My Jealousy Knows No Bounds

My Jealousy Knows No Bounds
by Toadsgoboad

Part One: The Controlled Chicken Vacuum Package


I Know In Advance What Form the Mask Will Take

Many people in the business of merrymaking think they know me. “He eats tofu,” they say and that suffices for a full encyclopedia article. A few probe deeper and learn of my atheism. That, combined with the tofu-eating sets the mark above the door. All contents therein are now suspect.
I came out of my little roadside domicile the Monday following the first appearance in years of what we here in the rural south call the “crazy man’s moon,” saw the offensive, intolerant mark above my door as I was stretching on the tiny lawn, and blotted it out in a rage. We all lived in what amounted to caves (although the council insisted on calling them “mud huts”) in this sector. I scanned the entrance to the caves of my neighbors up and down the street. Who could have set it there? It seemed I had an enemy. A real one this time, not just a bad roommate from twenty years ago or someone I vaguely suspected of harboring disapproval of me. My vengeful ruminations were interrupted by the appearance of Panda Shrandell, a painter like myself, although one hopelessly committed to a miserable combination of magic realism and faithful depiction.
“Toadsgoboad!” He shouted, his beard trailing behind him like the banner on a privateer. “Have you seen it?” He asked, pointing to the sky. “The silver ship!”
I stepped into the road and looked up.
There in the sky was an object as big as a Jiffy Lube, a great silver hat bedizened with red squares and dots. An aura of blue surrounded it, shimmering like a heat haze.
“It is the manifestation of our intolerance!” Panda worried.
“Don’t be silly.” I snapped. I didn’t know what it was, but I gathered my courage like a man trying to tape a hundred dollar bill back together. No sense in letting anyone think that this event surprised me in the least. It was time that they all saw just how different from them I was.
I pushed my way through the crowd that had gathered just beneath the bottom of the object, so like a turtle’s underside. Holding up my hands, I cried, “Godless tofu-eaters! I am here!”
Within minutes I sat in relative comfort, borne aloft by serpent-headed mechanical arms.

Does It Really Matter What’s On TV?

The lucky birds arrived early. By the time the sun had reached its zenith all of the seed and breadcrumbs were gone. However, the majority of the birds that emerged from the forest after noon were flightless, man-sized creatures that were more likely to knock over the trashcans in search of food than make do with the offerings Miss Thrashed put out for her avian friends.
“Why are these birds considered unlucky, Grandpa?” Little Manfred asked his aged companion as they sat in the plexiglass domed walking machine and gazed down at the carefully mown field.
“I have nearly mastered the intricacies of Mayan-derived art.” The old man spoke, not to Manfred, but to some unseen interlocutor, through the communicator strapped about his head like a baby gibbon clinging to its mother.
Miss Thrashed always blamed the dogs in the area for her disturbed trashcans as she was always at work when the big birds committed their deeds.
“Banana peels.” One of the birds, called Grubhead in the language of the birds, commented excitedly as he gobbled up this unexpected treat. Miss Thrashed was not known to be a heavy consumer of fruit.
“Grandpa, those birds are fighting.” Manfred had not had to resort to the illustrated novel he had brought along, so fascinating was this adventure proving.
“And then the mummy emerges from his coffin.” Grandpa continued, detailing the scenario for his new play to the other party on the communicator. This other person, a man named Fancimum, sat in an office cubicle just across the aisle from a cubicle occupied by Miss Thrashed. As he spoke with Grandpa, he kept his hungry eyes on Miss Thrashed’s black stockinged legs. He didn’t particularly like her red hair, but assured himself that, once she had fallen under the spell of his exceptional loving techniques, he would encounter no difficulties in getting her to dye it some color more in line with his ideals.
“What do you say to lavender?” Fancimum asked Grandpa.
“In what regard?” The old man replied in a loud voice. Fancimum could hear the child screaming in the background.
“As a woman’s hair color.”
“My friend,” Grandpa bellowed over the noise Manfred was making, “I’m old fashioned. I…” The line went dead suddenly.

Bug-Eyed Adoption

Apparently, the concrete goose that stood at the entrance to the driveway symbolized the Cornway family’s occupation of the old farmhouse, for it appeared the day they moved in and was discovered missing the day after they vacated the property. It was not widely believed that the Cornways either brought the goose with them or took it away, because Red Digger, who kept a close watch on the family as they packed up, and even rambled through some of their belongings when their collective back was turned, saw no sign of the goose among that dog-eared, mismatched collection of junk.
Purvis and the Majestico brothers, Don and Phil, stood around the bare patch of ground where the goose had stood.
“If they took it with them, I don’t know how they loaded it into their car.” Purvis expressed his doubts.
“They had a truck as well.” Don Majestico pointed out.
“Either way.” Purvis dismissed the idea. “With all the crap they took with them, they still couldn’t have fit it into either the car or the truck.”
“I don’t see how they lifted it.” Phil Majestico had doubts of his own. The sun-starved oval of earth was as big around as a comfort-loving woman’s bathtub.
“Nice day to be not working!” Red Digger hailed the three men as he emerged from the bushes behind them.
“Hey, Red.” Don greeted the stooped old man.
“You three still worrying about that statue?” Digger asked with a rasping chuckle. He joined them at the end of the driveway, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his grimy coveralls.
“‘Statue.’” Phil laughed.
“It’s a piece of sculpture, didn’t you know?” Don cracked.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I think.” Red enticed them. “I think somebody around here took it.”
“But you said it was missing when they left.” Purvis objected.
“No.” Digger shook his head. “I said we discovered it was gone the next day. You need to pay attention.”
Don rubbed his chin and glanced up the road to where Big Jack lived.

Unaccompanied Edible Packaging

Titania, no stream-crossing novice, rolled her chinos up and carried her shoes around her neck, socks stuffed inside them and their laces tied together. Big Jack admired such ruggedness, such lack of pretension, in a woman. He watched her with a smile hidden beneath his beard as she stepped carefully across to where he sat waiting on an old wooden dynamite crate.
“You’re lucky you didn’t step on any broken glass.” Was the first thing he said to her after she had reached the bank.
Momentarily startled, for she hadn’t seen him, so well did his woodlands attire blend in with the brush by the edge of the forest, Titania turned to her immediate needs without a word. She pulled a hand towel out of her back pocket and dried off her feet. With all the grace of a wading bird, she stood on one leg and then the other drawing her socks on. Soon she was re-equipped for walking and only then did she face Big Jack again.
“I assume you are Big Jack?” She asked. Her voice had a strong French accent. Or was it Belgian? Big Jack flattered himself as having an ear for such distinctions. After all, he could tell the difference between a native of the Isle of Man and a Welshman blindfolded, and he had never been to either one’s homeland.
He smiled again, though it would have taken a hero empowered with X-ray vision to be able to say for sure.
“That’s me.” He affirmed. “You’re the woman from the glossy magazine.” It was a statement, a judgment. He appraised her with eyes trained to detect subtle changes in the clouds and the secrets within the movements of large herds of grazing animals.
“I am Titania Grist.” The woman came closer and extended her hand. She was a big woman, big enough to be called “Big Titania” in relation to Big Jack. But of course, her name alone was enough to denote such size. Too bad such an observation would be lost on Big Jack, for he lacked the education to appreciate it.
Big Jack took her hand in his.
“You’ve a firm grip for a journalist.” He said.
“You mean for a woman, don’t you?” She riposted. “Oh, yes,” she smiled thinly, “I know all about you mountain men.”

Salted Furlong

The opinions of Blankete Ramdacter, collected from twenty years’ worth of impromptu discourses, contained nothing useful to those charged with the duty of deciding whether to allow the Vexatians to erect their ceremonial monoliths within the city limits. Why these men of authority continued to pore through the volumes of Ramdacter’s words was a mystery to Clam Tadley.
“And mystery is the raw material of my trade.” Tadley explained to Miss Downshire, who had just rented the office across the hall from his.
“You sound so dramatic.” Miss Downshire laughed. A licensed heraldry consultant, she didn’t take men and their deeds seriously, and she could afford not to.
“My work is dripping with the dramatic.” Tadley countered. He drew the right side of his mouth aside in a smirk of confidence. The two were standing at the door to Miss Downshire’s office, the woman within the open doorway, Tadley leaning against the jamb. The phone in Tadley’s office rang as Miss Downshire was asking who was paying Tadley to investigate the actions of the city planners.
“Hold that thought.” Tadley instructed as he hurried to answer the phone.
“Tadley,” said the voice on the other end, “This is Hookfeet down at Accounts Payable.”
“I recognized your voice, Mr. Hookfeet. What can I do for you?”
“You ought to recognize it, as much as we’re paying you. Get down to the Vexatians’ campsite. They’re conducting some kind of ceremony.”
“I’m on it, Mr. Hookfeet.” Tadley answered. He hung up, secured his paralyzer unit in the secret pocket inside his coat and exited the office. “Well,” he began with his back turned, locking his office, “I can’t tell you…” He turned around and saw that Miss Downshire was gone. A step forward and a rattle of her doorknob confirmed that she had closed up shop.
“Hmm.” Tadley mused, eyebrows raised. He flipped the propeller on top of his beanie once, hard; his gesture of defiance at a world full of the irrational and the inexplicable.
Downstairs he could hear the beat of the Vexatians’ rawhide drums. Intrigued, he headed towards the sound without much thought as to the possibility of his being followed.

The Most Monstrous of Injustices

“If only you’d quit smoking and take a long, strenuous walk every day, you wouldn’t feel so old.” Larsen, the man with the tattoo of a stereotypical Viking on his shoulder, encouraged Lord Fidzmus.
The latter fellow looked at Larsen as if he were crazy, didn’t know what he was talking about. This look relaxed into one of resignation. Lord Fidzmus dropped his gaze to the black and white checkerboard tilework on the floor of the parlor.
“Maybe,” he sighed, “When all this business with the Birdsway woman is finished, I’ll be able to quit.”
Larsen knew better than to push the issue. He had said as much as he could for now. He leaned over in his chair, elbows on his thighs.
“She still giving you problems?” He asked.
“Hell, yes.” Fidzmus growled. “Only last week, her man Fancimum, the one who actually runs day-to-day operations for Birdsway Industries, called me up—at home, mind you, and…” He broke off as the large, heavy door on the opposite wall opened.
“Mr. Larsen?” A skeletal, androgynous robot holding a vestigial clipboard called from the doorway.
Larsen slapped his thighs and stood up.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.” He said to Fidzmus. “Give me a call sometime and we’ll talk some more.”
“OK.” Fidzmus agreed, a look of true anticipation or joy at such a prospect shone from his eyes and his smile. The two shook hands.
“How are you today, Mr. Larsen?” The robot asked as Larsen passed inside.
“I’m fine.” He answered. “How is Mr. Flatbar today?”
The robot considered as it led Larsen further into the interior, a long hallway lined with pedestals supporting busts in red and blue stone of plenipotentiaries past. “He is alive and kicking.” It finally replied as they came to the hallway’s terminus. “Have a nice day.” It wished Larsen and gestured towards the door before them.
Larsen grunted nervously and reached for the handle. Alone he entered the chamber beyond, where Mr. Flatbar, a human head annexed to a vast, multi-legged, squid-like body in a tank of pure nitrogen, awaited him.

