Well, sweat levels, for one thing.” He said.
“Sweat?!” Flossie and Moomo, Flossie’s on-the-job friend, cried, petulantly, it seemed to me.
“Yes, sweat. It’s an indicator of how much you’re working.” Feebler replied.
“But some people sweat more than others!” Moomo objected.
“There are chemicals in sweat…” Feebler started to explain, but I interrupted him. I didn’t have time to hear what should be obvious to anyone.
“What other information will be collected?” I asked.
Again Feebler looked around the bottle.
“Certain muscular stimuli.” He said.
“That sounds evasive to me.” I said.
“You know, contractually I don’t have to explain anything.” Feebler sneered.
Elemental Auction Indolence
The scars of distinction lined the backs of George Harrison’s hands. A misunderstanding of one of the lines in A Hard Day’s Night had led certain demons in the employ of Wilkes Brothers’ musico-armaments division to apply these scars immediately following the Beatle guitarist’s ethereal transference.
“They appear to be based on hiragana.” I commented as a group of us sat around Harrison in the so-called Magic Beanery. Harrison spared me a brief, condescending glance. Everyone else merely ignored me.
“Anyway,” Harrison continued, holding up his hands. “They don’t hurt, so I’m not all that concerned.”
I lowered myself quietly and unobtrusively to the floor and crawled away to a position well chosen for both safety and surveillance. From here I would keep an eye on the entrance to the Magic Beanery and avoid anymore of Harrison’s withering looks. Although the daily assignment chart said I was on recycling duty, I knew that I could be of far more use to the company by watching to see who came into this bizarrely decorated room.
I hadn’t been in position long when a couple of guys in cheetah costumes entered. I glanced at Harrison to see if he had noticed. Apparently not, as he was still regaling his audience with anecdotes about Ringo Starr and Eric Clapton. A peal of laughter from the group was cut short by the cheetahs now muscling their way in.
“Aren’t you going to do anything?” A voice in my ear asked.
“I can’t yet.” I replied. Wedged in between the shoulder of Nebuchadnezzar and the flank of one of the famous winged horses from history, I couldn’t turn to see who my interlocutor was.
“Well, I’m going to.” The voice snapped.
“Wait!” I hissed. “There’s been no violence yet!”
I remained where I was and soon saw a fat man in a Santa Claus outfit marching purposely towards the group.
“Break time is over!” The newcomer announced gruffly. “You, Beatle! You’re not supposed to be outside the mystification tank!”
“You let Larry King out!” Harrison pointed out.
“He’s not dead,” Santa Claus reposted, “And anyway, that was Paul Desmond!”
By The Time of the Presupposing
In common with the other workers on the night shift I was required to wear an animal costume. Mine was of a yak-like creature, as were those of the other members of my team. Other teams were dressed as bears, moose, raccoons, frogs, or sloths. Unlike everyone else, however, I had fitted the interior of my costume with a puppetry access hole, enabling me to sneak out of the building whenever I wanted and to smuggle Jerry Lancaster in. It wasn’t as crowded as you think; the dimensional expansion afforded by the access hole was more than adequate to allow Jerry and me to set up a couple of sofas, a stereo system, a drafting table, a kitchenette, and a bookcase in the racquetball court-sized space.
“What about a TV?” Jerry begged.
“A TV?” I repeated incredulously. “What do you need a TV for? You’ve got books and music. What more could you possibly want?”
“I’m not like you, Mike. I’m imaginary. I feel a deep, almost spiritual…”
“You know I hate that word.” I interrupted.
“Almost spiritual rapport,” He continued, emphasizing the hated word and fitting his fingers together to illustrate his meaning. “With the images on the TV.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded sarcastically, dismissively.
The bell summoning my attention to the work-related doings on the outside sounded.
“I’ll be right back.” I said and exited the room. I glanced back at the walls. Some posters and a big mural would be just the things to bring the whole place to life, I thought.
Outside I found that Hudson had misplaced the extension cord for the pneumatic hammer. I had to help him locate it and then to hold up one end of the prismatic crate he was constructing.
“You seem distracted today.” He told me.
“I just keep thinking about naked women.” I replied.
“Yeah, there’s your distraction for you.”
I returned to the secret room within the yak-like animal with a large poster of Joy Division. I found Jerry on his sofa watching “Fantasy Island” on TV.
“Just ignore it.” Was his advice to me.
An Intimated Hog Resource
“It smells like fresh parsnips.” Becky decided. Of course we all had to take her word for it. None of us had seen fresh parsnips, much less smelled them, in years.
“I used to beg my wife to make some kind of parsnip pie.” I informed Wendy, standing beside me.
“You have a wife?” Wendy asked, a look of both perplexity and outraged disbelief on her face, as if I had told her they allowed people like me into the same mall where she bought her shoes.
“Yes, I have a wife.” I answered, wondering what all the fuss was about.
“I didn’t know that.” Wendy concluded, turning her attention back to the large black pipe sticking out of the floor, into which Becky was once again thrusting her nose.
“I can’t see the bottom.” Becky said.
“OK, take a step back now.” Feebler delicately instructed. He looked at us. “Any volunteers to go into this thing and check it out?”
I looked from side to side. No hands were raised. No surprise there, I thought; it’s almost lunchtime.
“Let’s do it.” Jerry whispered in my ear.
“What do you mean ‘we?’” I muttered, but raised my hand and answered, “I’ll do it.”
“Good man, Toadsgoboad.” Feebler manfully hailed me. He had a couple of guys push a chair next to the pipe so I could clamber in. As I did so, an old man sitting in a room in a distant part of the plant watched a surveillance monitor of my clambering and asked aloud,
“Did he call that man Toadsgoboad?”
“He did, Mr. Pigger.” Another man, sitting alongside the first, answered.
“Do you think it’s the same one we’ve been warned about?” Todd Pigger wondered.
“There could only be one man with that name.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think it’s copyrighted.”
Down in the pipe I whistled a merry tune in my ignorance.
Cautious Members of the Crawlim Salaag
An orange cardigan, worn by Frank Sinatra on his laugh track-enhanced TV special from the spring of 1966, was recently mailed to my office by persons unknown. Jerry Lancaster, my imaginary friend, and Stylus Pollock, a puppet, were with me when I opened the stout package containing the cardigan.
“How do you know it’s the same one?” Jerry asked.
“I don’t.” I was frank. “I’m just going to work on that assumption.”
“You know,” Pollock drawled, “When you assume, you make an ass…”
“Please!” I cut him off sharply. “That was stupid the first time I heard it, on The New Odd Couple back in ’82.” I gingerly drew the sleeves of the cardigan over my arms. I looked expectantly at my companions.
“How does it feel?” Jerry asked.
“Electric.” I announced flatly. “But…” I fingered the material. “It’s got a high percentage of synthetic fabric.”
“I’m shocked.” Pollock said. “You’d think Sinatra would have more style than to wear a cardigan made of a synthetic fabric.”
“He would be,” I explained as I removed the garment. “If he were choosing a cardigan today. But you’ve got to remember that this is from the post-World War II generation. Synthetics, then a relative novelty, had a space age cachet that temporarily overrode traditional notions of good taste.”
I held the cardigan up to the light, examining the unusual stains on its front.
“Whiskey?” I asked myself.
“What are you going to do with it?” Jerry voiced the question that all of us were pondering. I remained silent, mulling over my decision.
“I’ve got an idea.” The puppet piped up.
“What?” I asked, expecting some smartass comment.
“Well, you could give it to me.”
“You? What would you do with it?”
“I’d make a friend out of it. You know: sew it up into a vaguely anthropomorphic shape, stuff its arms with cotton, and connect it to the puppetry network.”
I considered. “What would you use for a head?” I asked.
“And hands.” Jerry added.
I must admit that Pollock dealt with these considerations in a clever way.
Wet Cigars and Overcooked Cabbage
4,000 hot dogs, arranged like an army of caterpillars on the giant eggplant that served as the table, were not enough to satisfy the aesthetic dreams of Cosnoc Mucho, the director of the picnic.
“They barely cover the shiny purple surface!” That temperamental fellow raged, clawing the air like an asphyxiating crab.
“That’s ‘cause the eggplant’s too big!” Roger Doomeye countered. No placid exemplar of indifference himself, Doomeye’s voice was full of his own strong feelings.
“Gentlemen,” I intervened, “Let’s not have a scene. No one is going to notice one way or another.”
Both men turned to me.
“What business is it of yours?” Mucho demanded.
“Yeah,” Doomeye agreed. “Clear off!”
“As you wish.” I held up my palms and backed away.
“Brilliantly done.” Jerry complimented me as I joined him by the vat of potato salad.
“No one noticed?” I asked in a whisper, glancing around.
“Nobody saw a thing. Are you ready to leave?”
“Yes. Just walk casually towards the exit.”
“How long have we got?”
“Less than sixty seconds now.” We were walking.
“What if they discover the device?”
“It won’t matter. There’s no way they can defuse it in time.”
A member of the Oak Ridge Boys tried to drag us into some kind of discussion as we neared the exit, but through a shrewd mixture of smiles and rudeness I managed to elude capture. Outside, Jerry and I jogged across the street and hid behind a van. We waited. There was no explosion.
“Something’s gone wrong.” I said.
“You want to check it out?”
“We don’t dare show our faces in there. If they’ve found it…”
“And defused it.” Jerry added.
“The intelligence necessary to defuse one of my loco bombs would be staggering indeed!” I mused.
Where Have the Extra Large Women Gone?
My return to normality was effected in the following manner: immediately after the all-clear had been sounded throughout the City of Malls (Mall City), my companions and I, along with our luggage, books, and pets, packed ourselves into the saxophone of insomnia and headed for the frontier.
“We’ll stop by the gas mill on the way!” I shouted over the honking of our engine.
“You going to blow it up?” Jerry asked.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m going to do something!” I told him. As I returned my attention to the controls, Jerry said to Stylus and Alexander (the latter’s new orange friend), “Same old Toadsgoboad: make it up as you go.” “I am very excited and proud to be in such illustrious company.” Alexander stated in his houseboy’s voice. One day he will rise to become a wealthy importer/exporter. His head was an old papier maché mask stapled to his neck. His hands were wooden salad tossing implements, the fingers of the left of which (the spoon) were crudely indicated by lines drawn with a marker.
“Of course the right one was the fork.” I explained later to former President Bush as we awaited trial for crimes against humanity. His response must be forever a secret as it was, sadly, unintelligible.
“Mike,” Jerry shouted, “Is that the gas mill over there?” He pointed at a blue terra cotta dome rising above the mass of electronic tombs that filled the starboard side of our transparent viewscreen.
“Yes.” I said. “Hold on.” Utilizing one of the saxophone’s squeakier functions, I bounced to the right, landing us near the main induction ports of the mill.
“The Wilkes Brothers receives the bulk of their operating power from this mill.” I explained as I scrounged about in a battered cardboard box.
“Yes, I know.” Jerry snapped. “So does the bulk of the city.”
“So a few people will have to make do without their Tvs for awhile; it’ll be worth it.” I growled. This was no time for distractions, no matter their source.
“Will this destroy Wilkes Brothers?” Stylus asked.
“No, but it will slow them down and prepare the way for part two of the plan.” I answered, grabbing at last a can opener from the box.
Orange Hoops in Black Milk
Don removed the loofah from the altar. He bowed his head to the seven-headed agricultural deity whose image stood carved in polystyrene above.
“See with what dignity he lifts it.” Feebler whispered to his children. Along with the others in the crowd they watched the festivities, joining in on the chant of “King Don! King Don! King Don!” as Don carried the blessed loofah across the enchanted square to the dais upon which the holy bathtub had been placed.
“Time to go.” Feebler directed. Of course the children whined. They wanted to stay, but the divine bathing ceremony was only for the eyes of the elders. To encourage their cooperation, Feebler promised his children ice cream and a movie in the downtown area of their housing district.
Flossie and Moomo, attending the ceremony as part of their union duties, overheard Feebler’s consolation pledges.
“That’s more than he’s ever done for us.” Flossie observed bitterly.
“Well, they’re his kids.” Moomo pointed out.
Flossie grunted.
Nearly eighty percent of those in attendance had vacated the square, leaving only the elders. This group was scanned closely by the royal guards as the pink bathwater ran into the tub. Any imposters detected would be forced to leave. The tub was only half the way full when the water ceased flowing with an ominous gurgle.
“What’s happening?” Don turned and asked the assistant holding the pygmy rhino to be washed in the ritual.
“I don’t know, Your Majesty.” The assistant shook his head. He was having a hard time controlling the rhino.
“It is as if the animal knows something is wrong.” One elder noted. Others around him nodded in agreement.
A guard entered the scene. He ran up the dais and approached King Don.
“Your Majesty,” he whispered, “The gas mill has been incapacitated by a saboteur! Mr. Pigger requests that you return to your quarters for the time being!” Overhead the lights dimmed noticeably.
“The ceremony will be completed later!” Don announced to the crowd.
“Ah, rats!” An adolescent in a fake beard muttered to himself.
Towards a Stouter Bosom
The rehydration completed, the necessary arrangements were made to obtain lodging for the night. I took a job promoting a new album by the band Aged Beef called Moosefiber. This involved my traveling to a couple of college towns down South to put up stickers in advantageous places.
“I should be back by Friday morning.” I told Jerry and the puppets. “Feed the sword and oil the horse.”
“Hey, warrior,” Jerry called as I opened the door to leave. “What do we do if there’s trouble?”
“Lock the door and pray they don’t have blasters.” I joked. What the hell did I know? “Try contacting me through the puppetry network. That sometimes works.” I saluted and left.
The brief southern spring had already retreated to the living rooms of the rich. I exchanged my coat for a t-shirt in acknowledgement of the heat. That had been what the record company wanted me to do anyway. The t-shirt bore an image of Aged Beef’s mascot, a cow in a wheelchair, on the front, and their name on the back. I felt like a fool, but not as a big a one as if I had actually heard the band’s music or knew anything about them. In this case, ignorance made the job tolerable.
I arrived in Stonewallsburg, home of King Cotton University, weary from the cramped conditions and poor food on the subterranean aircraft, eager only to get the job done. I immediately began looking for the ideal spot to put the sticker I carried in my adventurer’s vest pocket. The sticker was a picture of Ned Creeley, the singer for Aged Beef, urinating a string of beads into the mouth of a large ceramic frog, accompanied by the name of the album and its release date.
“Say, friend,” I hailed a sufficiently hip-looking passerby, “Where’s the most happenin’ toilet in town?”
“Uh,” he considered, fingering the gilded fox tooth imbedded above his left eyebrow, “I’d have to say the men’s room at Shaky Sheldon’s. That’s a coffee shop.”
“Thanks!” I cried, slipping the youth a complementary lapel button. Soon I was entering the recommended facilities and eyeing the exact spot that the sticker would be most effective covering. From within my vest pocket (not the one with the sticker) came a crazy wiggling. Out popped a small, emergency puppet.
“Jerry needs help!” He wailed.
Special Unemploy
Max Von Sydow endured. I can think of no higher tribute to pay the man than to write that fact down at the beginning of this piece. How unfortunate, then, that this piece only tangentially touches upon that great Swedish actor. I can’t even truthfully say that his sterling example rose before me as I dashed off to give aid to my friends. Let us just say that the general class of men to which Von Sydow belongs hung like an inspiring tapestry at the back of my mind, lending me a little extra subconscious motivation in my heroic endeavors.
“You paged me?” I asked upon throwing open the door to the Victorian townhouse where Jerry, Stylus, and Alexander were living.
“Mike!” Jerry shouted, sitting up on the sofa. “We’re bored!”
“Aren’t you enjoying the local zines?” I looked at these three lethargic fellows, puzzled.
“It’s not enough, Mike.” Jerry moaned. “We need cable.”
“Alexander’s never seen The Fall Guy or Three’s Company.” Stylus added in a piteous, wavering voice like Pee Wee Herman on the rack.
“I’m sorry, boys, but I can’t in good conscience allow you to get TV service, not if I’m paying for it.”
“Not even to watch rented DVDs?” Alexander asked.
“You hold your tongue!” I ordered. “DVDs are an endangered species. You’ll look a fool in just a few years when and if people ever read a recap of this conversation.”
“What if I were to pay for the cable, Mike?” Jerry put the question of questions to me.
“You? With what?”
“Well,” Jerry said, getting up from his slothful perch. “I’ve got a job.” He held up a uniform.
“Where?”
“The Post Office.” He said it almost apologetically, yet I reeled, clutching my head.
“My old enemies!” I cried, unsteady on my feet.
“Come, come!” Jerry remonstrated. “Is this the bold spirit of the Norsemen?”
The Psychic Torment of the Attendant
“Feeble inducements aside, the only thing that could persuade me to abandon this self-appointed task would be a failure of will on my part.” I curtly told Jerry in response to his ridiculous suggestion that we take a few days off, lay low, and take in the latest Death Freighter film, Death Freighter Has No Name.
“I’m not suggesting that we altogether abandon this… thing you’ve sworn to do;” Jerry hastened to assure me. “I’m merely saying let’s have some fun while we do it.”
“You go have fun at your lousy movie; I’ve got a lot of preparations to make.” I grumbled, stalking into the spare bedroom to edit my notes.
Taking me at my word, Jerry loaded the puppets into a double perambulator and headed down to the old Mafurkey Theater on Pinmoney Street, where the film mentioned above was playing.
“You’ll like this.” Jerry told Stylus and Alexander. “I’ve seen each of the previous three.”
“What is the basic premise behind the franchise?” Alexander asked as they waited in line.
“Well, the Death Freighter is a ghostly boat crewed by a fantastical array of characters. It can travel on land, sea, or air. The last of those, however, is only accessible after the boat’s engine has been fueled with a magic powder of which there is a limited supply.” Jerry explained.
“And they have various adventures I take it?” The orange-colored puppet asked.
“Oh, yes. They usually have to save the world from either destruction or domination by the forces of evil.” Jerry paid for the tickets and entered the theater.
“Can we get popcorn?” Stylus asked hopefully.
“Sure.” Jerry affirmed. “What’s a movie without popcorn?”
Afterwards, their hands greasy and their lips cracked, the puppets pretended that their perambulator was the Death Freighter as Jerry pushed it homewards.
“Captain Caliper,” Alexander addressed his friend, “I’ve sighted the Green Straightener.”
“Initiate violence transfer.” Stylus repeated the line from the movie.
Entering the house my companions were shocked to find me in the company of Dan Callou, the actor who plays Captain Caliper. He was just leaving.
“See what you miss when you waste time on garbage?” I taunted.
The Elongated Bear
I wasn’t under the influence of the mertulkion long before I began twitching all over.
“I don’t know what to do.” Jerry worried as he watched my unconscious body.
“Leave him alone.” My image on the dream monitor ordered. “The convulsions are a normal side effect of the drug.”
“How do you know?” Stylus demanded.
“Convulsions!” Alexander gasped simultaneously.
“Here in the dream I have an expert knowledge of this substance.” My image, dressed in the parade uniform of a colonel in the dragoons, insisted. His voice was calm, authoritative.
“Fine.” Jerry sighed. “Let’s get on with the narcomancy. Tell us what you see.”
“The word ‘lagoon’ gives me the creeps.” My image said after a pause.
“What?” Jerry snapped.
“Why?” Alexander asked.
“Old Jonny Quest cartoons.” My image replied. “Their pervading grayness.” His gaze drifted to the left. “Lagoons play a large part in many episodes.”
“I am beginning to doubt the usefulness of this experiment.” Stylus said to Jerry.
“Me too,” Jerry agreed. “But Mike wanted to do it, and he is still doped up. We’ll have to continue. Dream Wanderer!” He called to my image.
“You can call me Lance.” My image responded. As he turned back to look out the monitor Jerry and the puppets saw that he was now wearing an Ivy League suit and a sharp homburg.
“Tell us, Lance, what do you see?”
“I… see an office building.” My image appeared to be looking past the monitor, as if through a wire screen instead of at one. “Not a skyscraper, but still steel and glass. On a grassy plain.”
“Tell me,” Stylus asked. “Is there a statue of a bear by the entrance?”
My image hesitated. “Yes.” He answered.
“Ursa Motors.” Stylus decided. “Their corporate headquarters.”
“Of course.” Jerry said vaguely.
I stirred on the bed. “I want that suit.” I mumbled.
Instinctual Doorknob Analysis
Two cowgirls were posing for a photograph on either side of the bear statue as my car entered the driveway of Ursa Motors’ corporate headquarters. I stared at them as I passed, but said nothing. Stylus was at the wheel, Alexander beside him. Jerry and I sat in the back.
We pulled into the long disused parking space reserved for the president of Ursa Motors.
“Stylus,” I said with my hand on the door handle, “You and Alexander will have to wait here. I’m sorry, but it’ll look better.”
“I understand, Mike.” Stylus winked beneath the brim of his driver’s cap.
“Ready?” I asked Jerry.
“Ready.”
We got out and crossed to the main entrance to the building. In the lobby I was pleased to see four large abstract expressionist works hanging above the slinky modernist furniture. I was wondering whether I had my terminology correct when a young woman halted our further progress.
“May I help you?” She stood in front of us and asked. It was at least flattering that we appeared menacing enough for her to have come out from behind the desk that stood some yards away.
“Yes,” I replied, “You can tell security to get those cowgirls and their friend off the property.” I pointed towards the parking lot, “And tell them that from now on no casual visitors are allowed on the grounds.”
The young woman looked me up and down. She glanced at Jerry.
“May I ask who you are?” She asked, politely enough but firmly.
Her question was answered for her by a man now stepping forward. He wore black horn-rimmed glasses, an astronaut’s haircut, and, like I, a narrow-lapelled sack suit.
“Janice, this is Mr. Toadsgoboad.” The newcomer explained. At the woman’s blank look, he added, “The president of Ursa Motors.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Janice fairly jumped with fright.
“It’s alright.” I said. “I haven’t been around in a long time.”
“Too long, sir.” Said the man, offering his hand.
“You’re… Thingleton, right?” I asked, taking the hand in mine.
Punctuated Donkey Horse
“The bishop asked if he could come by and make a ritual blessing of the offices in honor of your return.” Thingleton, one of the top executives at Ursa Motors, told me during the course of our getting reacquainted in my office later. Jerry sat next to him across the desk from me.
“What bishop?” I asked.
“The bishop of Squarto.” Thingleton (Ulrich was his first name) filled me in.
I sighed. “Thank him for the offer, but the answer is no. We’ll have no superstition here.”
“I assumed you would feel that way, sir. I’ve already laid the groundwork for a refusal, politely, of course.”
“Very good. Now, Thingleton, here’s the situation: from now on you’re executive vice president. You answer to no one but me. I want a meeting as soon as possible with all the top men here. We’re moving with everything we’ve got against our greatest corporate threat.” I waited for Thingleton to ask whom that was, but he merely looked at me expectantly, so I added, “Wilkes Brothers.”
“Wilkes Brothers.” He repeated thoughtfully. “Do they even make cars?”
“Worse.” I told him. “They’re moving into post-auto vehicles and culture.”
After he left I had Stylus and Alexander join me in my office.
“Nice place.” Stylus commented on looking around.
“It’s always 1965 here.” I sighed with satisfaction. “Approximately.”
“Does that apply to the cars you make too?” Alexander wanted to know.
I considered. “Approximately.” Was my humorous response.
I was pleased to see that in my long absence the office had been kept clean and in readiness for my return.
“Like the messiah.” Jerry joked.
“Please, no superstition here. Like I told Thingbob.”
“Well, what do you want us to do while you’re ensconced in your role?”
“Oh, I’m not ensconced. After the meeting, where I’ll give my directions for taking on Wilkes Brothers, we’ll disappear through the secret tunnel entrance in that old liquor cabinet.” I pointed at the duplicitous piece of furniture.
“Do you really think this plan will destroy Wilkes Brothers?” Alexander asked.
“It is a foregone conclusion!” I brayed.
How We Grasp the Wheel
Justice is meted out and all is well. Or will be. I am assured of it. And so, my companions and I took our leave. I opened the liquor cabinet with a large and mostly ceremonial key and led the way inside.