Half Moon and Wooden Ghost

Of course, Clark Seville recognized the logo on the tent immediately. The stylized goat of the Snidgelegun Corporation was well known to him, having battled against their deceptive practices and ridiculous policies for years. Nonchalantly, Seville circled the large, orange tent. He saw that the entrance was guarded by two young men in black suits.
“True believers.” Seville thought contemptuously. He had purchased an ice cream cone, despite his aversion to dairy products, so that he might appear even more inconspicuous. He licked at the frozen vanilla-flavored treat as he looked towards the two men. If they had received any training worth the name they would have been shown photographs of Seville. Whether they did or not, they betrayed nothing as they returned his gaze. They stared at him with the same indifferent hostility they showed everyone else milling around the fairgrounds.
As Seville rounded the corner of the Majestico Brothers’ pavilion he tossed the unfinished core into a trash receptacle painted to resemble a stereotypical Viking. The opening in the receptacle was the Viking’s mouth. Seville shook his head in disgust at Man’s continued insensitivity. What on earth was he working for if not the improvement of humanity’s lot? And yet his fellows showed no sign of any significant change, much less appreciation for his efforts and those of other agents like himself. He smacked his tongue. He needed water to get the ice cream taste out of his mouth, not only because it made him sick, both with guilt and anti-dairy revulsion, but because his taste buds were crying out for more sweetness, more fat, more food novelty. How else had he maintained his figure thus far but by ruthlessly denying himself such indulgences?
“Do you have any water?” He asked the girl in the beaver costume behind the counter at the Majestico Brothers’ pavilion.
“Yes, but I have to charge you ten cents for the cup.” She replied apologetically, holding up a plastic cup.
Seville sighed. What a rip-off. How much good will did the Majesticos expect to generate charging potential customers for a cup of water? He handed the girl the dime and took the cup. He had to fill it up himself at a cooler sitting on the counter. The water was too cold for his liking and tasted strongly of the mineral deposits located beneath the city.

Nothing to Smell Here

Pushing through the crowd with the slow, but inexorable determination of a sapling yearning for the sun, Manny Steambath eventually made it to the newsstand. Like everyone else except for Steambath, the man running the newsstand was focused completely on the passage of Lord Fidzmus and his retinue down the street. Steambath had to bellow at him to get his attention.
He waved the three magazines he wished to purchase in the air.
“I could have just walked off with these!” He scolded.
“And I could have had you arrested!” The newsstand operator countered, as he handed Steambath his change.
“Fat chance of that.” Steambath replied, but the man’s attention had already returned to the parade. Apparently, the great man himself had reached this point on the street, for the cheers of the crowd reached an even greater decibel level.
“You’re all crazy!” Steambath screamed. No one heard him. He tucked his purchases under his arm and took up the struggle again, fighting his way to the entrance to the Seism Building.
“You got business here, sir?” The doorman demanded.
“Lady Pidgpug is expecting me.” Steambath announced.
“Just a moment, sir.” The doorman got on the phone to confirm Steambath’s claim. He spoke for a few seconds on the phone, nodded, hung up, and told Steambath to go on up.
“Thank you.” Said Steambath. “Nice to see somebody’s doing their job and not absorbed in that circus out there.” He jerked his head toward the street.
The doorman shrugged. He saw celebrities every day.
Lady Pidgpug opened the door to her apartment herself.
“Manny! Come on in! Have you been watching the parade?” She asked, stepping backwards so that she became, in her pink tulle toga, the most tasteful artifact among a roomful of tasteful artifacts.
“Ethel.” Steambath said reproachfully. “You know I hate that smug, fat…”
“Yes, yes.” The heavily made-up woman shook her head. “I’m just teasing you. Did you get the magazines?”
“Right here.” He held them aloft. Together they went to the sofa.
“Scissors? Glue?” Steambath asked. Lady Pidgpug produced these items, as well as a large piece of posterboard.

Hurting Inside

The Blowberts’ stomachs were full of meat. Pickney had watched them eating in the green room. While others made themselves content with the complimentary doughnuts and coffee, the Blowberts had not only brought homemade sausage along to the studio, but had demanded, and received, tins of deviled ham and other such delicacies. Pickney, who knew his chances for being bumped were quickly rising, sat on the opposite side of the room from the Blowberts with naked disgust on his face.
As the Blowberts and Pickney followed the show on the monitor in the green room, the former shoveling the meat in as if desperate to finish every fleshy morsel before they went on, the latter tried to keep in mind the advice he had gotten from Jerry Seinfeld: be patient. The great actor and philosopher hadn’t actually said these words to Pickney; they had been gleaned from watching an interview with Seinfeld many years ago, back when Pickney was still working at the Tennis Ranch and only dreaming of becoming a professional comedian.
“Mr. Pickney?” A young lady on the show’s staff addressed him from the doorway.
“Yes?” Pickney looked up.
“It looks like the show’s running a little long.”
Pickney nodded presciently.
“And we probably won’t be able to get to you today.”
“I understand.”
“Can you come back tomorrow? You’ll still be paid for today.”
“I know.” Pickney told her. “Yes, I can come back tomorrow.”
“Great.”
The three Blowberts turned greasy, sneering faces to the man in the vintage suit. They were summoned to take their places for their performance and were actually poking unfinished bits of their repast into their mouths as they walked on and took up their instruments.
Pickney remained in the green room watching the monitor with a puckered frown. This changed to an excited gape as he saw Todd Blowbert, the guitarist and singer, clutch his throat and choke uncontrollably. Homemade sausage is often improperly inspected for tiny pieces of bone.




Cherry Paper Smearage

Until I can control myself, I won’t be making any more appearances in this chronicle. Hoping that that day won’t be far off, I have packed my bags with the appropriate McCoy Tyner album, a package of honey roasted peanuts, a framed photograph of the projected, older, heavier Minnie Driver, and some kind of medicated ointment for ant bites, and headed out the door for a deserted island. On my way to the leaky boat I passed by Buster Beggins, the pianist with the old Roger Crowfist quartet. He waved pleasantly enough, though the sight of his mangled left hand was no treat.
His hand was hurt in the “Pigs A’Plenty” episode, which you may have read about, either at the time it happened, if you are old enough, or subsequently in a dimly remembered eighth grade history textbook. This was in the days of the trusteeship of Lord Fidzmus, when the wall that surrounds the suburb of Smager was made of cheap, wrinkly cardboard and not the expensive ceramic blocks we have today.
How brave Buster was, jamming his hand into the mouth of the primary pig just as it was about to devour young Angela Kimbercrunch! She later became a famous actress and philosopher, but as for Buster Beggins, what has he been reduced to? Forced to sell his hero’s medallion for drug money, his days of playing smoking, post-Bop Jazz are over. Of course, he could bang out chords in some cruddy revivalist Rock’N’Roll combo, but his great pride won’t allow it.
I waved back, hoping that he wouldn’t want to talk, but here he was, hobbling over on swollen feet, filthy trenchcoat wrapped about his meager frame, moth-eaten stocking cap pulled down to the bridge of his nose.
“Hey, man,” He said, “How’s your chops lately?” He fingered an imaginary saxophone, the scarred nubs of his left hand grinding out what obscene and thankfully unheard tune only the fairies know.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “But I’m not making any more appearances in this chronicle for a while.” I kept moving, my eyes on the harbor, not too many paces away now.
“Man, this isn’t a chronicle; this is life!” Buster shouted in a gravelly voice. He could have been a singer, perhaps a Blues singer, but for his abiding bias against vocals. As I stepped onto the doomed boat, I was doubly grateful.

Thick, Thirsty Clowns

Fats Domino’s late seventies appearance on the Muppet Show was a source of horrific nightmares for the young boy who would one day grow up to overthrow the Post Office’s monopoly/cult/empire.
“He had an afro.” Explains Dr. Munro Hitzmonki, who did the first serious research into the roots of Toadsgoboad’s philosophy and ambitions. “Not just any old afro either,” the palsied, liver-spotted old historian continues, “But a great, towering mass of Disco rebellion and Disco excess.”
Was Toadsgoboad a racist, as some who knew of his Irish ancestry have claimed?
“No, I don’t think so,” Dr. Hitzmonki puts the tip of a withered finger into his eel-lipped mouth and speculates. “No, I think the reason the afro scared and disgusted him so is that he had, even at that early age, come to associate the name of Fats Domino with the fifties, a time of very specific and very narrow tastes and fashions. To see the famous pianist then, decked out in glitter and rhinestone-covered clothing, shaking his afro as he sang and played, was quite a shock.”
Whatever conclusions can be drawn from this fascinating insight into the early days of Toadsgoboad, it is certain that the motivations of this mysterious character are complex indeed, perhaps too complex to be unraveled by even the dozens of university English literature departments across our celebrated land that have established doctoral programs devoted to the study of his works. To take only one example, what of his extreme sensitivity to food textures? Surely someone who dumped as much garlic and chilies on his food as Toadsgoboad did would not be squeamish about a little matter of lumpy, dumpling-like things in his corn chowder? And yet, this is exactly what happened. He is known to have rejected, on at least one occasion that we have documented, an otherwise perfectly acceptable soup in the corn chowder family prepared by his wife because of the presence of lumpy, dumpling-like things in it. And this at a time of unprecedented starvation, poverty, and mediocrity across the globe!
Was he a snob, as some who knew of his southern heritage have claimed?
“Yes, I believe he was a snob,” Dr. Hitzmonki takes out his breathing tube to answer. “A snob in the sense that he was willing to try what the academics recommended and to dismiss what they had determined to be crap.”

Subordinate to Other Horns

Fishnet facemasks, crowned with knitted woolen frankfurters hanging down in bunches against the back of the subjects’ necks like the fingers of drowned men, were, in the opinion of the elder of the two sisters, impractical. The younger sister, however, wasn’t sure and went off to the library to investigate the matter further. Of course, she became distracted, as younger sisters are apt to do, and found herself within fifteen minutes seated in a study cubicle with a pile of books before her about the history of train travel.
“This is fascinating.” She whispered to the small, framed photograph of Pickney the comedian that she always carried with her. The comedian’s image smiled wryly back, eyebrows raised, an expression calculated to mean anything from, “What can you do?” to “Don’t you envy me?”
Our library-patronizing younger sister, whose library card gave her name as Pelutia Groats, opened the top book on the pile and pored over an “exploded” illustration of the construction of a typical electric train engine of the 1930’s, the so-called “Golden Age of Train Travel.”
“So that’s what a galvanic distributor peptide is.” Pelutia said aloud, awestruck.
A knock came at the door to the cubicle. The door opened as Pelutia turned about.
“Ma’am, there’s been a bomb threat.” One of the pale, unusually hairy youths that manned the stacks announced calmly. “Everyone has to evacuate the building.”
“What about my books?” Pelutia asked as she got reluctantly to her feet.
“You can check them out after everyone is allowed back inside.” The young man maneuvered Pelutia through the door.
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know.”
Pelutia followed the other patrons outside into the sunlight. She was reminded of her original task in coming to the library by the sight of a tall, thin, female college student-type in one of the fishnet facemasks puffing on a cigarette through a specially embroidered hole in the mask’s material. Pelutia stared into Pickney’s wise-ass eyes and wondered if she would ever find out where the great Santa Fe line took on fresh water for the last leg of its northwestern run.
Policemen stood about menacingly, wary of being in such close proximity to both literature and, possibly, explosives.