“Did this cabinet ever hold any liquor?” Alexander asked.
“If it did, it was before my time.” I replied. “I’ve been sober for five years now.”
“Really?” Stylus questioned. “I figured you for a hard drinker.”
“I used to be, but you don’t get to be head of a major automobile manufacturing concern by being a drunk.”
“Or Master of the Tunnel System.” Jerry added, proudly I thought. I think he was proud of me and of being my friend.
“What is the tunnel system?” Alexander asked.
“We’re in it right now.” I told him, gesturing at the walls of the tunnel about us. This tunnel, like almost all of them in the system, had a flat, smooth concrete floor. The walls, irregular and crudely formed, yet not overly rough to the touch, curved up the meet the ceiling so that the whole thing made an extended arch. The ceiling was usually anywhere from seven to nine feet from the floor. On the walls were sixty-watt bulbs regularly spaced, along with the occasional piece of art. The tunnels were thoroughly climate controlled. All of this I made comment on as we walked.
“You’ve got everything but piped-in music.” Stylus said.
“And I never will.” I said forcefully. “I don’t like music for the hell of it.”
“What makes you ‘master’ of the tunnel system?” Alexander asked.
“The fact that I’m in control here. As well as the fact that I know my way around.”
“He overthrew the previous masters,” Jerry added, “The Postal Monopoly Cult Empire.”
“So, you know every inch of these tunnels?” Stylus asked.
“Well, no.” I admitted. “But I’m getting there. For instance,” I stopped as we came to a junction where the tunnel branched off in two directions. “I don’t know what’s down there.” I pointed to the right.
“Shall we?” Jerry asked after a pause for consideration.
“That’s what we’re here for.” I smiled.
The Mancini Conniption in Large Print
The elephant’s sneaker was a sky blue high-top with a glittery vinyl silver star on the ankle. Assuming that there were three more like it somewhere, I wondered why it alone remained attached to the elephant that stood before us.
“Do you think it’s lost the other three?” I asked Jerry. “Or merely found this one?”
“Hard to imagine that it put this one on by itself if it did find it.” Jerry reasoned.
“I don’t know. An elephant’s trunk is an amazing tool. I wouldn’t put it past an elephant to slip on a sneaker and lace it up with its trunk.”
The elephant turned and began walking away across the field of green. The sky was green too and only sketchily demarcated by a few distant blobs of gray.
“Where’s he going?” Asked Jerry.
“Let’s follow him.” I suggested.
“Theme music?”
“Um… Concerto for Flute, Electric Organ, and Bongos by Manschifrini.”
“You just made that up.” Jerry accused and yet, even then the music began to play, accompanying us as we walked along, coming inevitably closer to one of those blobs of gray. The elephant let us to a sloppy silhouette, a yellow square of light within which indicated that it was a house.
“Good boy.” I said to the elephant.
“Raannk.” He replied. In the language of the elephants that means something like, “I acknowledge your presence as an ultimately benign one.”
I knocked at the door. While we waited for an answer Jerry asked me how I knew where the door was.
“The doorknob.” I said, pointing as the door opened.
“Yes?” A tall, lean man stood in the doorway regarding us indifferently.
“Is this your elephant?” I asked, throwing out my hand like a spokesmodel towards the incompletely shod creature.
“Paxton, yes.” The man answered. “Well, he belongs to the household.”
“Paxton, eh?”
“And what household is that?” Jerry asked. I thought that a little forward and apologized for my friend, explaining that we were travelers.
“No need to apologize, sir.” Said the man. “I can see that you are both gentlemen.”
The Computer’s Word for People Who Aren’t Motivated by Money
How willingly they trade in their fanciful garments for the simple robes denoting the position of acolyte.
“There is no position of acolyte in the Church of Turlobog.” Said the unofficial representative of the church. He was dressed in a uniform reminiscent of the old Salvation Army uniforms, except that his was black.
“So you’re saying that this man in lying?” The talk show host, who was definitely not Oprah Winfrey, although conforming in most respects to that celebrated personage’s various attributes, asked her guest.
“Yes.” The Turlobogist (the official term for followers of Turlobog, although there is a burgeoning trend among them to call themselves “Whitenecks”) responded flatly.
“No… no…” The man in the audience, a skinny loser in glasses, shook his head in disbelief that his story of temptation and near-corruption was being dismissed with such finality. “This guy I knew…” He mumbled weakly even as he was returned to his seat by the gentle pressure of the non-Oprah’s hand on his shoulder.
“Her control over the audience is admirable.” An executive with the Church of Turlobog commented on seeing the episode when it was broadcast a week later.
“She should be one of us.” A fellow executive with the church added.
“Approaching her would be a job best left for Turlobog himself.” The first mused.
“Agreed. I’ll put it to him the next time we’re in session.”
“Which will be when?” The first executive sounded doubtful that it would be any time soon.
His colleague merely shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes. Evidently sessions with the church’s deity were not as frequently held as in the past. The lights in the media room were turned on and the two men rose from their chairs.
“What do you think that guy with the glasses was talking about?” The second executive asked.
“Some rival organization for whom Turlobog is a touchstone of evil.” He said the word with a comically intense quaver.
“If only they knew him as we do.”
“Ha!” Barked the first executive. “We’d get no recruits at all.”
Diverticulotus
The transfer took place without the flash or heat that I had come to expect from post-Pettibon cartoonetics. One minute Jerry and I were sitting in Mr. O’Feardan’s high-ceilinged living room chatting amiably with that tall, lean man and the next the sun, a disk of orange pastel, had risen over the bookcase that covered the far wall.
“You are familiar with the works of Neville Netsuke?” O’Feardan asked, crossing his long legs ankle on knee and in so doing revealing dark socks patterned with both horseshoes and crabs.
“The author of Prosciutto by the Sea?” I mused. “Yes, but not intimately.”
“He is a great favorite of mine. See that set of saffron-colored volumes on the highest shelf? His complete works.”
“Indeed.” I stroked my chin, idly wishing my beard weren’t so thin.
Jerry thrashed about in his seat.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Are you bored, my friend?” O’Feardan inquired.
Jerry took a deep breath, reluctant to spit out what was on his mind. “I keep thinking about that elephant’s missing shoes.” He finally enunciated.
“Oh, my dear friend, don’t worry.” O’Feardan chuckled. “I have one of them right here.” He reached behind the sofa and pulled out one of Paxton’s sneakers.
“And the others?” Jerry asked as he tossed the shoe out the window to the elephant.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” O’Feardan’s eyebrows arched like a cat facing down its reflection.
“Why don’t we go look for them?” Jerry turned to me.
“Jerry, you’re being rude.”
“No, no,” Objected our host. “He is merely restless. Let him go and search if he likes.” O’Feardans’ outstretched hand swept across the breadth of the green expanse that surrounded the house. “They’re out there somewhere, I’m sure. You and I,” He smiled at me, “Can continue our discussion.”
“Very well.” I sighed.
Jerry exited the house and, accompanied by Paxton, roamed about looking for a more interesting story than this one. Yee Ha!
The Streets of Tortoiseshell
“Diabetic trees.” Ronald explained, pointing at the dwarf grove that sat between Senator Goosefelt’s lawn and the Firkleson’s Laundromat.
“Interesting.” Responded Roland, though his tone contradicted him. “When will Francosan be arriving?” He held up his wristwatch.
“Any time now.” Ronald assured his companion. The two men spoke in whispers. The last thing they wanted was to be heard by either Senator Goosefelt or the Firklesons. Actually, the last thing they wanted was authoritative proof that they would somehow defy death, but as that is an almost universal desire and one outside the purlieus of my narrative, it is hardly to be mentioned here. And it hardly has, has it?
Even as Ronald spoke these words he caught sight of Francosan. He nodded towards the man. “Here he is.” He said.
Francosan was sneaking along the back of Senator Goosefelt’s house, running his hands over the smoothly stuccoed walls as he went. The grass he trampled was short and lavender colored, each blade thicker than one might be used to.
“He makes me sick.” Roland muttered.
“Why?” Ronald asked with the clinical dispassion of a bored grad student, yet there was, in Roland’s imagining, a hint of disapproval in his voice. Ronald was the kind of rock star who never admitted to hating anyone, never even admitted to having any hate in his heart, except as it applied to hatred itself. He was always willing to be compassionate and see the other fellow’s side.
“Look how he’s dressed.” Roland gave vent to his irritation, even as he recognized that he sounded irrational and would get no sympathy from Ronald.
Francosan was dressed in an old-fashioned tracksuit and a bathrobe. His shoes were cheap canvas Keds. He moved slowly, seeming to need to keep his fingers constantly in touch with the wall as he went. He came to a window in which sat a blueberry pie clipped out of a magazine, cooling in the breeze. With no hesitation whatsoever, Francosan reached up and took the pie. He continued on his way, holding the pie aloft on his fingertips.
“The fool!” Roland hissed.
Ronald’s equivocating response was cut short by the appearance of Jerry and Paxton, who knocked Francosan over and examined his footwear critically.
Batswing Aerosol Naughtiness
Andrews, serving the mustard from a tureen the size of an artillery shell, had a smile for each of the ladies. Particular favorites received a glimpse of his molars, one of which bore the image of Gerald Ford permanently affixed to its enamel.
“No one knows why.” Enid whispered to Frances as they huddled together in a corner of the room with mustard-laden napkins in their hands.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s that hard to figure out.” Frances replied. “He does drive a Thunderbird, you know.”
Enid dabbed her finger in her mustard thoughtfully. “Really? I didn’t know you knew him that well.”
“Frances, Enid!” Joyce interrupted the two women’s colloquy. “Have you heard? The ground floor is flooded! There’s no way out!” She conveyed all of this delightedly, her eyes wide with excitement. Her mustard had leaked through her napkin. Her hand was wet.
“What are we going to do?” Enid asked. She glanced about the room. Everyone seemed to be talking about it, but no one seemed overly distressed.
“We’ll just have to wait it out.” Joyce’s eyes glittered.
“For how long, though?”
“It could be days, Angie says!”
“Relax, Enid.” Frances tried to calm her friend. “The balloon patrol will get us out of here.”
“Those hippies!” Joyce sniped.
Enid turned to Joyce. “I’m not staying here a couple of days with nothing to eat but mustard!”
Joyce regarded her coldly.
“And what is wrong with mustard?” She demanded.
“It’s a condiment, Joyce. It’s not an appetizer or an entrée.” Enid informed her.
“Well,” Joyce nodded her head slowly. “I guess you’ve outgrown us at last. I always knew you would.” She put her finger into her mustard and licked it clean, keeping her eyes on Enid the whole time.
“Ladies!” Andrews called out from the buffet. “Lemon juice time!”
“Coming, Frances?” Joyce asked. “Or are you also too mature now?”
February 29 Never Falls on Deaf Ears
The fat woman’s heritage included a frying pan with the Mucho family crest imprinted in its bottom. If one fried eggs in it exactly so, the imprint would be transferred to the eggs.
“But then,” The fat woman giggled, “The crest will be backwards, meaning the rats rampant will be on the left and the chevron of Malcontent on the right, lending ascendancy to the wrong side of the family.”
Her interviewer, Dr. Shuffang, smiled politely, though his gaze remained blank. He took another cookie to cover his discomfiture.
“I see,” He grasped for something to say, “That you’ve quite an impressive collection of Jazz albums.”
“Oh, yes.” The fat woman gushed. “I started collecting them before I was born.”
Dr. Shuffang shifted the piece of cookie in his mouth to one side.
“You mean the albums are also part of your heritage?” He tried to make sense of it all. The fat woman was turning out to be more of a puzzle than he had imagined. From her various film roles and the caustic letters she had written to the local paper, he had expected something far different. What had he expected? He tried to remember now.
“Oh, no. You see, I…” The fat woman’s explanation was cut short by the arrival of the Barracuda Boys, a semi-official vigilante squad each wearing a makeshift uniform of black vinyl, except for the flannel valentines pinned to their chests. These last had been provided by the state.
“Nobody move!” Terrance, their chief, ordered, brandishing the electrified baton that so many had learned to fear. He stalked around the side of the sofa and snatched up a cookie. “Well, what have we here?” He sneered, sniffing at the cookie before cramming into his insufficiently opened mouth.
“Is it a cookie, Terrance?” Boggo, one of the Barracuda Boys, asked.
“I think so.” Terrance simpered, spraying crumbs about the scene like Old Man Winter dropping a blizzard on some quaint Swiss village where children in homemade clothing eagerly await the arrival of a Christmas filled with cakes and paper dolls and visits from relatives and wooden toys, instead of your newfangled computer games.
Cornhusking Lingam
My new understanding of the workings of the theater has led me to some unorthodox decisions regarding casting. In film I have thus far continued to use the traditional John Wayne type in such roles as pastry chefs and helpful bus drivers, but in the theater these kinds of roles, scarce as they may be in the plays that I have been privileged to direct, are, I feel, better filled by the Skeet Ulrich type. I hope I am not in danger of becoming too technical here when I state that the left-hand side of the stage (as viewed by the audience) naturally lends itself to the placement of pastry shop windows and the entrances to the bedrooms of helpful bus drivers and it is here that one can feel the Skeet Ulrich vibe maximizing its appurtenance.
My time in the theater, coming as it did after the fiasco of Anthony’s Trollop (see Pauline Kael’s posthumous drubbing in Tight But Loose), kept me from committing a terminal action upon my person, so low had my self esteem plunged beforehand and so high did it rise afterwards. In fact, to use a theatrical metaphor, it rose like the heavy red curtain (why are they always red?) at the front of the stage. Of course, this same curtain always descends again, and there my metaphor, like all metaphors at some point, breaks down, for my self-esteem has largely remained right up there with those big black birds perched on the roof of this fine old building.
Many of you have written in to ask about similar casting decisions in your own productions. All I can advise is that you read the character’s name and description and then close your eyes and imagine what he looks like. Once you have fixed this image firmly in your mind you can weed out all the undesirable applicants for the role until you get one that conforms as nearly as possible to your ideal. This is such a good idea that I wish I had thought of it sooner. It would have saved the time wasted on Skeet Ulrich himself. I could have gotten some nobody and dressed him up to look like Skeet Ulrich. What kind of name is Skeet anyway? Isn’t that the sound that people make when they are graphically describing the act of ejaculation? It’s vulgar, I know, to speak of such things, but in today’s theater we cannot be shy about discussing vulgar things. After all, isn’t that what we go to the theater for?
Bicuspid
I couldn’t face another day without a proper resolution to the whole Wilkes Brothers conflict. The suspense was killing me. Well, not killing me, but something was, slowly, invidiously, and I might as well put the blame on suspense over a trivial matter of corporate iniquity rather than something I couldn’t do anything about, like the inevitable decay of the body and the accompanying rigors of employment.
Thus it was that early Monday morning I left Jerry sleeping in my valise and slipped out the front door to check on the situation.
“Good morning, Mr. Toadsgoboad!” My neighbor, old Sarge, hailed me from across the little fence that separates our private worlds.
“Good morning!” I energetically returned his greeting, happy for any delay in setting out on this boring assignment. There was more to it than that, however; I found that I was genuinely happy to see the old man next door. It must have been the grapefruit I ate earlier. That stuff has a weird effect on me. “You’re up early.”
“Oh, I’m always up at this hour.” Sarge replied. He was doing something to his bushes and shrubs.
There didn’t seem to be anything I could add to this, so I prepared to move on, but the old man checked me with a question.
“Tell me something,” He requested, a gardening tool in his lean brown hand, “Do you have much trouble keeping up with what happens from day to day?”
I exhaled in a sort of half chuckle, half gasp, if a gasp can be said to function in the exhalation mode. “As a matter of fact, I do. But,” I confessed, “I don’t really let it trouble me. That being said, however, I’m on my way right now to check on something I should have kept better track of.”
“Well, I was just wondering.” Sarge sighed.
“Why?” Obviously, he wanted me to ask him. So I did.
“Well, I built an underground fortress sometime back full of robotic waitresses, but I must have forgotten about it. Now I’ve sent an army of virulent earthworms into the earth on a mission of senseless destruction, and I’m afraid there’ll be unnecessary and unwanted conflict.” He looked at me worriedly.
“Yeah,” I nodded sympathetically. “That can happen.”
Chalk Talk Skit
Lincoln sat down with the representative of the Micromen’s undersea trade federation and the latter’s charming assistant Becky. After ringing for cups of so-called “Russian tea” (Tang and Lipton instant) to be served, Lincoln addressed himself to the representative, whose name was Marcomooter.
“I hope your journey was without undue incident.” The beleaguered president said.
“Oh, yes sir, it was most uneventful.” Replied the federation representative.
“That’s good to hear. As the pig farmer said, ‘Once the sow’s come to market, it’s too late to twist her tail.’”
Marcomooter pounded his scaly thigh with his flipper-like hand as he laughed in his peculiarly silent way.
“Oh,” He said at last, “I do appreciate your folksy wit!”
Lincoln smiled. He was pleased with himself. No man could tell a joke better. Isn’t that what Seward had said of him only the other day? His self-congratulatory musings were cut short by the voice of the plump blonde woman, Becky.
“Does your sense of humor extend to the signing of treaties that are clearly disadvantageous to the citizens of the Micromens’ kingdom?” She asked, maintaining a pleasant countenance throughout.
Equally placid, except for a momentary flash of enmity in the depths of his profoundly intelligent eyes, Lincoln replied calmly, “I only joke with people whom I think can take a joke.”
“You must please excuse my assistant, Mr. President.” Marcomooter begged. “Like many of my colleagues, she sometimes mistakes my demeanor for a lack of resolve. Obviously, I am here to discuss the terms of the trade agreement, terms which, as you must know, we feel are not exactly as equitable as they might be, but, that being said, I see no reason we should not have some fun while doing so.”
“Well said.” Lincoln boomed. He reached into a drawer in the old roll top desk at which he sat and retrieved three cone-shaped, paper party hats. He passed one to each of his guests and put one on his own, doomed head.
The stage upon which this scene was enacted darkened, signaled the audience that the skit was over and that they should now applaud. However, with the exception of the actress’ parents, no one did so.
Trigger’s Jumpsuit Analysis
“Mr. Pugg’s personal atmosphere was chilly and humid that Tuesday.” Bob Cilantro began with a piratical rolling of his eyes. A couple of grocery sacks full of peapods sat on the floor, but the shelling had ceased for now.
“Is that the same thing as clammy, Grandpa?” Owen asked.
“I don’t know, Owen.” Cilantro replied seriously. He cast his gaze towards the door that led to the kitchen, where his daughter was busy peppering the guinea fowl. “Imelda!” He called. “Is clammy the same thing as chilly and humid?”
“What? Dad, I’ll be with you in a minute!” Imelda’s attention was on the elephant walking through the back yard. The man on its back seemed familiar.
Outside the old house Rick, Imelda’s husband, and Mel, her brother, were sharing a marijuana cigarette. Rick had just passed the “joint” to Mel when he noticed the elephant. It is a credit to his experience as a pot smoker that he held onto his chestful of smoke even in the face of this surprising sight. He merely grunted and pointed. Mel, also a pro when it came to the sacred herb, followed his brother-in-law’s index finger, but kept on toking.
Finally, as the elephant and its rider stopped before him, Rick exhaled.
“What’s up?” He asked, speaking as much to the elephant as the bearded man astride it.
“Hello there!” Jerry Lancaster (for it was he) saluted the red-eyed pair. “We’re looking for this elephant’s missing shoe.” He pointed at the rear right foot, which, unlike the other three, was shoeless.
“How’d you lose it?” Rick asked.
“Hey!” Mel shouted, his mouth exploding with smoke, “I know you!” He pointed at Jerry. “You’re Mr. Pugg!”
“Who?” Rick queried, turning to look at Mel. His focus was selective at best and it seemed to him that Mel had some previously unsuspected feline qualities about his face.
“Mr. Pugg!” Mel cried delightedly. “He’s a fairy tale character my dad created!”
Imelda joined them at that moment.
“Is that Mr. Pugg?” She asked, a look of happy anticipation on her strangely leonine features.
“No, no.” Jerry insisted. “I’m an entirely original creation, copyrighted by Space Limited Accomplishments.”
Emo’s Emo Hemophiliac Elomosynary
The pimpeye delusion has afflicted many an android of the prerecorded biography type. Of course, in a brief overview such as this, which may or may not even itself be totally about its initial subject, a thorough definition of the pimpeye delusion is not feasible. However, using metaphors and various relevant news items, I will try to make everybody as happy as I can.
The androids in question are sequestered near the library in a painted cardboard construction known as the Scatteregg Hotel. It was here in 1966 that General Eisenhower came for answers. Or, as he put it, “straight talk.”
“I want to know how you androids feel about America. Not just the nation and its foreign policy, but America as a concept.” He sat on a pasteboard ottoman in the hotel lobby, surrounded by attractive, young androids of both sexes.
“Well, sir,” One android dressed in corduroy pants and a sports shirt spoke up, “If this were still 1965 I would have said that America meant small towns and remaining a virgin until after one is drafted, but now, in 1966, I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Interesting.” The former president said to himself. He nodded at his aide, Mrs. Wilkerson, and tapped her notebook with his withered finger, an old sign between the two of them that meant, “write this down.”
“I think what Contemporex means,” Another android, this one shrouded in a disreputable beard, began, “Is that things have changed. The ‘concept’ of America is in flux.”
Whatever Eisenhower’s response to this was is not known with any certainty, although we can speculate with a stunning degree of accuracy upon it due to the ramifications of the pimpeye delusion. To say that we are each, in his or her own way, androids ourselves is to say the obvious. Hell, it’s as obvious as the violent reaction that Eisenhower must have had to the ramblings of an unkempt radical privileged to be invited into an important discussion with a great man.
In my ongoing attempts to make everybody happy I am only fulfilling my own programming as best I can although others make this difficult with their insistence on making noise. Don’t be like them.
Vaporized and Double-Crossed
A fine-haired detective, his lanky frame partially hidden by a handmade satin cape, entered the Mortensen Building through the disused south portal.
“Now to see if my information is correct.” He said to himself, turning left at the vending machines as instructed and coming to a door at the end of a short hallway. The framed portrait hanging on the wall to the right of the door was indeed that of a young Talex Rydan, his eyes not yet obscured by his now famous glasses.
The detective paused only briefly to examine the portrait. Yet in that time he keenly observed that the frame was magnificently carved. “Shoe-gazing symbols abound.” He noted.
With an illegal tool he disabled the locking mechanism (lock) on the door and passed inside. After drawing the door to behind him he turned and was stunned to see Dr. Molar and his assistant Carly. Molar sat in his wheelchair. Carly stood beside the wheelchair, a sominom pistol in her hand.
“Come in, Mr. Capital.” Dr. Molar sounded friendly. He gestured with his palsied hand at a chair against the wall to his right in the otherwise empty room. “Have a seat.”
Nils Capital, the fair-haired detective, sighed resignedly before stepping over to the chair.
“I gather this is not Rydan’s office?” He said as he sat down. He took hold of the sides of his cape in his hands and swirled them gracefully out so as not to sit on the cape.
“Of course not.” Dr. Molar replied. “Did you really think Thonky would tell you the truth? I warned you about him. We’ve been waiting for you. As I told you earlier, I want Rydan as much as you, but for different reasons.”
“What do you want with me?”
“To talk to you. To try to persuade you to do things my way.”
“Then what’s the pistol for?” Capital nodded towards Carly’s hand.
“Merely a precaution against any undue aggression on your part.”
“Well, I’m seated and sedate. Speak your piece.”
As the two men parleyed, Carly cast her mind back to the previous evening. She had watched an episode of “Seinfeld” that had confused her.
Metal Snake
Stuck in the cornice above the entrance to Skip’s office was one of the leaflets that Count Ramyow’s blimp had dropped on the city the night before.
“Tommy,” The elderly Skip instructed his errand boy, “See if you can reach that piece of paper.” He pointed at the leaflet. With the aid of a chair Tommy did reach the small piece of folded paper and handed it to the old man.
“‘Beware Metal Snake.’” Skip read aloud. Tommy stood alongside, the chair in his lean young arms. “Go on, Tommy,” Skip ordered. “This isn’t for the ears of a minor.”