The Convenience of Magic

Floating Parsnips, a story of love long-deferred, spiced with revenge and broad, clownish comedy, was a remake of a Mexican film called Das Korper Ist Las Pueblospanker directed by the undoubtedly capable Ink Stain Removal David. The star of Floating Parsnips, Wayne Arutabegger, based his characterization of Lord Fidzmus on Hugh Countlet, a friend of his in the millionaire trade.
“Sometimes you think something is going to sound good just because it reads good.” Arutabegger admitted on a late night talk show that must remain unnamed here because of an on-going legal dispute with the estate of the late Dolphin Meat. The failure of Floating Parsnips was a brutal blow to Arutabegger, who not only had invested his own money in the project, but was still grieving the death of his wife, the beautiful actress Angela Kimbercrunch. She had died in a blimp crash the year before. Some have speculated that Arutabegger’s insistence on cutting the famous blimp scene from the remake that had been so effective in the original film had “torn the heart out” of the story (to use critic Nathan Bedsheet’s phrase).
The director of Floating Parsnips, Impeculio Deaffus, later went on to make such stellar films as Crudlicker, Some Imbroglio!, and The Trail of the Underlying Splurge, but he never worked with Wayne Arutabegger again.
“Did he blame me for the failure of Floating Parsnips?” The director wondered aloud on the terrace of his unnecessarily complex villa in the Asparagus foothills, wearing his trademark oversized sunglasses and running a thumb along his moustache, an index finger along the dueling scar on his right cheek that he always characterized as a “mere scratch.”
“Perhaps he did,” He continued. “But I put the blame squarely on the shoulders of those most responsible for the failure of that tragically misunderstood film: the people who were supposed to buy the tickets. After all, if they had done their job, the film would have turned a profit and therefore, voila!” He threw out his hands as if they contained confetti, “A success!”
Although Deaffus’ logic cannot be faulted, it is not surprising that the public did not respond to a film in which only one character appears for the first hour, a character whose only action in that hour consists of his slowly building a statue of himself out of items looted from the charred remains of an anthropomorphic tugboat.

Cliffside Hot Dog Stinker

High up on the wall, mounted at intervals of six feet down the length of the presentation hall, were pink hogs’ heads on beveled wooded plaques. The wall itself was vertically striped red and yellow, each stripe being about two feet wide. The hogs’ heads were so high up that not even old man Bergstrom, the tallest of the company, could have touched them from the top of the leader that Heidrun had thoughtfully brought along.
“Which one is White’s Lunger?” Davidovic asked his neighbor.
“I think it’s the fourth one from the left,” replied the other man, seated, like Davidovic, Bergstrom, Heidrun, and everyone else, on the wooden bleachers against the wall opposite that the hogs’ heads adorned. “But it’s hard to tell without name plates.”
“Very true.” Davidovic agreed. He would have said more, but at that moment Willoughby rose from his cushion on the bottom row and called for silence.
“Gentlemen,” He cried, holding his hands aloft in a practiced manner, starched white cuffs jutting out from red coat sleeves. “If I may have your attention, please.” He looked left and right and back again with the jerking motion of a robin on your lawn glancing about at who-knows-what.
“Gentlemen, thank you all for being so patient.” Willoughby continued. “Even though our guests have not yet arrived, I think we can delay no longer. I’m sure they’ll be here any minute, but we’ll go ahead and get started. Mr. Fletchtune, if you would lead us in the Staple Mender’s Creed.” Willoughby nodded at the man sitting next to Davidovic. The man stood up and began to say the words they each knew so well. All the men joined in.
“I solemnly profess that my fingers…” They had only gotten about this far into the creed when one of the hogs’ heads, not White’s Lunger, but another one, fell off the wall. The men stopped their recitation and stared, first at the fallen head, and then at the space where it had hung. A ragged hole in the sheetrock gaped at them. In this hole squatted a man in the blue corduroy clothing of a Pencil Arranger, as dumbstruck as any of those on the bleachers.
“A spy!” The cry suddenly went up.
“And you know what you must do to spies!” Thundered a voice from the door to the hall. The green-skinned deity and his consort entered, their bare feet leaving smoking prints on the floor.

Nontraditional Vegetables

Usually the old man choked one time as he ate his afternoon sandwich. He would choke and then recover himself and finish his snack. On the afternoon of the thirty-first, however, the choking did not stop. No one really took any notice until it was too late. By the time the others in the commissary realized that the choking was going on a little longer than usual and a couple of people had risen from their seats to proffer help, the old man was dead.
“He’s dead.” Winklin announced, looking up at Sarah after reluctantly checking for a pulse on the old, wrinkly neck.
“Dead? Are you sure?” Sarah still held her own, half-finished sandwich in her hand. It could have been the twin of the old man’s sandwich, if sandwiches were born in a placental sack like plumbers, firemen, and brake shoe adjustors.
“You want to check?” Winklin demanded, offering Sarah a chance at the neck.
“No.” Sarah stammered.
“Who was this old man?” Tate the Impetuous stepped forward and asked.
“Well, I don’t know his name.” Winklin replied. He looked about at the faces of those gathered to view the dead man. He raised his voice. “Does anybody know the name of this old man?” No one responded. “Come on, he ate here everyday for about two months!” Still there was no answer.
“Well, something’s going to have to be done.” Tate informed Winklin.
“And I suppose you think I’m going to be the one to do it.” Winklin stabbed at his own chest with his thumb.
“I’ll take charge of the body.” A broad-shouldered man in a skin-tight blue shirt emblazoned with a stylized ‘S’ stated in tones of undeniable authority as he muscled his way to the fore of the crowd.
“And who are you?” Winklin asked.
In answer the newcomer merely puffed out his chest and took on a smile of smug superiority.
Sarah tugged at Winklin’s sleeve.
“I think we should let him take charge of the body.” She said softly.
“By what authority?” Winklin wanted to know. “Who is this guy?”
“Don’t let this worry you any longer.” The stranger advised Winklin. “Stand aside, everyone.” He put the old man’s body across his shoulders with hardly a grunt of effort and strode away.

Salted Conditional

Pickney’s apartment was reached by passing through a square-shaped tunnel that led from a secret entrance in the mall food court to deep under Revolutionary Promenade, an old-fashioned shopping center across the street. The apartment itself was a box, completely lined, floor, walls, and ceiling, with purple shag carpeting. Although subterranean, it yet had several windows, each of which opened onto a diorama depicting a different scene from The Shaded Fruit. The three men who illegally entered the apartment while Pickney was out of town found the dioramas entrancing.
“Come on, you guys,” Scorbo urged, tearing himself away from the diorama that depicted the destruction of the Temple of the Feather Boa by the giant monkey Borgon, “We’ve got to find this thing Mr. Ramdacter wants.”
“What if it’s in one of these dioramas?” Thales wondered.
Scorbo considered. “Well,” He said, rubbing his chin, “That will be the last place we look.”
“OK.” Thales agreed. The three moved about, looking through the accumulated possessions of the professional comedian.
“I don’t understand something.” Glint said as he thumbed slowly through a pile of magazines. “How did this apartment get here? Did Pickney have it built?”
“No.” Thales answered. “There used to be a whole series of apartments down here. The complex was called Dante’s Diversion.” He dumped the contents of a cardboard box on the sofa. “But mudslides caused by the construction of the mall buried all of the units but this one.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.” Scorbo pointed out.
“I read Pickney’s autobiography.” Thales explained.
“Are we going to clean the place up before we leave?” Asked Glint.
Thales and Scorbo glanced at one another.
“I wasn’t planning on it.” Thales confessed.
“After all, he’ll know somebody was here…”
“If we find it.”
“But if we don’t?”
“Never mind.” Glint announced. “We’ve found it.” He held up the pink and white ceramic cow for his friends to see.

Cove Gummer

Even before graduating from college Gomez was offered a job with National Circumbobology, a profit-oriented research and development firm associated with Lee Sowko’s Intentionist Church of the Primary Awareness. Of course, he took the offer; the pay was excellent and he would be working in New Sizemore, the City With Everything, as its promotional materials attested. Gomez was in the midst of packing when he received word that his uncle Frangrante, his mother’s brother, had been on yet another in a long series of life-threatening alcoholic binges and was in the hospital.
“I’d like you to go see him before you leave.” His mother had begged him. “It might be your last chance.”
Grumbling, Gomez threw a pair of socks across the room. He slipped on a professional-looking blazer as befitted his new status and drove down to the hospital. As he walked into the lobby, his mother, sitting around the public TV with a pod of assorted relatives, caught his attention with a wave and a shout.
“Gomez, do you remember Aunt Pearl?” She asked as she introduced him to the superannuated, partially toothed group.
“Yes, of course.” Gomez put on the smile he had learned to manufacture even when natural resources were scarce.
“Your uncle’s in surgery.” The old lady he found himself holding hands with informed him. “God bless him, maybe he’ll turn over a new leaf after this.”
“Do trees have leaves in the dead of winter?” Gomez so very badly wanted to say, but did not. He drew his mother to one side.
“If he’s in surgery, how am I supposed to ‘see’ him?” He asked.
“He’s supposed to be out in about thirty minutes.”
“And then?” Gomez demanded. He looked at his watch as if it were a tattoo he had woken up to find mysteriously engraved on his wrist.
“We’ll see what the doctor has to say.”
“Mama, I haven’t got time for this.”
“Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein is on.” Aunt Pearl nodded at the TV. “Have you seen it?”
“What an inducement to hang around.” Gomez muttered.
Uncle Fragrante’s doctor, it turned out, was a devotee of the Church of the Primary Awareness.

Read and Grow Young

Due to the restrictions of his social code, Dibson could only eat one saltine at a time in the presence of ladies. Hungry as he was, he would have shoved handful after handful into his mouth, but for the fact that Lady Pidgpug was sitting on the other side of the table.
“Wouldn’t you like some cheese with those?” The lady asked.
“You have some?” Dibson asked. His eyes latched onto her like a large metal claw picking up a junked car.
“Well, no,” Lady Pidgpug stammered. “But I’m sure there must be…”
“I’ve looked.” Dibson cut her off, returning his attention to the sleeve of saltines, which was nearly empty.
“Oh.” The lady dropped her eyes to the table. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be.” Dibson assured her. He rose from the table, taking advantage of his move to put the last two crackers in his mouth at once. He steadied himself as the ship rocked to his left.
“Are we underway?” Lady Pidgpug asked.
Dibson went to the door and opened it.
“Not yet.” He said. “I’ll send someone down with something for you.”
“Oh, don’t bother.” The lady begged. “I have some mints.” She seized her handbag as evidence of this. “That will suffice me until we reach Colodi Vigo.”
“Suffice.” Dibson repeated. He nodded to himself and went out. Up on deck he joined Grandpa at the starboard jew’s cleat.
“Anything new?” He asked.
The old man, looking much like Will Geer in a blue hat of vaguely nautical characteristics, shifted the mass of stems and seeds in his mouth and spat. “Not a thing.” He said in reply.
Dibson slapped his arms with his hands. “I wish they’d tell us something.” He was angry, but kept a tight rein on himself.
“They will.” Grandpa kept his hands busy braiding three strands of cord together. “Got to be patient.”
A blast from the horn mounted above the wheelhouse interdicted Dibson’s intended sarcasm. “Here we go.” He said instead, turning his eyes to the horizon, where large cardboard figures rose up to make their wishes known.

Unfocused Lintels

It has been happening for years, the increasing degeneration of his sight. He doesn’t worry about it because he believes that his vision will last just long enough to see him to the grave.
Maybe, after so many years of uncertain longings, he will have to wear glasses, real ones, not like the fake ones he bought years ago to wear when he wants to put on the outward manifestation of intellect. He decided long ago that if he ever has to get glasses, he will get ones like John Lennon wore before he started wearing the “granny glasses,” ones like Cary Grant wore in later years.
The transition between focusing on far away objects like the individual leaves on distant trees and close up things like the ridges on his palms and fingertips is becoming slower. He wonders which he will eventually become: far-sighted or near-sighted.
Wondering in this fashion he climbs down from his loft above the street at the behest of Dr. Dotonforehead.
“How are you doing today?” The soft-spoken physician asks.
“Quite well.” He says with a tone of confidence that he doesn’t really feel and a pleasant countenance that he has learned to put on like an outward manifestation of intellect.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Dr. Dotonforehead worries himself needlessly. Or is he just being polite?
“No, not at all.”
“I only wanted to ask you if you would mind again relating that interesting story you told me the other day.”
“The one about the people who went deaf mysteriously?” He asks for clarification.
“Yes, that’s the one.” The doctor holds up a slender, shiny index finger.
“Well,” He begins, taking a breath, “There was a group of people watching television in the break room of a postal facility and they had the TV really loud. They had it so loud that a man sitting in the corner with earplugs in his ears and headphones on his head turned all the way up could still hear it. However, it was the people watching TV who emerged from the break room suddenly stricken deaf.” He stops, leaving the doctor to ponder the significance of this tale.

Glacial Valentine Indicates Repatriation

The third of Todd Melker’s collections of oddly captioned drawings was called Ten Minutes of Uninterrupted Distraction. He was observed dropping off several copies of this collection at the local comic book store by Marc Memling, a member of the university’s student body.
“What’s this?” Memling asked, picking up a copy from the rack where it had been placed. “An independently produced work?” He began to thumb through it while Melker and the comic book store owner made awkward small talk. Melker was saying how he had mistakenly thought that Pharaoh Sanders was going to be a great listening experience when he was interrupted by Memling.
“Hey!” The college student called out. Melker turned to him. “You made this?”
“Yes.”
“These aren’t funny.”
“No such claim has been made.” Melker pointed out.
“But these are single panels.” Memling protested.
“Yes?”
“They’re not narrative.” Memling held the book up, open, to show its author what he already knew.
“That’s right.”
Memling looked at Melker with mouth agape.
“I don’t get it.” He said.
“Don’t get what?” Melker asked.
Memling exhaled in disgust.
“Never mind.” He said. He replaced Melker’s book on the rack (none too neatly, Melker noticed) and exited the store.
“I’m not familiar with Pharaoh Sanders.” The comic book store owner revealed.
Todd Melker considered.
“This isn’t really connected in any way,” He said, although, of course, it really was, “But are you familiar with Mercyful Fate?”
“I’ve heard of them.”
Melker smiled. “Well, that’s good.” He glanced at the rack on which his book sat. “I hope that guy isn’t representative of the average prospective customer.”
“He is, but I don’t think if would matter if he wasn’t.”

Crisis on Ironmonger’s Wharf

Craslus, a potato-shaped being about as tall as the late Mr. T (which is to say, not as tall as he should have been, according to public perception), had arms and legs of course, else how could he have done his job at the bleach factory? As he sat propped against some thick-boled variety of tree playing with a hand-held electronic bridge game, Craslus felt a cooling breeze on his tunic-clad body. He looked up and saw that someone had started up the old wind-flapping machine across the room.
“I didn’t know that thing still worked.” He thought. “Funny how little noise it makes.” He returned his attention to the game. After he and his non-existent partner were beaten by the split mind of the game’s inner workings, Craslus looked up again. He saw two men of the standard human design working on the wind flapper. Saddened by the loss of the cooling breeze and curious about these doings, he stood up, tucked the game into a cubbyhole in the tree and set off to investigate.
As he walked, Craslus opened a tin of wasabi-flavored monkey shrimp eggs and ate them with the stainless steel implement long considered the proper one for this delicacy.
“It was the celebrated gourmand Count Mesmaticus who first popularized the use of the sprong for the eating of monkey shrimp eggs,” Recalled Dr. Secandro in a recent lecture, “And from that time until now your true aristocrat will use nothing else.”
Craslus was not a member of the aristocracy, but he did have pretentious delusions about his value in comparison with the examples of sentient life he had thus far been exposed to. Still, he had larges gaps in this genteel façade he had erected, as seen by the fact that he threw the emptied tin on the ground. He licked his sprong clean and tucked it into a small pocket in his tunic just as he approached the two men messing about with the old wind flapper.
“Hey, guys!” He hailed them. “Whatcha doing?”
The two men, dressed in the nave blue coveralls of the common laborer, looked at Craslus uneasily. They glanced at each other. One seemed to nod at the other. This latter addressed himself to Craslus.
“What are you, some kind of potato man?” He asked.
“I’ve never really thought about it.” Craslus answered disingenuously.

A Short Story About the Flag of Our Fathers

“Four, or possibly five, of the governor’s minstrels were originally from the little island of Cancocosaltine.” Preacher Joe observed.
“Really?” Chadwick replied. “That’s rather unusual, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” Preacher Joe mused. He selected another braised mushroom from the platter and dragged it the length of the pool of sauce before him. “I have heard that the late Governor Harvey actively recruited minstrels from Cancocosaltine; for what dark reason, I cannot guess. But it doesn’t seem credible, does it? That so many men could have made it to these lands through the blockade. Remember, there was a war on at the time.”
“Yes, the 24-Bit War.” Chadwick recalled. He had received the standard education regarding such matters. He could tell you the dates of and general motivations behind the war, maybe even list most of the major battles, but of the great and fascinating personalities that dominated the press coverage of the war, he remained ignorant. Cognizant of this defect in himself, Chadwick had made it an on-going policy of his to try to fill in the gaps by collecting old magazines and reading them. At first he felt uncomfortable when confronted by the ads, that, despite their age, still held the power of inducement. He felt himself stirred to purchase products that no longer existed. Gradually he became used to the experience, and then, at ease dipping his mind into the past, he discovered Rhonda Baxter, movie star and spokeswoman for Gifford’s Anklet Receptacles.
“I’m in love with her.” He confessed to Preacher Joe during one of their periodic discussions.
Preacher Joe nodded as he swallowed a sip of coffee.
“You know, I believe she’s still alive.”
“Really?” Chadwick replied. “Gosh, she must be nearly a hundred years old!”
“Probably.” Preacher Joe mused. “I guess she’s out of prison by now.”
“Prison?” Chadwick gulped.
“Yes, didn’t you know?” Preacher Joe fixed Chadwick in his ministerial gaze. “She was involved in the plot to kill Governor Harvey.”
“I knew we’d come back around to him again!” Chadwick put his index finger against his lips, a gesture that, could he but know it, he had inherited from his great grandfather.

Duck on the Track

Ken Milligram was going to be a big star. His debut film, Teeter Totter, in which he starred, was a hit. His picture graced the cover of Film Analysis Review, the premiere cinema publication in the country. Who could doubt that a long and successful career in the movies lay ahead of him?
It was not to be. Milligram’s next film, a dramatization of E. Postalthreat Jasperson’s self-help book, The Magic of Stupidity, was as big a flop as one could expect of a film consisting of eight vignettes designed to illustrate “the eight essential verities of stupidity.” Milligram played the spirit of self-destructive behavior alongside Michael Caine (who only took the role because he was a fan of the book) as his parental enabler. The latter’s career could survive such a blow; the former’s could not. Foolishly taking time off to get married, Milligram found that by the time he had made his third film, Mrs. Coyote’s Picnic, the momentum was gone.
He spent the remainder of the decade working sporadically in television, usually portraying a character in the background who handed a piece of paper to the star. A series of of desperate phone calls to Michael Caine ended in a vicious beating outside the Olive Garden on Highway 15 and the changing of Caine’s phone number.
Recently, however, Teeter Totter had become something of a cult film among the burgeoning “Country Goth” movement. Milligram was asked to speak at the movement’s inaugural convention. With about fifty more pounds on his frame than at the time of that first film, a head of thin, graying hair, and a pronounced lack of control over the drooping of his lower lip, Milligram resembled nothing so much as Ted Figg, who had played his character’s father in Teeter Totter. Many of the “Country Goths” couldn’t believe it was the same person.
“He didn’t even dress the part.” Complained one girl after the speech.
“He could have at least made the tiniest effort.” A young man in black overalls added.
“What insights into the making of Teeter Totter did Ken Milligram provide?” Asked a reporter of a group of young people exiting the convention hall.
“Other than the fact that he ad-libbed his famous line about ‘I picked it up at a specialty store,’ nothing! Not a damn thing!” was the answer.
Needless to say, Milligram was not invited back the next year.

Some Mesmeric Influence

Grandpa was happy to explain how birds came into the world. He settled back against the barrel and linked his fingers about his right knee.
“Well, sir,” He said, blinking against the smoke that yet lingered in the hold, “When the world was still young, and the gods of industry and communications were yet children playing in Wakavac’s nursery, the Old Man of the Forest came upon a tree he had never seen before. This tree was heavy with small, round fruit. The Old Man of the Forest picked as many of these fruits as he could carry, which was a lot, for he was as tall as a telephone pole, with arms as long in comparison to the rest of his body as a modern human’s arms are in comparison with his.” Grandpa paused and sniffed hard. The bristles of his moustache quivered with the sudden rush of air.
“So,” he continued, “He took these fruits to his throne in the middle of the forest and tried to eat them, but they were too hard. He decided to let them ripen for a few days. He put them in a basket and put the basket under his throne. Then he left, some say to visit the Mud Giant, some to gather hemp seed for the Rainbow Queen. However, I don’t think that has much bearing on the story. Anyway, while he was gone, Roca, the mischievous elf, stole into the clearing where the Old Man’s throne stood and poured the Milk of Panic over the fruit and left, giggling to himself. When the Old Man of the Forest returned, he of course went straight to the basket, for he was hungry from his long journey and wanted to eat the fruit. But, lo and behold! The fruits cracked open before his very eyes and out of them came the first birds ever seen in the world! The Old Man of the Forest tried to catch them and eat them, but the birds escaped, using that power which man has ever since envied, the power of flight.” Grandpa shifted his legs, so that now he held his left knee in his hands. He looked up into the faces of his audience and nodded, as if to say, “And that’s the way it was.”
The two pilots who comprised Grandpa’s audience glanced at each other.
“Great story, old man.” One said.
“How long are you going to keep us down here?” The other demanded.
“It isn’t me who keeps you.” Grandpa objected. “I only obey the wishes of He who is greater than us all.”