Tommy laughed. “I’ve already heard about it.” He said, walking back inside the office with the chair. “They’re talking about it all over town.”
Skip glanced at Tommy’s back before returning to the leaflet. He was reading it intently when his neighbor on Pooter Street, Doc Mankiller, who was within a decade of Skip’s venerable age, emerged from his own office and approached him.
“What do you think of it?” Mankiller asked.
“Good morning, Doc.” Said Skip. “I don’t know. It sounds crazy.”
“My niece’s boy found one in his birdbath last night. I saw it this morning. Damned strange.” Mankiller was a portly man who habitually wore red suspenders and a white hat.
“I haven’t read the whole thing yet.” Skip admitted. He continued reading while Mankiller followed a couple of young girls down the opposite side of the street with his eyes. “It says here the town is in danger of being devoured by Metal Snake. Now, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“And why no definite article?” Asked Mankiller. “Not ‘the Metal Snake,’ just ‘Metal Snake.’”
“Do you think it’s poetic? I mean, could it be a reference to the railroad?” Skip wondered.
Inside the office Tommy watched the two old men puzzle over the leaflet. To him, it was so obvious. Metal Snake must be a band preparing to play a concert in the city somewhere. He admired the artistic boldness of the marketing campaign: it left everything vague and menacing. No mention even of where or when they were going to play. “Too bad I hate Heavy Metal.” He thought.
Incorporating Cheese Officials
The stylistic concerns that had obsessed me from the commencement of Operation Grubstake were subsumed by my growing need for substantive content, to really say something with my saxophone, my dioramas, and my little pieces, one example of which you are currently reading. Of course, my friends and colleagues thought me a fool to tamper with the formula that I had so painstakingly developed over the years and that had been so successful for me. But, as I asked (rhetorically, you understand) Dirk Klezmer, “What is my work really about? Is it just a load of nonsense?”
“Well, perhaps it is just nonsense, but I think you’re saying something through it, maybe without even realizing what it is.” So Klezmer said, but who is Dirk Klezmer anyway? Just some guy at a literary conference, someone whom I’ll probably never see again, much less reference.
Incorporating cheese officials into my latest opus, The Ladies Put Faith in the Shade, I attempted to come to grips with something truly important in my life, my problem with overeating. This may seem minor to some of you, but my idea was to start off with trivial important things and work my way up to the important important things like morality, fear of death, and my contempt for other humans.
These cheese officials, however, refused to help out. They wandered all over the place, tidying forgotten details and straightening out conflicts. One of them, a Mr. Crumbly, rounded up both Bambatter and Carludo and threw them into a blender together. The result was rather bland to tell you the truth, but I didn’t tell him that. Eventually I lost track of them except for the one assigned to keep an eye on me. On Thursday we went down to the shore with a hamper of good, healthy things to eat in reasonable portions and watched the smoke boil up from the horizon.
“I want to congratulate you.” My personal cheese official told me as he passed me an unflavored rice cake.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“You’ve stuck to your diet like a champ.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t lost any weight.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re a chump.” He laughed, pulling off the mask that disguised Jerry Lancaster.
Washerwoman on Parade
Pasty Horno, of the Semi-Urban Washerwoman’s League, stowed her mop in its case and emptied her bucket into Lord Jamlick’s prize cactus. She stretched her back contentedly. Another good night’s work. The vintage linoleum floor shined in the light of the moon coming through the absurdly oversized French doors.
“I guess they were invented in France.” Pasty Horno said to herself, thinking she was alone. She wasn’t. Our ace reporter, Eli Crank, and photographer Captain Swizzle were there.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Crank inquired softly, “May we interview you?”
“Sweet Jesus!” Pasty Horno exclaimed as she turned around in a panic. “You scared the stuffing out of me! Who are you?”
In his article, Crank made a neat correlation between the washerwoman’s deeply held Christian beliefs and her easy use of her god’s name as an oath. I wish I could remember how he phrased it, but the article is lost forever, gone when Crank and Swizzle disappeared into the next book.
“I’m a reporter with the Mall City Mirror. I’d like to interview you.” Crank explained as Captain Swizzle took a photo of the woman’s feet.
“How’d you get in here?” Pasty Horno demanded.
“Reporter’s privilege.” Crank airily replied. “Now, how about telling us about yourself? What’s it like being a washerwoman?”
“You’ll have to follow me outside if you want to talk to me; I’m getting off work right now.” Pasty Horno informed them. Taking up her mop in its special case and her bucket, she led the two men outside into the dawn.
“Pasty Horno,” Crank began, “You walk this way to work every day?”
“The name’s Patsy, actually.” The confused washerwoman corrected our man. “And yes, I walk this way to work and home every day.” They were passing the potatoworks and the tomatorium, each of which Captain Swizzle captured on film, along with a telling image of the washerwoman’s backside. The so-called Patsy Horno waved at an acquaintance as she walked, proudly, so it seemed to Eli Crank from what I can gather from the few notes left behind after our ace reporter and his photographer and friend suddenly disappeared.
“Sweet Jesus, where’d they go?” The washerwoman asked her god without really meaning to.
Expedition in Furnishings
Another monogrammed glove was discovered on the pathway around the pond. This one bore the letter ‘L’ in blue. As Inspector Dripp noted, the previous glove had been embroidered with a red ‘T.”
“What do you think it means, Dripp?” Bedford Casey, the owner of the estate that included the pond, asked the tall, lanky inspector.
“I think it’s bad business.” Dripp replied, rubbing his obscenely jutting chin. “I’d like to take a look at that old armoire again, if I may, Mr. Casey.” He announced, suddenly all resolve and initiative. Had he seen Casey’s daughter Mildred approaching?
“Certainly, Dripp.” The retired financier agreed. “Ah, here’s my daughter.”
Mildred Casey, dressed in a pink sweater and a black woolen skirt with a flannel cutout of a poodle in pink sewn to its front, emerged from behind a thicket of bloodworts. Inspector Dripp hastily thrust the newly found glove into his pocket. There it joined the first.
“Mildred, this is Inspector Dripp.” Casey introduced them. “Dripp, this is my daughter, Mildred.”
“We’ve met.” Dripp replied with one of his rare smiles.
“Have we?” Mildred asked.
“Yes, at the library. Surely you remember, the…”
“The book on primitive aircraft!” Mildred finished his sentence. “Yes, I do remember. But I had no idea you were an inspector as well as a history buff.”
“One has to have a wide range of information in my line of work.” Dripp made it sound mysterious.
“Mildred, aren’t you hot in that outfit?” Bedford Casey asked reproachfully.
“I’m quite comfortable, Father.” The young woman testily answered.
Inspector Dripp rubbed his chin as he mused.
Fifteen minutes later he was probing the depths of the old armoire with a beeping plastic wand.
“What’s that device, Dripp?” Casey asked the inspector.
“It’s a laser, Mr. Casey.” Dripp made it sound ominous. He stood up straight and examined a blinking light on the wand. “I’m afraid you’ll have to have your daughter committed to a mental hospital.” He said gravely.
A Tradition of Safety
“Let them spiral!” Sneered Blighurst as he and the Bobcat Boys watched Turwad’s blimp turning helplessly a hundred feet below them. The Bobcat Boys, dressed in their distinctive uniforms, snickered together like four bobbleheads in a rear-view mirror, set in motion by a speedbump.
“We can’t do that!” Obduron snapped from his position at the coffee machine. “They’re sailors on the wind, just like we!”
“‘We?’” Repeated Bobcat Ned jeeringly. “Why don’t you say ‘us,’ you high-falutin’ snob?”
“He thinks he’s better than we. That’s why he’s so eager to be noble. That’s why he wants to rescue that asshole Turwad.” Bobcat Freddie observed.
“In that sentence ‘us’ would be the standard form.” Obduron informed Freddie coldly as he moved to the grappling hook assembly.
“You stay where you were!” Blighurst bellowed. “You’re assigned to the coffee machine and that’s where you’re going to stay!”
“I won’t abandon Turwad and his crew to death!” Obduron shouted. He began to unwind the heavy cable from its spool.
“The Dragon King left me in charge, Obduron! You’re coffee boy! Get back to your station before I have you arrested!” Blighurst thrust his leather-masked face into Obduron’s and pointed at the brass coffee unit in the corner of the command deck.
“Fuck you, Blighurst!” Obduron cursed.
The Bobcat Boys’ mouths dropped open at this rare used of “adult” language by a character in one of my books. They knew that I like to write things that I could read aloud to my kids without suffering undue embarrassment. That’s why you will rarely find sex scenes in my work. I try to be a more liberal and open-minded man and father than my own father, but I guess I was trained too well. It’s hard to overcome my squeamishness about discussing certain subjects in front of my kids (or my parents) despite my belief that traditional Christian, American values are rife with hypocrisy and nonsense.
Held firmly by the Bobcat Boys, Obduron could only watch as Turwad’s blimp crashed into the private Christian school below, consuming all in a ball of fire.
John Comes From Boise
No matter how creative John was, he could never rise above the fact that he came from Boise.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with Boise.” One is compelled to add, not wanting to get beaten up by outraged Idahoans, each of whom takes great pride in their state’s capital, I’m sure.
However, John, to take a fictional example, is hopelessly trapped by his origins.
Now, what does that mean, trapped?
It means, in the context of our analysis, that John, obsessed as he is with becoming rich and famous (henceforth this dual concept will be known by the portmanteau coinage wealthknown), pours his creative energies into projects, and tailors these projects, towards that goal. So, as I said in what we writers refer to as the topic sentence, no matter how creative he is, his creativity is limited because of the ceiling imposed by the intended end result of all of this effort. Which is the same, again, in the context of our analysis as coming from Boise. Or Athens, GA, or what-have-you.
One can cheat this limitation to a slight degree, and increase the height of the ceiling by another couple of feet, by abandoning the goal of becoming wealthknown. The ideal would be to have never actively panted after that goal in the first place, for then one would be as free as one can be of metaphoric ceilings in this world, but we are talking nonsense.
For example, returning to John for a moment, he called me up the other day and told me he had read my latest book.
“Oh, really?” I said, flattered over the slightest morsel of attention. I wanted to add, “Did you like it?” but didn’t dare.
“Yes.” He said, his next words incipient in the tone of the first. “You don’t much care about accessibility, do you?”
“I think my work is very accessible.” I hotly contested.
“But you’re never going to get an audience with material like this, granted that you want an audience.”
“John, you’re my audience.” I told him. He hung up then; the long distance rates were killing him.
Plaid Jacket Menace
The town of Monroe is named for James Monroe, fifth president of the United States. His non-lineal descendant Marilyn Monroe actually visited the relatively small Georgian town in 1960, during the break between the filming of Desperate Burrito and her next scheduled film, I’d Rather Not Know. What the moderately talented actress’ purpose was in visiting this former fishing village, nestled between the Rappahooto River and lonely Mount Poleax, no one at the time could fathom. Recently discovered documents, however, shed light on this trivial interlude in the doomed woman’s life.
“I found them under the bed.” Explained Hudson Hubreck, long-time resident of Monroe, of the treasure trove of papers that briefly mention Marilyn Monroe’s stopover in the similarly named town. Mr. Hubreck, no fool when it comes to historical research (“I’ve filled in my family tree back to the Battle of Doobie Kerls in 1505.” He told me with pride.), knew immediately the value of his discovery. He called Doug Bridesmaid, a civil war re-enactor with the Good Times Hillbilly Sound and Soup Committee, an outreach program tenuously affiliated with the Smithsonian’s Jejune Subjects Office.
“You can see here in this paper, which we have labeled paper #15 for reference purposes, that Miss Monroe’s purpose in coming to the town of Monroe was connected with her heretofore largely unknown work for the U.S. Government.” Mr. Bridesmaid, a sallow man with a heavy five o’clock shadow and glasses from the Lyndon Johnson School of Personal Adornment, walked me through the bewildering mass of information. He even kindly offered me the use of his magnifying glass. I admit I was somewhat at a loss to see the connection that Bridesmaid claimed until he pointed to one line near the bottom of the page.
“See here where it says ‘Plaid Jacket Menace?’” He said. “That was a code phrase for the covert activities of Jack Paar, who, as you probably know, was instrumental in getting the Russians to abandon their plans for a permanent base on the moon.”