Renae and Her Chickens

The widely acknowledged greatest of the Lucite block carvers was Rod “Stringbean” Gibbler. It was he that developed the “squared head” approach that was to be so influential during the last days of the century. After the passing of him and his immediate successors, of course, the art of Lucite block carving fell into desuetude, but during his flourishing, it reached its zenith.
“At least it ended before it became degenerate.” Christophe commented after reading a passage much like the above paragraph in the flimsy brochure handed to him at the entrance to the museum. He and Carol were walking through the Kosmosgalerie, a state-sponsored museum dedicated to preserving the works of the Lucite block carvers and the cartoonists of the same period whose work was graphically related to them. Christophe refolded the brochure and tucked it into his coat pocket.
“Do you call your coat a coat or a jacket?” Carol asked. They stood before the centerpiece of the museum’s collection of Gibblers, Tin Can Head, a monstrous face, said to be based on that of Leonid Brezhnev, with an army of anthropomorphic chili beans crawling over it.
Christophe tugged on his lapels.
“Well, it’s a sports jacket.” He mused. “But it’s still a coat.”
“Why ‘sports?’” Carol wondered.
“Carol,” Christophe said rebukingly, “Here we are among some of the most esoterically expressive works of our grandparents’ time,” He brought his fingers together as if gathering the threads of subtlety itself into one graspable knot and then threw them wide, gesturing up at the monumental block of Lucite, “And you want to talk men’s fashion.”
“Frankly, Chris, I’m bored.” Carol admitted with a sigh and an ocular sweep of the painted concrete floor.
Bored. Christophe wanted to throw the word back at her like a dagger kept for years against the day when it should be thrust into the man who killed one’s father. But, like the nearly forgotten blade, it grew dull in his heart as he weighed the consequences of its use.
“Well,” He replied, “Why don’t we try the cartoon room. Perhaps there’s something there that will entertain you.”
“No, not yet.” Carol begged. “I don’t want to spoil this for you.”

The Countering of the Old Float

Endemic contumely, codified in the memoirs of Flip Flasher, had less than the expected effect upon the readership of Tiny Rooster, the book in question. Whereas experts like Dr. Punjab Diomede and Dr. Mosaic Serenity argued on television news programs that negative consequences would almost certainly result should Flasher’s memoirs be allowed to circulate freely through the citizenry, ultimately very little of note happened.
“Nothing happens in my lifetime!” Thurston Bewilder complained as he shut Tiny Rooster with a resounding thud.
“What’s the problem?” Thurston’s roommate Hans Sniffgood asked, looking up from his own reading, The Adventures of Titus Titman.
“Nothing,” Thurston meowed, “I’m just reading Flip Flasher’s autobiography and I’m getting jealous over all the amazing things that happened to him, what amazing times he lived in.”
“Titman had some pretty amazing adventures too.” Hans countered, holding up the lurid dust jacket for Thurston to inspect.
“Yes, but Flasher’s really happened. And look where I’m at: the monkey house south! Struggling to experience life!” Thurston gestured at the drably painted walls about him, at the cheap furniture, the dirty dishes, the moldy carpet, the poster of Richard Nixon.
“For god’s sake, cheer up!” Hans growled. “You’re lucky to be living in boring times. Imagine if there was a war on!”
“I don’t want to be in a war.” Thurston admitted with a whine. “Just maybe on the periphery of one. Just look at what happened to Flip Flasher during the 24-Bit War.”
The incident Thurston alluded to was one in which Flip Flasher, sent to the island of Cancocosaltine as part of a goodwill tour, found himself under house arrest after reactionaries allied with King Quadlump’s Overseas Accounting Board seized control of the island’s government. It was in the middle of this exciting situation that Flasher enjoyed a romance with a mysterious lady who may have been the notorious spy Henrietta Bu. The hotel in which Flasher and the other members of his tour were confined was apparently the center of much illicit activity.
“Oh, Thurston,” Hans laughed, “You don’t believe all that, do you? Nixon said in his memoirs that Flasher was the biggest liar he’d ever met.”

Young Salt Licker

I was thinking about writing an essay called “Henry Rollins and the Virtue of Discomfort.” The theme of this essay, however, was so simple that I didn’t think it would be worthy of a whole piece of paper. Simply put, the idea is that Henry Rollins fears the contrast between future times of pain, privation, and discomfort and current good times so much that he is willing to make things more uncomfortable for himself than absolutely necessary so that when times get tough his sense of loss will be easier to take. Of course, I agree with this attitude to an extent, but at the same time think it’s ridiculous. One must have balance. Balance is wisdom. Wisdom is the hardest thing to achieve.
That being said, you can see why I didn’t bother stretching the idea out for a whole essay.
However, as this is still a piece of paper that needs to be filled up with words, whether one calls it an “essay” or not, perhaps it would be best to expand upon this theme in my own, approximately inimitable way.
I shall begin by telling you of my own practice of self-denial. The most obvious example of this to those who I am forced to live among, is my failure to take advantage of the wonderful, brightly colored, and shockingly loud panoply of televised entertainments available. Yes, I am certain that there are many fine programs and movies out there that I would find diverting, but I refuse to indulge. For one thing, I am suspicious of anything that the masses like. They are, for the most part, easily swindled and uninterested in things of the intellect. Therefore, most of what they watch must necessarily be mediocre. In addition, my rare attempts to sample the celebrated so-called “fringe” offerings of TV and the cinema have proven to be almost universally failures. The fringe is mostly just as mediocre and pandering as the mainstream. I avoid television. I choose the films I watch with care. That applies to music and literature as well. Life is short. I know that most of you think that that is all the more reason to soak up everything that everyone else in your specific demographic group is into at the moment so you won’t miss out, but it’s really just the opposite.
Speaking of the opposite, I also have my indulgent side. I can think of nothing more pleasurable than to sit down in front of a canvas while listening to Black Sabbath (having first expiated my guilt by working out) and to paint all alone all night.

Miss Stein’s Escapade

Hookheist’s great novel ended on the snow-covered front lawn of the house where so much of the book’s action had taken place. On the lawn stood the giant snowman Winky and Esther had made earlier that week, somewhat grotesquely melted now by the bonfire that raged not far away. In that fire burned all extant copies of Cornfellow’s novel, which had, up until its completion, served as an internal symbol of the greater novel in which it existed. Forming a triangle with the snowman and the bonfire on the lawn was the body of Justus, the dog that had gone missing in chapter twenty-seven. He had returned at the climax to die, drawing not only Samantha, Winky, and Esther out of the house, but Crazy Ernie and Fleishmann as well. As Samantha unstrapped the hated collar from around Justus’ neck, Esther uttered the last line in the book,
“Shall we throw it on the fire?”
The novel, Stop Staring at My Breasts, was Hookheist’s third. He worked on it for nearly two years. As Winston Parfrey said in his review of Hookheist’s fiction, Back to the Peach Tree, “that’s much too long for any novel.” It was, however, his greatest success and the book he is most remembered for. Most critics have argued that his four subsequent novel, were but variations and rehashings of Stop Staring. I am not in a position to say whether or not this is true, have read none of Hookheist’s work. I only know about the plot of Stop Staring from having seen the film version starring Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Rachel Ward, and Michael Caine in his last role, and then having consulted an electronic reference work that listed differences between the original text and the film.
It is interesting to note that in the book the character of Crazy Ernie, which was portrayed by Brad Pitt in the film, expresses a wish that, should his life ever be dramatized, he be portrayed by Sherman Hemsley. For those of you not privy to Hollywood secrets, as I am, Hemsley is godfather to Pitt’s adopted son Hong Suk. I add this bit of trivia to show you the power that literature has to transform reality. How else could I, a mere reflection of the macrocharacter of Toadsgoboad, be allowed to delve into the innermost workings of a novel/film which, as yet, only exists in the dreams of that brilliant author-to-be, Hookheist, an author himself destined to be portrayed by Johnny Depp in the last role of his meteoric career? Have you no answer?

Commercials for Nothing

There are some populated planets that have no plants, if by the word “plants” one means organisms that are rooted or relatively fixed in one spot. As Pickney contemplated this idea in his ruminative comedian’s way, he sat with pen in hand, a pad of paper on his lap, gazing out the window and waiting, could he but know it, for the phone to ring.
Once it did ring he reached for it like a teenager apprehending existentialism for the first time.
“Hello?” Pickney said.
“Mr. Pickney, my name is Walt Gudgins. It is important that you understand the significance of my telling you my name. It means that, in telling you what I am about to tell you, I have no fear of any reprisals whatsoever. I have, therefore, not need to disguise my identity.” The voice was calm and clear, even friendly.
“What do you want?” Pickney asked coldly.
“I want you to agree to perform for the troops stationed in the Ochre Islands.”
Pickney started to laugh, but the voice called Gudgins interrupted.
“Obviously, you don’t want to. It’s against your principles. You oppose our nation’s on-going war effort.”
“You’re damn right I do. I wouldn’t…”
“Mr. Pickney, please.” Gudgins interrupted again. “If you will look around your apartment, I think you will discover that something is missing. Something of great value to you. Once you realize the ramifications of this loss, I think you will agree to perform for the troops as requested.”
“Damn you.” Pickney glanced around frantically, the phone tight against his ear.
“When you have made your decision, contact me at the Fiber Awareness Building. Remember, my name is Walt Gudgins.”
“Dammit, what have you…” Pickney began, but the connection was terminated. He dropped the phone and started hunting through his possessions. What could it be that had been stolen? He looked around for almost ten minutes before he thought of the ceramic cow.
“It’s gone.” He said to himself as he sat down on the sofa.
He took up his pen and pad again and jotted down a few thoughts, none of which were all that funny.

Nostalgia for the Checkerboard Dragon

The crumbs at the bottom of the bag of Celerinos brand snack cubes did not look appetizing. Larsen, though loath to waste anything, crumpled the bag disgustedly and crammed it into a dirty glass. His hair had grown long during his months of residence in the cabin on the mountain.
“Some mountain!” Larsen thought. “It isn’t snow-capped; never has been!” He looked out the little window over his desk. “Nothing but trees cover this mountain.”
He had searched in vain among the few reference books Barko had left him for an official definition of a mountain, a sharply defined delineation between a mountain and a mere hill.
“Weasel Mountain they call it.” Larsen thought. Aloud, he said, “I haven’t seen a weasel the whole time!”
“Haven’t seen a weasel?” Came a voice from outside the cabin. To Larsen’s astonishment a large, bipedal, weasel-like creature, obviously a man in a costume, appeared in the window. “Maybe you haven’t been looking hard enough!”
Larsen, though unarmed, dashed to the door and opened it. The weasel stood by the pile of firewood, a grin of sheer idiocy permanently affixed to his goggle-eyed face.
“Who are you?” Larsen demanded.
“The name’s Whisper. Whisper Weasel. I promote enforcement of and adherence to our nation’s noise pollution laws.”
“That’s nice.” Larsen agreed impatiently. “But who are you underneath?”
“Underneath?” The weasel sounded puzzled. He had a traditionally “goofy” voice, meant to reassure small children that he was too stupid and clumsy to be anything other than benign. “Well, I suppose I’m just another soul.”
“Soul, eh?” Larsen seized upon the word. “Then I’ve got just the thing for you!” He reentered the cabin and snatched up the wrought iron poker by the fireplace. Stepping back outside with the poker held high, he saw nothing, no seven-foot tall weasel. He circled the cabin, but found nothing.
“I know he was here.” He said to himself. “Here are the prints of his big feet.” He spent nearly a hour looking around while down in the valley below preparations were made for that evening’s rock concert.