As the pieces of the puzzle began to be fitted into place I felt privileged to have been allowed this glimpse into the workings of the mind of the dedicated amateur. It made me more nearly appreciate my own tenuous affiliations.
Running Sow
Known for his punch, Prince Camachi yet retained a shy demeanor at odds with his image as a habitué of the party circuit. He was often heard to deprecate his talents.
“It is only the juice of a lime and a lemon, a dash of gin, and a gallon of maple syrup.” He would say dismissively.
“Maybe so,” Lady Betweena sadly admitted on the last evening of spring, “But only you can make it. There’s something special in your handling of the ingredients.”
Prince Camachi blushed and looked at the floor.
“We’re all going to miss you.” The lady continued.
“Why?” Asked old Doctor Flopkops. “Is the prince going somewhere?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Lady Betweena looked at the old man in surprise.
“I’m leaving in the morning for the silver mines of Doobie Kerls.” Prince Camachi explained. His voice was soft. Was ever such a self-deprecating fellow fated to command such a glorious enterprise? I can’t answer that without consulting the internet, and I certainly don’t want to do that. This is, in part, a luddite treatise, one in which technology appears in a fantastical form at the service of good times and not the digital unification of all human consciousness in an electronic salmagundi of solipsism. Take the Running Sow, for instance. This mechanical contrivance, now entering the scene from the direction of the dirigible mooring platform, had been designed as a diversion. It fulfilled this task satisfactorily, yet to what end? Whose attention was it intended to divert? After it had dashed about the ballroom for some minutes, snorting and puffing smoke from both ends of its red, pig iron body, Lady Betweena’s jewelry was still in place about her neck, Doctor Flopkops’ murderous old heart was still beating, Larry the busboy had stolen nothing, and Prince Camachi yet retained the shy demeanor that had kept him the good graces of the social elite for so long.
“Most uncharacteristic of you, Camachi,” Doctor Flopkops noted, “Bringing that mechanical contrivance down with brute force.”
“It must have been the punch.” Panted the prince, sitting astride the Running Sow.
Medium Dabbler
Enough wind had blown through the valley in the past week to fill the sails of Carludo’s Heavenly Yacht, or so said the old innkeeper at the Running Sow.
“Is that right?” I laughed, amused at such a quaint expression.
“Yep.” The old innkeeper affirmed, smacking his lips and nodding solemnly. He stood behind the counter in the lobby. Jerry and I stood in front.
“Well, thanks for the directions.” I said to the old man.
“You’re certainly welcome.”
Jerry and I stepped outside. Indeed, the wind was ferocious.
“According to him,” I shouted, “We just head straight down this street.” I knifed my hand towards the vanishing point in between the two rows of storefronts before us.
“Let’s do it then.” Jerry shouted back.
We started on the final leg of our journey. Fortunately the wind was behind us and not exceptionally cold.
“Summer’s coming!” I shouted, smiling at Jerry to show my enthusiasm.
“What?”
I repeated myself. He drew closer.
“Great!” He shouted. “Freeze half the year and then roast the other half!”
I nodded, not solemnly, but vigorously.
After twenty minutes of walking I pulled Jerry into a doorway. “Look.” I said, pointing down the street. “We’re no closer that we were.”
“I know. It’s going to take longer than we thought.” Jerry agreed. The vanishing point was seemingly as far away as ever.
“There is another way.” I suggested, holding up my valise.
“I didn’t thing you wanted to go that way.”
“I didn’t, but enough is enough.”
Jerry shrugged. What did he care?
I put the valise down on the ground and opened it. Reaching in, I cleared away a pair of argyle socks and part of a lunar transmission. “You first.” I told Jerry. He stepped in and wriggled down out of sight. I followed, leaving the valise to be thrown into the trash by the first person to come along and realize its lack of value.
Structural Flossing
Horse head boots have come to symbolize the previous decade much to the surprise, I’m sure, of those who passed through that dubious time thinking that denim jackets, green felt hats, and snakeskin belts would most readily spring to mind when asked to sum up the whole thing. Nancine and Solomon, who were the first to modify their boots to look like horses’ heads viewed upside down, received only marginal acclaim at the time, but the recent memoir by Moonly goes a long way towards correcting that. A generous sampling of photographs of the trendy couple in their favorite spots about the city, sometimes dressed in their infamous astronaut costumes, as wel as several anecdotes involving them and dozens of their more celebrated acquaintances are the main selling points of the book, titled Structural Flossing after the misleading piece that you are now reading.
Tarotsen, a saxophonist with the Old Mall City Garage, stepped out of the Old Mall City Bookstore with a copy of Structural Flossing (the book, not the single piece of paper) under his arm. He took a contemplative glance up and down the street, feeling a nebulous sense of satisfaction at his place in the world. It was in a contented state linked to this sense that he returned to his apartment. There he found his personal physician, Dr. Halfmoon, waiting for him on a stool outside his door.
“Spending money again, I see.” Halfmoon sounded contemptuous, disapproving. He was the same age as Tarotsen, give or take a few months; Tarotsen never knew which. Perhaps it was this narrow differential that made the physician’s view of the previous decade so at odds with Tarotsen’s. Whereas Tarotsen saw the time of the horse head boots as a colossal waste, one of alcoholism and dead end relationships and dead end jobs, Halfmoon remembered those years as a time of struggle and a growing feeling of accomplishment.
“It’s my money.” Tarotsen reminded his medically trained contemporary.
“It’s money earned by someone else!” Halfmoon cried. “Money you only got because someone died and willed it to you!”
“That ‘someone’ was my father.” Tarotsen replied calmly, unlocking his door.
“You did nothing to earn it!” Halfmoon stood up, knocking over the stool he had purchased just that morning.
The Cosmonauts’ Cubic Literature
Three times the telephone in Prance Sabot’s room in the safe house rang before he answered it.
“Yeah?” Sabot said sleepily.
“Prance, this is Dodge. You need to get up.”
“I am up.”
“No, I mean get out of bed and get packed. We’ve got to leave.”
“That won’t be hard.” Sabot answered cynically. All he had was a wrinkled grocery bag of junk. “What’s up?”
“Wolfling says the coast is clear. We can leave. Everything’s been taken care of.”
“I don’t see what the rush is.”
“Our problem is solved.” Dodge Wittles explained. “She has a new batch of people coming in. Apparently, we can’t have any contact with them.”
Sabot sighed. “Fine.” He said. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Wolfling was waiting for them in the hallway that led to the front door and the freedom of the city. She smiled.
“I’ll miss you.” She said.
“I’ll miss you too.” Wittles returned. Sabot hoped to his personal deity that his friend wouldn’t give their soon-to-be former host a farewell hug. Not only would it embarrass him, but it would inevitably mean that he would have to hug the woman as well.
His deity was otherwise occupied that morning, for both hugs took place.
“Here’s a little souvenir for you.” Wolfling (Gimlet O’Feardan) said, handing each man a small, square, orange volume. “I saw you admiring them.”
“Wolfling!” Sabot declared. “I can’t take this! It’ll break up the set!”
“They were meant to be broken up. Remember it’s an ongoing multi-volume work. I get one every two months. Plus, it’s not that big of a deal: there are a lot of redundancies.”
“Well, thank you.”
Outside the safe house Wittles asked Sabot what the books were.
“Well, it’s not The Cosmonauts’ Cubic Literature.” Sabot joked.
“I don’t get it.” Wittles said blankly. His expression grew angry as his friend refused to explain.
Appendix
The original title of this book was Some Topless Content. In it, was going to fiddle with my usual format. However, after a few days I realized it wasn’t working and abandoned it. This is the supposedly abandoned material.
Decorative Chicken Circus
Happy children, indulged by their loving parents, are taken to see the so-called Decorative Chicken Circus.
“It’s really a government-run experiment,” Don explained, “To test the gullibility of the average peasant.” He and Phil were waiting in line along with the happy children and loving parents to pass through the high curtains that surrounded the circus.
“And you know this how?” Phil asked, wishing that Don would keep his voice down.
Don sniffed hard before answering. “Read it in the Decorative Chicken Circus Critical Examiner. Of course, that was a couple of issues back. The party line may have changed since then.”
“In light of new evidence recently discovered.” Phil chuckled, getting into the spirit of the thing, relieved that a gap had been opened in the curtain ahead of them and the line was at last moving.
“You’ll have to throw that away.” One of the two uniformed attendants manning the entrance informed Don as he handed over his ticket. The attendant pointed at a large trashcan, indicating that Don must not bring the chicken leg he was gnawing on into the circus.
“Why?” Don demanded, drawing on his past experience as a prince of the realm. He opened his eyes wide and pushed his lips out.
“It disturbs the chickens.” The attendant replied.
“You mean to tell me,” Phil interposed, stepping forward, “That there are actually chickens in here?”
“It is the Decorative Chicken Circus.” The attendant iterated. His partner fingered the silver baton he carried.
“Imagine that,” Don mused loudly, dropping the chicken leg in the trash and taking Phil’s arm, “The Decorative Chicken Circus has chickens.” They moved towards the gap in the curtains.
“He said it was the Decorative Chicken Circus.” Phil wondered. “I thought it was just a Decorative Chicken Circus.”
“If there were more than one, they’d have to call it Phil’s Decorative Chicken Circus or something.” Don looked about the sawdust-strewn avenue into which they had entered.
“Gizzard Brother’s… circus.” Phil trailed off, looking about. “Where do we go?”
“Wherever we want.”
“But where’s the tent and the three rings and all that?”
“I told you, it’s not really a circus.” Don started to kid again, but became serious. “No, it’s really more like a Renaissance Fair; you just wander around wherever you want.”
“What a gyp.” Phil looked sourly around.
“The tickets were free.” Don reminded him.
The management of the magazine they both worked on had provided tickets to the circus for all of its employees. Old Raffelson had handed them out with a crooked, brown-toothed smile.
“Enjoy yourselves.” He croaked. “Remember, we in management love you and want you to be happy.”
As Don and Phil stood debating which way to go, they were approached by a large chicken dressed as a stereotypical prostitute. “Need some help?” It asked.
Nighttime Cruise
The exceptional chewing gum that Todd passed out to the delegates was made by a small company in Vermont using the same ingredients and methods that the founder of the company, Dr. Merle Washburb, had used over a hundred years before.
“You know,” Todd’s sister Elaine commented to an acquaintance, “Dr. Washburb wrote the ‘Bible’ of chewing gum production.”
“I’ve never been much of a one for chewing gum.” The acquaintance, a polydactyl hippowoman from New Guam named Doris, answered. “Nor much of a one for the Bible either.”
“Oh,” Elaine assumed an expression of understanding and sympathy.
“And you say now there’s a religion of chewing gum?” Doris’ eyes sank amid pullulating wrinkles of confusion.
“Not really a religion,” Elaine equivocated, “So much as a school of thought or belief system regarding the proper approach to one’s chewing gum.”
“There you are!” Todd hailed his sister, grasping her roughly by the arm, just below the pink and gold armband denoting her allegiance to the Titans of Turbulence. “Can I speak with you a moment?”
“Excuse me, please.” Elaine begged Doris as she was dragged away. “Todd that was extremely rude.” She began to remonstrate with her elder sibling, but was ignored.
“Listen to me, this is serious.” Todd snapped. “The gull wing delegate has had a bad reaction to the gum.”
“Really?” Elaine questioned, looking about as if expecting to see the delegate in question writhing on the floor in agony.
“Or perhaps running amuck among the throng of people.” Pleasant Pearl, observing Todd and Elaine through the telescopic lens on her tiara, whispered to Don.
“Can you understand any of what they’re saying?” Don asked eagerly.
“No, but the man is most agitated.”
“Pleasant,” Don hissed, “We simply must discover the secret ingredient in that gum!’
“I know, I know, you don’t have to remind me.” Pearl batted at Don with her fan.
“You keep them under observation. I’m going to see if I can get closer.” Don dropped to his hands and knees and crawled away.
“I’ve got the gull wing delegate locked in the cupboard,” Todd told Elaine, “But I don’t know how long I can hold him.”
“Hold him? What do you mean?” Elaine demanded, rushing out of the hall after her brother.