The Hidden Ram’s Head

A gentle, graceful curve, quarried by a master woodcarver from the old butcher’s block, inspired Lady Pidgpug. She bought the work from the somewhat confused artisan and had it mounted on a squat pedestal in the center of the circularama, a round, high-ceilinged room in her house on Elizabeth street.
“Here,” she told Todd Melker to his amazement, “You shall create your masterpiece.” She gestured at the walls with a jangle of her braceleted wrists. “This magnificent shape will be the very thing to offset your work.” She indicated the wooden curve on the pedestal.
“I see.” Melker said. “And yet I am to have carte blanche to do as I like on this wall?”
“Anything at all.” Lady Pidgpug reassured him. “Don’t worry about any incongruities set up by your work’s interaction with the sculpture. In fact, the more incongruous, the better.”
Thus instructed, Melker began work that very day. He threw a sheet over the transformed butcher’s block to protect it from his black paint, but Lady Pidgpug told him to remove it.
“Any incidental splatterings will only serve to unify that which has been so randomly thrown together.” She said.
Melker understood that as much as he did the woman’s reasons behind hiring him, a mere cartoonist of limited ability and even more limited renown, for such a project. As he was being paid five thousand dollars, however, he nodded knowingly and kept his reservations to himself.
“But cover the floor.” Lady Pidgpug added. “I want that kept clean.”
Todd Melker worked on what he called his mural for a month. He took no days off. Not being a painter, he approached the job as if it were a massive cartoon. Eventually the wall was filled with nearly three hundred figures, some twelve feet tall, some only a couple of inches. He called the mural “The Cleaning of the East Fast.”
“Aren’t you going to color in the figures?” Lady Pidgpug asked him when he announced that he was finished.
“Well, I could, but I don’t use color in my regular work, so I thought I’d stay consistent.”
“Don’t use color?” Lady Pidgpug asked. “Are you not Don Melker?”

Danger Digital

The bakers’ oven, freed of its moorings, rambled over the tiled floor until it came to a stop against the cabinet that contained the disused and discredited cookbooks. A smell of cheap soap was in the air.
“The bolts are rusted clean through.” Hollinshead delivered the verdict, rising from an inspection of the oven’s former position.
“You can tell they’re old bolts.” Sid said, pointing. “Look at their shape. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”
“Why would anybody bolt an oven to the floor in the first place?” Gamurfey, the last of the three-man crew to speak, wondered.
For an answer they looked to the baker on duty, Sachon, but as he understood only a handful of English words, he was useless to them. He merely stood nervously looking from one man to the next, turning a wooden mashing stick around in his hands. Hollinshead examined the baker’s eyes once more with such intensity that one might think he suspected the man of feigning blindness. At last he dropped his gaze and followed the scratch marks of the oven’s trail to their terminus, the cabinet where the oven yet stood, rattling slightly on its old, shaky legs and buzzing pathetically.
“Let’s get this cabinet open.” Hollinshead ordered his two companions, who, while not technically his juniors, did in fact usually defer to his instructions. Together the three men dragged the oven back so that the cabinet might be opened. Sachon rushed to assist them, but a scowl and bared teeth drove him back.
“Hold that thing!” Hollinshead commanded. The oven had again started moving towards the cabinet. Gamurfey and Sid shoved the oven so that it came to a rest against the wall, under a calendar from the Hamhock Endorsement Council. Hollinshead opened the cabinet and pulled out a tattered old book. He thumbed through it contemptuously.
“The whole thing’s nothing but books.” He frowned, looking into the cabinet.
“What did you expect, marijuana?” A voice asked.
The three men looked up to see Byron, the head baker, standing in the doorway.
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Hollinshead snapped. He slammed the cabinet shut while the oven continued to rattle and buzz piteously.

Chili Beans and Turnip Greens

Now that Purvis had established his reputation among the Celerinos, the fierce mountain clan that guarded the secret of the Bensomatic, he felt he could don the lizard helm of his ancestors with impunity. He took a marker from the inner pocket of his vest and wrote the word “loose” on his hand to remind himself that he must remain loose.
“I must remain loose.” He even said aloud as he adjusted the lizard helm. To his annoyance, the clumsy headgear did not fit snugly. He examined his reflection in the polished piece of flagstone the Celerinos had provided him. He saw Tamarco enter his hut behind him.
“Ah, Tamarco!” He hailed the little half-robotic man. “What do you think?” He turned around that he might be seen from the front.
“I think it’s too big for your head.” Tamarco replied. He set the tray of marshmallows and saltines on an old butcher’s block to the right of the entrance.
“You mean it’s… loose?” Purvis asked, holding up his hand.
Tamarco did not answer immediately. He looked at Purvis’ hand and took a deep breath. “Sure.” He said. He turned to leave. “By the way,” he said over his shoulder without turning around, “The Bensomatic is being moved today.”
“Moved?” Purvis repeated. “Where? Why?”
“It is not for me to say.” Tamarco shrugged and passed out of the hut.
Purvis fretted over the little half-humanoid robot’s words. He tore a strip of lace off the edge of the comforter on his bed and used it tie the lizard helm to his head. Feeling more secure, he walked out into the brightly lit courtyard at the center of the Celerinos’ village.
The Bensomatic had been lifted, by what arcane method Purvis could not guess, onto a large wagon. Four of the village’s massive oxen were hitched to the front of the wagon. Several children stood around watching as a couple of men tied the Bensomatic down.
“We don’t want it falling off, do we?” A man asked the children.
“No.” A couple of children answered.
“I don’t want to fall off either!” The Bensomatic thundered in its deep, but hollow voice. Candies of strange design rained from a chute on the side of the Bensomatic down into the eager clutches of the children.



Temporary Decrease Frightening Placebo

Strategic alignment of the Pablum Freezer Contaminants brought about no more reduction in squirrel paralysis rates than had the earlier attempt at a complete reversal of roles among the various actors in this deadly political drama. Of course, there was the prophet Alphabetes, always ready to tell anyone who would listen how the whole thing had been doomed to failure from the beginning.
“The tossing of the bones does not lie.” He laughed with a forceful and forced shake of his belly, making the bell-covered belt he wore jingle pleasantly. Most who heard this jingling had pleasant associations with the sound. Even Chad Brad made happy connections in his memory, but he sternly squelched both these and Alphabetes’ comments.
“Get that old fraud out of here!” He bellowed, pointed with an orange gloved hand in the general direction of our endangered arctic regions.
“What are we going to say to Mrs. Freer?” Gumbo the so-called elf worried. He was always a worrier, going back to his days in the marketing division of the greeting card company.
“Which greeting card company did you work for, Gumbo?” Chad Brad asked, as much to get his mind off his own worries as any sincere desire for information.
“I can’t tell you,” the wiry, sharp-nosed elf grinned, “But I can tell you this: no greeting card company can survive without competition. In the absence of competition, a greeting card company would be just another monopoly, and let me tell you, a monopolistic greeting card company would be sad, both philosophically and in its general expression of emotion.”
Chad Brad, a natural leader if ever there was one, mused heavily, bringing his gloves up to his cheeks and pulling down, so that the full roundness of his eyes was exposed.
“Stop that!” Chad Brad’s mother commanded. “You look retarded!”
“I knew she’d show up.” Alphabetes mentioned to Swarf, the unexplained man who hung about the outside of the Squirrel Paralysis Awareness Building.
“You don’t say.” Swarf frowned knowingly. He fingered the collection of baubles in the deep pockets of his kangaroo-style trench coat.
“Oh, yes.” Alphabetes confirmed. “She called me this afternoon all excited about her forthcoming appearance.”

Nocturnal Display of Glossary

The Humpentine, constructed to the vague specifications of the child’s doodle, rested on its nose and its one leg in the coffee garden. Blanche and Breadbeard approached it warily. They had heard what had happened to the Peegerill boy.
“One of my teeth fell out yesterday.” Breadbeard told Blanche. He showed her the place in the back of his mouth.
“How did that happen?” The elegant lady, who, despite her advanced years, refused to cut her hair short, asked with much solicitude.
“Just fell out. Old age, I guess.” Breadbeard shrugged. He was at least twenty years younger than Blanche.
The lady said nothing. She still had all of her teeth. To her dismay, they had yellowed over the years, but at least she still had them. A friend of her mother’s had asked her when she was going to get them pulled, as if this was a routine procedure that all aging men and women must undergo. Her response to her mother’s friend is unrecorded, but I do know that she fled in horror before the vision of herself as a toothless elder with a short, tightly permed hairdo.
The Humpentine stirred like an egg close to the time of hatching as Blanche and Breadbeard stepped within the innermost ring of bushes in the garden.
“We brought no coffee to drink.” Breadbeard joked.
“I don’t drink coffee.” Blanche answered dryly. She kept her eyes fixed on the Humpentine.
“That figures.” Breadbeard muttered.
A noise like that of an electric fan with a broomstick jammed between its blades came from the Humpentine, high pitched and horrible to hear. It was as if the machine were being torn apart in the performance of its primary function.
Earlier that day, Debra, a representative from Legacy Papercrafts, had asked Mr. Hammond exactly what the Humpentine’s primary function was. His answer, strangely enough, did not deter Debra from her intended course of action.
“That’s really up to the child who designed it to determine.” Mr. Hammond said. “From the original doodle we can make only the most rudimentary guesses, none of which are in the least of any practical use.”
“Has the child dropped any hints as to his decision?” Debra asked.
“No. And he’s taking a nap now so you can’t ask him.”

If Only the Burmese Would Stay

I can make no further recommendations regarding the illustrations. Having retreated as far into the wrapper as I have, I am obliged by the circumstances of my position to remain silent on this topic. However, no saxophonist (even a purely theoretical one) can go without tooting and honking forever. It only remains to be seen what the theme will be. Just don’t ask me about those pictures.
It is at this point that I re-enter the book. The control I sought has been established through a new conception of my role. As I said in one of my songs, “self-image is the key.” Although it goes against my inclinations towards purism (Purism is Our Enemy), I will tell you what I have in mind as to the development of this text. I have decided to approach these pieces more as essays than as platelets in a fictional bloodstream.
This is the first piece done in this new approach. As such, it is introductory in nature and ultimately meaningless.
All that stuff about Toadsgoboad as a character is, probably, over. Toadsgoboad is not even your narrator anymore. He is merely the writer of these words, a far more prosaic role. I’m tired, too tired to jump around much anymore.
Of course, I can’t limit myself. I can’t make any rigidly defined rules regarding what I’m going to write. I’m just saying that I have a new mindset towards the production of these pieces or essays.
For instance, I am quite likely to write something about sitting here listening to Grover Washington, jr. I could mention that someone whom I don’t normally talk to walked past and saw the cover of the CD and stopped.
“You listen to Jazz?” He asked.
“Yeah.” I answered, pleased that I have this mark of distinction among the throng of rednecks and simpletons about me, but also afraid of being drawn into a conversation. My time is precious; I have writing to do.
“You might be alright then.” The acquaintance delivered his judgment.
“OK.” I said by way of gratitude and made a little forced laugh.
Back to my writing. I’d rather be painting. That’s my focus in life, but I can’t paint here at this horrible place. So I write. What I write about, however, is up in the air.