The two nodded and smiled feverishly at everyone who caught their eyes as they made their way to the old cupboard on C deck. As they drew closer they could hear bumping and thrashing about coming from within.
“My god, Todd! What kind of ‘reaction’ is this?” Elaine twitched nervously in her jumpsuit.
“He’s turning into a carboagoose.” Todd announced, digging the key to the cupboard out of his pocket.
“What’s that?” Elaine cowered behind the potted gingko that Doris had expressed such an interest in earlier.
“The gingko,” Doris had stated knowingly to a cluster of youthful interns, “Alone among the trees comes in male and female forms. This means that they can get married.”
Anticipatory Dilemmas
Phil was privileged to be there when the kangaroo selected a hat from those on display in Mrs. Potatomere’s window and put it on. The delight of the crowd, as Phil later described it to Marie, was a palpable thing, like soft mud.
“How do I look?” The kangaroo asked, cocking his head this way and that.
“Fabulous! Wonderful!” Voices in the crowd shouted.
“How did he look?” Marie asked Phil as she poured him a strawberry flavored soda pop. “I think drinking straight out of the bottle is so gauche.” She explained.
“Like a kangaroo in a hat.” Phil answered after pondering a good three seconds.
“Oh, Phil, you’re so unimaginative.” Sally, observing the conversation from the wall-mounted screen, broke in in a voice rendered like unto that of an allosaurus through the speakers to either side of her dramatically abstracted image. “You should say something like ‘he looked like a penis with an unrolled condom jammed on its end.’ That’s good description!”
“I think we’ve heard enough from her, don’t you think?” Phil raised his eyebrows at Marie.
“I can’t shut her off, I’m sorry.” Marie frowned. “She’s bought full observation rights for the whole week.”
“I see.” Phil flashed irritated eyes at the screen and put the glass of pop to his lips. Mmm, it was good.
“What do you think?” Marie asked.
“It’s good.” He belched.
Sally thundered from the screen. “Stop it!” She turned to her hydrocylinder-bound mother. “How nasty!” She declared.
Marie waved a dismissive hand at the screen. “Yeah, I make the pop myself from a recipe my mother gave me.” She smiled at Phil, happy that he appreciated the pop.
“But surely you don’t use real strawberries?” Phil betrayed a greater than average knowledge of botany.
“Get back to the kangaroo!” Sally demanded. Automatic distortion circuits pulled the top of her head, normally piled high with lustrous blond hair, into obscenely threatening horns. Her mother tapped on the glass of her hydrocylinder.
“Darling,” The older woman said through her speaker, “I can tell you all about the kangaroo.”
“You? How would you know?” Sally’s curiosity was piqued. Her mother had no friends and no screen access. Even Phil and Marie paused to listen carefully.
“The Hydrocylinder Informer.” Sally’s mother smiled, holding up the latest issue. “It has an article on the kangaroo that picked out a hat. Mrs. Potatomere gave an in-depth interview about it.”
“Bah!” Phil cried. “A biased and ill-informed account of the event. Mrs. Potatomere was busy fitting one of the Wilson twins with a sock. I was there, I saw the whole thing.”
“Don’t comment on my mother’s words!” Sally ordered. “You don’t have observation rights on me; I have them on you!”
“You do not! You merely have them on this room! Come on, Marie.” Phil stood up and jerked a thumb towards the door.
“I’ll report you!” Sally screamed as the two walked out of her sight.
“Where will we go?” Marie asked Phil as she locked the door behind them.
“We’ll go to one of the study rooms at the library.” Phil decided. “On the way I’ll tell you what the kangaroo said about the Wilson girl’s sock.”
Desperate Truthseeker
Eight forty-five doesn’t sound like a lot of money to pay for a display model of an engine block. It didn’t sound like a lot of money to the sleepy fish who pooled their allowances and ordered one from Mr. Don (as they called him.)
“You’ll get it next Wednesday if the train runs on time.” Mr. Don assured them before walking down to the corner.
“Next Wednesday!” One of the sleepy fish cried as enthusiastically as he could. He even punched the water with a fin.
“Where will we put it?” Another of the sleepy fish, this one called Ray because of the old pilot’s hat he wore, asked of his colleagues. Some said here and some said there, but finally old Winston ended the discussion by pointing out that they had plenty of time to decide where to put the model before Wednesday.
“That’s true.” Phil agreed. He then took a good look around the east side of the room in which their tank stood and lay down for a nap. The other fish did the same, all except Isadore, who wasn’t really a sleepy fish at all, but was still one of the gang.
“I never felt any discrimination or sense of exclusion from the others,” he wrote in his journal while the others slept, “on account of my being a turtle.” Isadore turned the page and pondered what to write next. “It’s funny,” he began, “But sometimes strangers have assumed that I, because of my being the sole variant amid the group, am the leader, which is, of course, absurd.”
Stumped for a way to continue, he sat and wondered which of them actually was the leader. All major decisions were made democratically, of course, as in the case of deciding to purchase the engine model. As far as which of them stood out, however, Isadore could not say. He glanced at Phil, the one most inclined to brood off by himself. He was a classic loner, or would be, if he could get out of this tank.
Idly, Isadore put down a line or two about Phil at the beginning of an imaginary story that later became the basis for Desperate Truthseeker, Isadore’s first novel. In the final version, however, the character of Phil was called Ronald and was not a sleepy fish, but a Mexican salesman of gum pastes and naval jellies. When the book was filmed the character took another turn and became Frank, a defense contractor from Texas whose background was more than a little fishy.
Wednesday morning the sleepy fish were prodded into wakefulness by a long plastic rod that descended into the tank from an automatic system hanging from the ceiling. As it agitated the water is dislodged Nathan’s bowling trophy from its hiding place. The fish all awoke and began to congratulate Nathan on finally finding the trophy.
“Maybe now he’ll shut up about it.” Phil growled to Isadore, providing further material for the soon-to-be famous characterization Isadore would create.
“Aren’t we forgetting something, fellows?” Ray asked lightly.
“It’s Wednesday!” Someone shouted.
“The engine block!” Another snapped the finger-like projection on his snout.
“Oh, I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see it!” Barry enthused to Mandy, the only one among the sleepy fish who could be described as a female. She smiled indulgently at Barry and, after he had danced away, swam to the west side of the tank. Unearthing the secret transmitter, she spoke into the microphone.
“Don, the fish remembered the engine block. What do you want to do?”
“You’re on your own until the train gets here.” Don replied. “If it does.”
Corn Swabs
After the rain ended the serious work of testing the new glider began in earnest. Don, recently graduated from McKinley’s School of European Thought, assumed the leadership of the human resources committee. He held his first meeting in the third largest tent on the old cornfield.
“Anyone like some coffee?” Don asked the eight men seated in folding chairs before him. Almost everyone raised his hand. Don instructed the robot to dole out the coffee accordingly. As the machine passed out the cups from the dispenser inside its chest cavity, Don drew everyone’s attention to a large poster on a tripod.
“This is our plan.” He said, pointing at the convoluted diagram on the poster.
“Our friends have set us a challenge.” Davis muttered.
“But of course.” Phil was his usual sarcastic self.
“Don,” Purbrick interrupted Don’s explication of the diagram’s general layout. “What if the rain starts up again?”
“If that happens,” Don looked calmly at these good fellows whose lives and careers were in his hands, “Then I’ll move over to the battery recycling committee.”
“Interesting.” The robot said it itself. Having done its job, it slipped back into the shadows along with the stuffed walrus and the boxes of Bald Man’s Caveat, the biography of Folder Broncosi, the founder of Gliderology, Inc. That evening, after Don had retired to his sleep module in one of the executive buses, the robot made contact with its spouse via the dindacrum.
“Sheila,” The robot spoke in the lingua obscura of his people, “How comes the rain?”
“Is this a philosophic question?” was Sheila’s reply. She was four hundred miles away in Orbiter Central, eating chocolate cake and watching the popular new comedy, Corn Swabs. Although she found it hard to identify with the main character, Roleo, the overall milieu of the show, set in an early 1960’s automobile factory, appealed to some obscure aesthetic that she had barely suspected of dwelling within her.
Roleo, as if commenting on this development (and who is to say he wasn’t?), said to his best friend, Camille, “It’s as if she produces obscure aesthetic reactions the way her spouse produces coffee.”
“Her spouse?” Camille questioned the use of the word. She sat flipping through invoices like the mid-level executive she was.
“Well, you could hardly call it her husband.” Roleo, also a mid-level executive, but not such an anachronism, rolled his eyes in expectation of laughter.
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t have a penis.”
Hagerson from Theoretical Design put his nose in the door at this point. “Stand by you two; we’re returning to the superficial focus.”
“Bah!” Roleo threw a wad of paper at the door as Hagerson shut it.
“Where’d you get that piece of paper?” Camille demanded, getting to her feet.
“Out of that stack.” Roleo pointed.
“That’s the invoice I’m looking for!” Camille grabbed for it, but whether or not she was able to seize it is unknown, for our attention is drawn to the robot’s response to Sheila’s question.
“No, Sheila, it is not.”
“Well, I don’t understand the question.”
“Is it going to rain again?” The robot’s exasperation was made manifest in the dry percolations gasping within him, not in any change in tone.
“I can say with certainty that it will rain again.” Sheila answered. “It always has.”
The Tiniest Amount of Restraint
“Phil,” Don addressed his labelmate in the offices of Spinachery Records. “Is there such a thing as coconut oil?”
“Certainly.” Phil replied, glancing up from his perusal of the cover art for the Squallid Feast’s new album. “All organic objects contain oil. It’s just a matter of extracting it.”
“Hmm, interesting.” Don frowned in contemplation of the mysteries of nature. He turned to the tiny window that looked into the diorama. Noting with satisfaction that the people who lived in the farmhouse on the hill had finally finished construction of their windmill, Don wondered whether it was merely decorative. He resolved to write a letter in song to those people asking them that very question.
“My ankle hurts.” Phil announced. If Don had turned to look Phil at that moment he would have seen Phil rubbing the afflicted body part. As he did not turn to look, Phil flung the artwork he had been perusing, a watercolor of an imaginary killing machine rolling through a meadow full of human-headed dandelions, onto Miss Camera’s desk, where it absorbed the coffee she had spilled two hours before. “I guess I’ll limp over the Hagerson’s cubicle, see what’s he’s doing.” Phil pointedly enunciated.
“Whatever, cynical man.” Don dreamily responded, his gaze wandering up from the window along a crack in the surrounding plaster, following it as if it were a river cutting through the pink landscape far below. Don’s pilot, a hard-drinking knockoff of the man in the Camel cigarette magazine ads of the 1980’s, warned him about the Hungermulch tribesmen.
“They claim the area you’ll be surveying as their hereditary game preserve.” The pilot shouted, though Don could hear him quite clearly. Don merely nodded and pointed towards the ground.
“Take us down.” He commanded.
“Hell of a lot of windmills.” The pilot commented as they topped a hill.
“I’m sorry, Smoky,” Don said, “But you’ve seen too much.” He shot the pilot and jumped out of the heliostatic aircraft, drifting gently down on wings of Styrofoam that were concealed easily enough inside his own need for secrecy.
Phil returned with Hagerson.
“Don, listen to this.” Phil requested his friendly rival.
“Got something for you here, Don.” Hagerson said, lifting a pair of headphones connected to who knew what arcane machinery by a cable that ran out of the room and down the hall.
“I don’t hear anything.” Don looked from side to side, the headphones in place.
“You will.” Don heard Hagerson say, yet even as he did, a voice began that seemed to obliterate not only Hagerson’s words, but any that Phil might be saying as well, and, indeed, the reality of the office, as if it were no more than an adjunct of equal relevance to the scene in the diorama.
“Don,” The voice said, “Greetings. My name is Toadsgoboad. You know, it’s funny, but you are in my head every bit as much as I am in yours.”
“What…” Don fumbled, but I interrupted him.
“Do you like show tunes, Don?” I asked. “How about techno show tunes with jazzy guitar solos? I think I can arrange that. Music like you’ve never heard before began to play while I read aloud from my latest piece of writing, which, strangely enough, is this one. Don tried to take the headphones off, only to discover to his horror (or delight, I don’t know) that he wasn’t wearing any.
Legendary Bluesman Barber
I had come to the tiny town of Susanville to interview Don York, the legendary bluesman barber. I found him in his place of business, an old brick building on a street otherwise deserted of either human habitation or commercial enterprise.
“This town is dead.” A man, a stranger like myself, dressed in a brown flannel suit and a brown fedora, and sucking on a lollipop, told me as he glanced down at the weed-covered railroad tracks.
“Yep.” I replied.
“Well, you enjoy yourself.” The man urged. Something dangerous flashed in his eye, something that made me think of a playful drunk.
“Sure.” I backed away and entered York’s Fine Cuts. Inside, I saw Don York for first time. He was sweeping up.
“I’m sweepin’ up dis hair.” He sang.
“Hello there.” I saluted. “Are you Don York?”
“Das me.” He smiled. I don’t normally write things out phonetically, especially accents or modes of speech, but in this case I felt it was necessary. “Das me alright.” York repeated after I had made my mental notation to explain the phonetic spelling. “Did you want a haircut?” He asked, as I seemed lost in thought.
“No, Mr. York. I wanted to interview you. I’m interested in your story as the Legendary Bluesman Barber.”
“Oh, that.” York’s face fell. “What did you want to know?” He asked this so flatly that I decided to get my hair cut anyway to encourage him. I told him this and was pleased to see animation return to his face. “It’s your hair.” He said.
“Tell me about the Blues songs you’ve written over the years.” I asked as I took a seat on the chair and he threw a sheet around me.
“Well, I like to sing while I work.” He explained, snapping a pair of scissors in the air. “And I usually sing something like ‘I’m gonna cut yo’ hair’ or ‘I’m cuttin’ yo’ hair.’ Something like that.” He indeed did sing those very lines as he started to work on me.
“You know,” He said, “You’re the second dude that’s come in here today asking about my singin’.”
“Really?” I asked, wondering at the coincidence.
At that moment the door opened and in stepped the man I had met earlier, my fellow stranger.
“Das him now.” Don York announced.
“I’m Phil Stone, from the Department of Folk Music and Ritual Affectation. What the hell are you doing here?” The stranger demanded.
“My name is Toadsgoboad and I guess I’m doing the same things you are: documenting Mr. York’s life and music.”
“Toadsgoboad, eh?” Stone sneered. “What kind of name is that? What’s your real story?”
“‘Real story?’” I repeated.
“Yeah. If you’re really here to document this man’s music, then where is your recording equipment?”
“I don’t need any.” I insisted.
“Why not?” Stone demanded.
“Why don’t you just get out of here?” Don York interrupted, speaking to Stone. “You done got your haircut.”
“Yeah, I sure did.” Stone took off his hat and revealed a brutalization so revolting it made me question York’s barbering skills as well as his bluesman credentials.
Intellectual Honesty
On the way home from Mr. Indulgence’s party, Chromos, that tousle-haired ruffian, on an impulse entered the memorial garden of the Wilkes Brothers. As it was night there wasn’t much to see, but Chromos did note the distinct aroma of wet dog.
“What a horrible smell.” Chromos thought to himself. He was just about to continue on his way when the moon, driven, no doubt, to reveal itself by the constant pursuit of spectral hounds, came out from behind but a fistful of ether and illuminated wet paw prints on the cement walk.
“They’re like no paw prints I’ve ever seen.” Remarked Chromos. “The presence of a sixth digital ambuface and valvic tertium are most unusual and make it hardly likely that these prints were made by a regular old dog.” Of course, these words weren’t so clearly enunciated within his thoughts, but their general import tumbled out all in a rush, so that, when Chromos heard the scratchy scrabble of claws on the walk, he was ready, having already prepared himself intellectually for what was coming.
The next morning Don Clamrang and his partner Phil Comfrey were on the case, taking photographs of the garden, measuring distances with the specially knotted length of string their mother had given them, and tossing pebbles up at the window of the Wilkes Brothers’ townhouse overlooking the site of Chromos’ curious dismemberment.
“Dashed odd that window not being opened by now.” Don chewed unpopped kernels of popcorn and juggled a new handful of pebbles.
“You think maybe that window is a false one?” Phil suggested.
“What do you mean?” Don demanded, losing his grip on a kernel or two, and sadly feeling them slip over the edge of his bottom lip to fall down into the catchall slung about his abdomen.
“I mean maybe that window is the reverse of your usual diorama, in that, instead of being set into the interior of a house or residential structure, it’s set into the exterior.” Phil added “of a house or residential structure” in his mind only, not wanting to bother Don with extra chatter.
“How would we go about discovering if such a theory as yours is correct?” Don wondered, gazing up at the wall looming over them.
“You could use a ladder.” The old caretaker, his arms burdened with a crate of tomato seedlings, offered as he passed among the two men’s legs on his way about his daily doings. “I got somewhere around here.”
After the briefest of debate it was decided that Don should ascend the ladder, now propped against the sill of the window, and call out his impressions to those gathered below as he looked within. As he clumped his way aloft, each open-wrench-shaped foot meeting the rungs as if made for just such a purpose, Phil reminded him to be careful.
“I am!” Don called down with some irritation, justifiable, really, in that various flying machines and animals filled the air about him. By concentrating on each movement of his hands and feet, and observing each breath as it was pumped in and out of his withered, pitiable frame, he was able to keep his focus on the task at hand and not falter.
“Thank god for the extensive training I have received.” Don said to himself. This was a curious thing to say, for he did not believe in any god. Don himself mused upon the curiosity of it.
Fred’s Secrets
Fetched from the basement by an overzealous Lucky, the paralyzer unit arrived covered in slobber and nicked here and there by clumsy canine teeth. Still, it worked, and that was the important thing. Chuck aimed the unit’s powerful beam at Mr. Snorkel, who promptly became rigid and fell to the rust orange shag carpeting.
“Now, maybe, I can finish my ice cream in peace!” Chuck expressed his most immediate hope. While Lucky waited faithfully beside him, Chuck proceeded to shovel the contents of his bowl down into the depths of his once-sexually attractive body.
By the time Mr. Snorkel began to revive, the bowl had long since been placed by the sink for Norma, the cleaning woman, to wash. Chuck and Lucky were nowhere in sight as Mr. Snorkel struggled to his hands and knees.
“Am I too late?” The skeletal, wooden man asked himself. His hat, an octoped from Chester’s Planet, had scurried away upon Mr. Snorkel’s fall, and now sat hiding under the dictionary stand. Mr. Snorkel had almost crawled out of the room before remembering it.
“Hat!” He called, noting with irritation that his voice had gone hoarse during his paralysis. “Hat!”
In the murky, but blessedly small universe of the hat’s consciousness, it resented having no other name than “hat.” It had lived among the celebrated and notorious too long. Yet it emerged from its place of concealment, as loyal as any dog, far more loyal than Lucky, it reflected, for it had seen the events that unfolded after Mr. Snorkel’s fall.
None of that mattered now, of course, and you shouldn’t worry about it. Take the example of Mr. Snorkel, who, his hat once again secure on his head, understood by the heavy stomping he felt shaking the floor than Norma had arrived. He abandoned his earlier goal of persuading Chuck to return to the church and scrambled desperately towards the exit.
By the time he had made it as far as the front parlor, he had progressed from the crawl of an infant to a modified gorilla’s walk, still on all fours, but making better time. His evolution was soon to take another step.
“A rat!” Norma bellowed, spying Mr. Snorkel. She advanced on him, dishrag in hand, a fearsome rhinoceros of a woman. Mr. Snorkel’s faith in the invisible protection afforded by his god was tested as he raced around the room, never more than a foot out of Norma’s reach.
Outside, Chuck and Lucky sat in silent meditation before the stone altar Chuck had built. In its center stood the idol of Gafmik, Lord of the Red Prongs of Amusement.
“This is much better than some old church, isn’t it, boy?” Chuck broke his meditation to ask, as a bead of sweat ran down his nose, tickling him so that he could bear it no longer.
Lucky knew nothing of the meaning behind Chuck’s words, but he liked the good scratching on the head he received. He was content.
Mr. Snorkel burst through a window, one too small for Norma’s immense bulk. She followed by taking down the entire wall. As Mr. Snorkel ran on his two legs past the altar, Lucky, with a reluctance that we may find hard to appreciate at this juncture in our narrative, joined the chase, only to be savagely driven back by the fury of a loyal, mobile hat.
SEGMENT TWO
White Rats Are Made into a Paste and Fed to Children
I need to order Siouxsie and the Banshees’ Hyaena album. I used to own it on cassette and it seems to me that it had different cover art from the CDs I’ve seen. After that I guess I should get Bewitched, the album by Andy Summers and Robert Fripp. It had pleasing cover art too. One can usually judge albums by their covers because an interesting and intelligent artist is likely to choose interesting and intelligent art.
After I do that I guess I’ll wander over to old Biff’s and watch the servants move the alligator statues around while I practice writing the letter ‘s.’ When I have mastered the letter I will be that much closer to perfection.
“What are you fooling around with self-improvement for?” Asked Don, a systematic pronoid. “You know you’re going to die one day.”
“I don’t know why I bother with anything.” I replied as I made fast my small bundle of mementoes to the mast of the dry docked craft. “Writing most of all.”
“It boggles the mind.” Don laughed in that merry way he had. Before his tragic beheading, how good he could make us all feel with that merry laugh.
I Struggle to Maintain My Footing
Underlining the first word in the first paragraph, the second word in the second paragraph, and so on throughout the remainder of the novel Xeno-Crony by Prance Sabot, skipping back to the first word when there weren’t enough words to match the paragraph’s number, Dodge Wittles was able to reconstruct the fabled forgotten last words of the Star. He kept the result, however, to himself, irritating his associates.
“I say we appropriate his work.” Keith suggested over a bowl of soup in the garage.
“We can’t do that!” Mick insisted, looking up from that dirty carburetor that refused to be removed.
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be appropriate!” Mick’s merry laughter was cut short as his wrench slipped and he banged his hand against the carburetor housing flange.
“If you like jokes,” Keith began, collecting his wits and wiping his mouth. “Try this: what do homoerotic photographers pour on their pancakes?”
“Goddammit, I don’t know!” Mick growled.
“Mapplethorpe.” Keith supplied the answer that, of course, we all know by now.
He Studies the Bible to Avoid Prison
Concurrently, Phil was suggesting that Mrs. Welch not invade Hawaio and working a creamy substance made from parsnips into his hands.
“I like a man that can multi-task,” commented Don on reviewing the film of the incident. “But I don’t like the way he’s dressed.”
“Something can be done about that, Don.” Lucian hinted broadly, giving everyone in the room the creeps.
As mentioned in episode nine, the creeps were discovered by Blanko McGray, an amateur researcher of the old school, working alone in a basement of no inconsiderable grubbiness. Most people called what he did his hobby, though McGray bristled at the notion that something so important, something he felt driven to do could be classified by the feeble name of “hobby.”
“One day they’ll recognize me for what I am—a visionary.” McGray soliloquized as he gazed at his own reflection in the door of the microwave oven, where a bag of popcorn lay smoking.
The Project Prematurely Ends
Floating down the narrow canal, with no more concern for the irrigation of the local crops than some diseased fellow lying under a tarpaulin a thousand miles from here, I endured the taunts of the caffeine-addicted rabble and kept my eyes on the pile of magazine clippings in my hand.
“You don’t have a cell phone! You don’t have a cell phone!”
I selected the fattest member of their derisive gang and tormented him with a photograph of his dead mother. “Where is she now?” I cried just before my tiny barge slipped through the curtains, cutting me off from their sight.
“Stick to your guns and suck a lot of cock.” The notice posted on the left-hand bank as I entered this new cavern, puzzled me at first, but I soon divined that this was the Land of the Professionals, of which I had so often heard my dog speak. Animatronic young people greeted my arrival. An engaging blend of country music and Disco accented each movement of their fiberglass bodies. As I floated further I encountered the voice of reason in the form of a crude caricature of myself. “No, don’t go in there!” it cried. However, I had no choice but to go where I was sent and soon found myself outside.
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All contents copyright Lance Ash, Space Limited Accomplishments. Contact me at toadsgoboad@gmail.com
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