I Am at the Mercy of My Autobiography

“You can’t run from yourself. You can hide—for a while, but eventually you must face yourself again.” I don’t know whether it was Glen Campbell that told me that or some proto-Hindu god. Either one has a vast fund of experience to draw upon to make a remark like that. Whether or not I agree with the quote has already been answered by my putting it at the top of this essay.
Wouldn’t it be great to be a font designer? Is there any difference between the terms “font” and “typeface?” I need to look that up. I waste so much time looking worthless bits of information up, however. I don’t know if I’ll have the time.
I really don’t know what to write about now. I feel like I’ve painted myself into a corner by declaring the category into which my work will reside. It’s absurd, I know, but one of the problems here is that I already am working under many restrictions. My pieces are strictly one handwritten page. I don’t really do rewrites. I might change a word once in awhile, but all that stuff you learned in high school (for some reason I always want to capitalize “high school”) about first draft, second draft, and so forth is so much nonsense to me. I do it on the first try and it is what it is.
I think the main thing here is that I can only go so long in my writing without introducing myself into the work. However, now that I have and have earlier said that I wouldn’t be a character (meaning, I guess, that I wouldn’t be a kind of fictional figure), I feel like there’s not much I can say unless it’s the truth.
“I ate red beans and turnip greens for lunch again.” Yes, that’s so exciting to read.
Maybe I need the fantasy world in which the Toadsgoboad character is supposed to reside, a kind of allegorical depiction of the way my brain works. After all my posturing and pronouncements, however, I’ll have to slip back into it slowly if I’m to slip back into it at all.
This really has been a bad week’s worth of writing. I can’t stop, because I’ve committed myself to this project, The Procurement Man, my life’s work in the field of prose writing or extended narrative. The cycle starts again. I have notebooks from ten years ago full of stories and novels that consist of nothing but, “I am writing now. I am beginning to write this book now. This is the inauguration of my big writing career.”

The Inauguration of My Big Writing Career

A sillier opening to the novel could hardly be conceived, considering that it was supposed to be the tough-minded saga to a pot smoking lady barber who bravely faced up to the murder of her beloved pet llama at the hands of redneck mobsters intent on gaining access to the old vault under her barber’s chair. Giant marshmallow beings from some refractory outer planet materialized at the local barbecue stand and demanded napkins with cowboys and Indians printed on them. What planet? I don’t know. Since the radiation treatments my memory has been slowly decaying. Soon I won’t be able to complete.
I was born in Athens, Georgia. That’s almost all I can tell you until after my parents and everybody I know dies. If I were ever to say what I really think and feel, there would be too many hurt and angry people around me for me to continue to function. I’m a coward in this regard as I am in the realm of physical confrontation. I’ve never been in a fistfight in my life. Some American.
I am not a patriot. I don’t put the welfare of the United States of America ahead of all other nations. I believe in the planet as a whole. Why I should, however, is a mystery to me, since I hate stupidity and 99% of the people are stupid 99% of the time. A commonplace observation.
I guess it’s back to the old formula. This isn’t working out that well.
Documentary evidence, presented in scrapbook form to the Inaugural Committee, included several photographs of the plastic automaton known as Toadsgoboad taken when he was in bondage to the Queen of Windfalls. Such blandishments as were made (and where properly defined) regarding this evidence were ruled inadmissible by the rector on duty (a relative of the late queen).
“This evidence is inadmissible.” Pam Abundance, the on-duty rector declared, waving a breadstick in the ether.
“But, Miss Abundance…” I protested, only to be interrupted by crumbs spewing from the mouth of the rector.
“I am a man!” The rector expostulated, his face as red as a Negro’s nose on a cold day.
“But your name is ‘Pam!’” I pointed out.
This evidence was ruled inadmissible as well. I had thought I was finally getting somewhere, but it appears that I am stuck.

Considerable Freedom

Tiny awarenesses, brought together in the Blender of Time’s Good Taste, spring forth from our animated lunchtime conversation. I am in a uniform of turnip green and trout’s armoring; she is almost entirely hidden beneath a hat resembling a lonely chateau. During a pause in the good-humored talk, I comment on the hour.
“Odd time for lunch, isn’t it?” I said. “The middle of the night.”
“Your question is not without precedent.” Florida, goose rampant and pale as the finest Scandinavian flesh, observed with camel-like loftiness.
“Perhaps, but is it without substance?” I nodded once like a cowboy tipping his hat to a vague notion of common religious feeling.
Florida pursed her lips as if they were a gum wrapper she must hastily put away. The gum is old-fashioned, made of the pulpy substance naturally occurring within the pale flesh of the chiclera tree and sweetened with the finest of cane syrups.
“Most commercially available sugar is derived from the processing of beets.” I warned my lunchtime companion.
“You’re not the type to add sugar to anything, are you, Mr. Toadsgoboad?” Florida asked.
I made myself smile, as if her question had evoked strong memories and/or deep feelings. Actually, I had become suddenly distracted and had no time to consider her question and all the ramifications of its posing. I had become aware that something in the room was distributing a series of chords that I recognized over a gentle rhythm born of bongos and oil-stained fingertips.
I glanced into Florida’s eyes.
“Do you hear that?” I asked. I looked about; where could that sound be coming from?
“You’ll have to wait until another time to probe these mysteries, Mr. Toadsgoboad.” A man’s disquieting voice tolled in my ear. Before I could turn to see who it was, a plate of spaghetti was slipped past my elbows.
“Ooh, what kind of sauce did you order?” Florida asked.
“Marinara.” I said through my teeth, looking up at the menacing Dr. Oberst, head of covert operations for the Terstle Group. Instantly the piano music ceased and was replaced by the agitated miasma of the banjo.

Process to Align

“Some of the best Fujis come from Chile, but none of the best chilies come from Fuji.” Lud Cumwither stated contemptuously. “Explain that.” He was leaning so far back in his executive’s chair that he could not possibly have kept from falling over without the help of a series of microfilaments strung from the ceiling and a couple of husky fairies stationed under the chair.
“Ha!” I barked. “I don’t have to explain anything!” I shook my head and reached for the cadmium stereate. Who did Cumwither think he was? My explaining days were over.
“Gentlemen, please, this is getting us nowhere!” Bill DuBonin, the moderator, begged Cumwither and I to behave like on-air professionals. I envied him his moustache. It was like a collection of white feathers escaped from an old pillow. “Mr. Toadsgoboad, is it still your intention to describe your short written pieces as essays?”
“Oh, god!” Cumwither could be heard expostulating in disgust. Out in the living rooms of America (where we invariably were, despite my best efforts) this disgust did not go down well. In one living room in particular, one decorated in retrograde pink and white striped wallpaper and heavy red drapes that yet hinted at a safe and cozy backyard beyond, two Americans took umbrage at such disgust, such expostulation.
“Let him answer!” Shouted Tommance Turrupentude at the TV.
“It’s all calculated to get your blood up, whether you’re on one side of the other.” Amedna, knitting in hand, vowed. She did not look at the screen, but a continuous cartoon inspired by the sound from the TV played in her head.
“I simply must finish this blanket before Brenda’s baby is born.” She thought over and over again as she knitted.
The blanket, adorned with a crude image of Mount Fuji in its center, was intended as a replacement for the one that Brenda had had as a child and that had been stolen from her by a former roommate during her college days.
“Only that one had a picture of a chili pepper in the middle.” Brenda told an acquaintance at the church she and Bradley attended.
“The word ‘pepper’ is not only redundant,” This acquaintance, a man of grim and unsettling appearance, corrected, “It is incorrect.”

Ranged Against the Agnostic Crossword

Champion Bulldog, resting in a backyard fenced in by white posts and crossbeams, had been called hesitant before. The latest Dan DaSage novel had made this very point in a much-discussed passage. Personally, I found nothing that controversial in the accusation, but some of my colleagues on the Dark Horizons Council were quite emotional about it. While they handed around the rawhide chew toys and continued their debate, I slipped out of the room.
The clink of glasses and the reassuring clatter of silverware being raked into plastic buckets drew me down to the Rampant Goose and Friendly Weasel.
“I didn’t know until recently what I was doing.” I confessed, sliding my floppy bottom into a seat. “Even now I can’t precisely express what it is.”
“But you do know?” Champion Bulldog asked. His hands, holding fork and knife, were poised over his plate in the classic posture. I wish I had taken a picture, but I always forget my camera.
“Yes.” I said, inhaling deeply, confident and smug. “I do know. It’s just that I couldn’t spell it out if I had to.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s probably best that you haven’t got it all spelled out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see Dan DaSage entering the room.”
“Don’t you want to face him?”
“No.” Champion Bulldog shook his head. “Although I’m probably strong enough to take him in a confrontation, I am reluctant to do so.” He pocketed a length of bone from his plate and exited through the kitchen.
“Don’t you think you’ve cause enough trouble?” I said, stepping in front of DaSage. He wore a stiff black fedora. His moustache was a smear of refried beans.
“You can’t protect your friend forever.” Said DaSage, the eyes still lost somewhere among the Korean hills.
“He’s not my ‘friend.’” I objected. I had a hat of my own.
“Your kind doesn’t really have friends, do you?” He poked a toothpick into his gums and recited the company line.
Later that day, as the judges made their rounds, I counted the hexagons on the ceiling. No one could accuse me of not being eager, but their other criticisms were undeniably valid.

Puppet’s Reward

Various hats were presented to my waning Hippie sensibilities, but none, from this omnivorous aesthetic viewpoint, could match the Gearender. For the sake of novelistic integrity, I won’t explain what that means. Suffice to say, I put it on my head again and followed the pianoless quartet down into the tunnels beneath Applemouth.
Grandpa, that divisive character, was probably the first to recognize that someone was following them. I heard him call for silence, but sent a dozen paper horses crashing among them before I could be discovered.
“What are you going to do now?” Jerry Lancaster, my imaginary friend, now riding in a satchel woven from hemp on my back, asked me as I rummaged through the pockets of the four men.
“I’m looking for evidence that these men are not licensed hat dealers.” I explained.
The puppet on Jerry’s left hand, Dr. Fungrous, watched all of these proceedings without comment except for the clacking of his fingers on the keys of his little, but full-throated saxophone. Comment enough, you might say, but where were you when I was slogging through the swamps of indecision and the overhanging branches of imprecision? Lounging around the pool with your friends, no doubt. I long for the day when filling that pool will be recognized for the shameful act of waste that it is. I’ll bet you can’t bear not to wash your car either, can you? I’m sure the Coca-Cola company will be only too glad to slake your thirst when the water runs out. You can shower in their products too, when the times comes.
Forgive me, my reader. I know that you stood beside me every painful step of the way. It is Dr. Fungrous that makes me speak thus. He makes me feel guilty with his sad eyes and accusing fingering of the silent horn. Perhaps we can persuade him to say something pleasant outside the realm of his morbid preoccupations? A small wooden chest in the center of the old telephone stand should prove most comfortable for him to emerge from and from which to speak.
“Do you smell sweet potatoes?” He asks on rising from the box.
“You know, I think I do.” I sniff happily.
“What a pleasant smell.” Dr. Fungrous raises the sax to his lips distractedly.

The Significance of the Ceramic Cow

The ceramic cow, a cheap figurine approximately four inches in height, spotted red and white, comically proportioned as no real cow is, eventually came into my possession after being handed up the chain of command.
“Look what I have.” I sang, holding up the object.
“You really expect me to look?” Demanded the angelic conductor as he plunged his hands once again into the tangle of wires in the recess behind the portrait of Alan Ladd.
“Sorry.” I mumbled.
“As if I didn’t have enough to do around here.” He muttered.
I retreated to the south passage, where writing, so far from its supposed appeal, revealed itself to me as a boring pastime. I took the ceramic cow from my pocket and placed it on the sill of a window overlooking a field dotted with goats. The ceramic cow appeared, if one’s depth perception was sufficiently skewed, to be interacting with the goats, which were now roughly the same size.
“Howdy, stranger.” One of the goats, a paralegal from Flounder, Flipp, and Flossbinder, addressed the cow.
“Hello there.” The cow took a sip from his improperly made martini and replied.
“You here to see Laura?” The goat asked.
“Yes. She about?”
“She’s here somewhere. Don’t be in such a hurry. By the way, my name’s Brolin.” The goat extended an artificial hand to the cow, who responded with an artificial hand of his own. Sensory units within the hands measured the pressure and texture of the handshake and relayed this information to their respective users through cerebral interface brackets.
“I’m Blick.” The cow told Brolin.
“Blick of Denatured Rutabaga?” The goat’s eyebrows went up.
“That’s right.”
“Oh my god! Really?” Brolin smiled. “I’ve been wanting to meet you. You’re in charge of the Fantasy Dyspepsia account, right?”
“Yes, but…” Blick the cow did not get to express his sense of confusion, for Laura approached the two at that moment. A homemade stuffed animal, she was stuffed with old pantyhose.

Retinal Bifurcation

An easy comradeship developed between Gabbus and Lukacs over the next few weeks. Gabbus was later to refer to his “Latin grace” whenever anyone asked him how he managed to get along with that terror of the Southeastern Ocean, but no one knew what he meant exactly.
“He fiddles with that damn cane so much!” Uncle Harper complained.
“As long as he doesn’t cane his fiddle!” Roy, a celebrated wag, cracked with more than a little of the spirit of the Groucho Marx we all remember with such affection.
“Oh, Uncle Harper didn’t like that!” Mickey said to me as we watched the above exchange from across the room.
“No.” I agreed. Red X’s and black exclamation points pierced through their points by little windows that made the points look like the blackened skulls of smiley faces emanated from Uncle Harper’s fabled turquoise aura until wise men pushed Roy back into the undifferentiated mass of contestants.
Gabbus plonked his cane firmly to the floor and eyed the room like a hunter looking down the barrel of his rifle at an inflatable beach toy.
“My Latin grace is being sorely tested right now.” He announced. He sounded sour and ancient.
“And who can blame him?” I wrote in my newspaper column, “Approximately Speaking,” as I related the above events in a slightly more palatable version. I said nothing about the attack on the capital by the balloon nephews of Lukacs. There was no need to alarm my usual readers with unpleasant details. Besides, the editor-in-chief wouldn’t have run the column if I had.
“Your bravery has its limits.” Jerry observed.
“And my jealousy knows no bounds.” I answered, flipping to the back of the latest issue of Retinal Bifurcation.”
“Aren’t you saving that for the title of a book?” Asked Jerry.
“I was, but gut knows when or if I’ll get around to using it. I have so many other great ideas for titles.”
“What is ‘gut?’”
“I’ve started using it instead of ‘god.’” I explained. “It sounds so much better than using the euphemism ‘Goulet.’”

Manage the Compost When in Llama

Of course, I couldn’t see the TV from where I sat, but I could hear it. They say that the oiliest of flatbreads are yet healthier than the leanest of pork chops. I believe them. My beliefs matter to me more than the pronouncements of a thousand David Duchovnys.
The intern approached Dr. Fungrous warily. Perhaps he had heard of the puppet’s blunt manner and skill with a tomahawk.
“It pains me to see you in such distress.” Dr. Fungrous scribbled on a memo pad.
“As long as it doesn’t distress you to see me in such pain.” I wrote on the back of a rejection slip from Whiskey Task Force Review and passed to him while the monchlings ladled out the pudding.
Dr. Fungrous tightened his mouth and turned his gaze on the floorshow, a combination of the old elephant charades and the tin parameters of Mr. Beedling Foster.
Contains: wheat
“It looks like southern Louisiana could be in for an outbreak of tornadoes.” A loose-necked matron at the adjacent table commented to her penumbrous companion.
“What would you prescribe?” I asked Dr. Fungrous.
“Jerry,” the puppet addressed himself to the imaginary man over whose hand he stood. “Tell Toadsgoboad I’m not speaking to him.”
Jerry, however, was asleep.
“You certainly take your dreaming seriously.” I said, unconcerned with whether I was heard by Jerry, Dr. Fungrous, our neighbor the matron, or the penumbrous figure at her side.
Dark rivulets of seismology dipped again and again over this last person as he made vague efforts to defend his coiffure.
“I notice Diane’s not here.” Jerry said when he finally opened his eyes and looked around.
“Her devotion is to the spirit of the law, not its letter.” Dr. Fungrous growled.
“What is your devotion to?” I asked him, wincing as the theme song to the The Jeffersons invaded my consciousness.
“At least you’ll never have to watch Charles pick his teeth again.”

Wooden Robot Dog With a Sloth’s Face, Stationary

The titular dog stood apart from the other passengers. Although, like them, he had been manufactured in Malaysia, he considered himself superior in most respects. In fact, he could not think of a single aspect of their common corporeality in which he did not outshine the others. Of course, he had not yet been to college and so had not been exposed to the greater panoply of existence, but his imagination, extremely strong and well cultivated, failed to conjure up anything much beyond the gaggle of shiny cheeked ruffians and open mouthed pinheads that huddled near the railing and spoke with various phrases stolen from the current cinema of the coming adventure. The dog sighed with a scraping sound and focused on his own thoughts.
His four feet were planted close together, supporting the front half of his body while his haunches supported the rear. He sat now with his head held high, eyes fixed on the framed poster of Clark Gable and Paulette Goddard on the wall opposite. The two movie stars had traveled on this same craft back when it had been the most technologically advanced means of travel in the world. Yet the dog’s thoughts were not on the past. He was concentrating on not scratching. Biomechanical termites, driven by the interaction of strange chemicals in their plastic abdomens, were working their way through the anterior chambers in the dog’s right front leg, enlarging these as needed, knocking out walls, sealing up ill-placed windows, and laying down shag carpeting.
The termites’ supervisor, Mr. Henry, sipped coffee from a Garfield cup and conferred with his lieutenants.
“The dog is aware of our presence, then?” He asked.
“Definitely.” Answered Silas Grope, a nervous individual with a decidedly strong work ethic.
“But is he aware of the exact nature of our activities?” Mr. Henry wondered.
“Unknown.” Tamza Wung, who was not a termite himself, but a large-headed biped with his own ideas about the meaning of life, replied. While the others continued to debate their options should the dog take action against them, Wung’s mind drifted to his tenuous relationship with the female Cothylwy.
“I wonder if she even knows what love is.” He said to himself, jeering his own immaturity the next instant.

How We Trash the House of Gut

Within a month of my adoption of the euphemism “gut” in place of the anachronism “god,” some smartass from the astronomy department had set up a First National Church of Gut out in the old chicken farming territory outside town. Aside from pissing me off because of the theft of the idea, it defeated the whole purpose behind the use of the word. Although an atheist, I was still in the habit of swearing by the god of my childhood. The use of “gut” seemed a good way for me to avoid the issue.
And now someone, probably Professor Shaper, was co-opting the concept.
I gathered a group of my usual bruisers to deal with the situation, to make my feelings known. We mounted our horses at dusk in the lot behind Mrs. Cook’s boarding house and pulled masks over our heads. Mine, befitting my status as leader, was in the image of Kaiser Wilhelm II, complete with an upswept moustache of real muskrat hair.
“Fiber analysis indicates muskrat, sir.” One of the Alabama visionaries employed to investigate our desecration of the church announced as he toyed nervously with the plastic cigar in his hands.
“Muskrat, eh?” Captain Klufer mused.
The church was a mobile home behind the old well that served as both civic gathering point and symbol of the little unincorporated town of Croakler. I began the proceedings by painting a sign of occult passion on the door. Magrus, a powerful mutant from the sub-basement, then smashed his way into the structure using his shoulder as a battering ram.
“Blasphemy!” I hissed as we filed inside and I got a look at what had been established in the name of the word I had come up with. A large diagram of the human intestinal tract was tacked to the wall that some two dozen folding chairs faced. Each part of this diagram had been labeled to correspond to a specific emotion. As I recall, the appendix corresponded to the feeling you have when you remember a time when you hurt someone’s feelings long ago.
As Thorag and Dursk defecated on the rug, we were interrupted by an old man in overalls.
“Have you no respect?” He shouted. He waved his pitchfork menacingly, but time had robbed his arms of their strength.

Tamza Wung Heads for the Hills

The hills lay at the intersection between the world as a young man of eighteen might see it and the world as seen by the same man twenty years later. Each of the hills was separate from the others. They stood uniformly high, like goose bumps. In the distance the pink and purple sky loomed like a backdrop painted with tempera. Tamza Wung looked up at the two closest hills, one on either side of the narrow footpath on which he stood. Although no taller than a standard-sized firehouse, they were impressively steep. Wung doubted he could climb to the top. Soft grass like green fur covered all the hills. Wung stepped to the side of the hill to his right and stroked the grass.
“Soft?” Asked a voice behind him in the shadows.
“Yes.” Wung answered calmly. He was not one to be unnerved by the sudden appearance of a strange character. Long foreseen doom, however, scared him out of his pajamas.
“Are you going to pass all the way through?” The voice asked.
Wung turned around and saw a short man in a tall hat with a wild, red beard emerge from behind one of the small apple trees that sparsely dotted the ground at the feet of the hills.
“Maybe. Why do you want to know?” Wung hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his coveralls and assumed a stance both nonchalant and defiant.
“I see that you are running away from something.” The short man, whose name was Gifford McCufford, made his observation and smiled, revealing unusually large teeth that seemed to have no distinctions like incisor, bicuspid, or canine among them. Each tooth was like a white brick.
Tamza Wung considered. He wore gray coveralls with his serial number emblazoned over the right breast pocket. On the back was an embroidered image of the Festus Loon, the symbol of the Ketchup Bottler’s Support Group. His feet were shod in new shoes of red leather. They fit fairly well, but had a few places where they hurt his feet. Eventually they would break in nicely, but in the meantime Wung had had to put duct tape on the sore areas of his feet. To his disappointment, they had laces. He had sworn off laces, but these were the only shoes he could find at a reasonable price before he began his flight into the unknown.

I Explain the Method By Which Asparagus Head is Canonized

Although only a half-educated goofball, I was able to make sense of the process and then explain it to a roomful of young people whose boredom was as evident to my eyes as the poppy seeds that lay scattered on the top of my lectern.
“Sir?” A young woman with an earnest countenance raised her hand.
“Yes?”
“How will this be graded?”
The asparagus head, canonized rather more recently than I had foreseen, derives its peculiar powers from the interaction

Project temporarily abandoned 9-3-08—9-5-08

Part Two: “Brash Anemia”

Shareholders, complacent from the long winter, extend their thanks through a third party of dubious affiliation.
“Many thanks, Marc.” Rudrell, chief of the anomalous group, excised the regressive ‘K’ as any good George Carlin fan might.

Placement of the crossfeed determines oncological strategy, and therefore should be made with care.

Who engendered fear in the hearts of the council members? The same, boring fellow that used to pick pumpkins down at the cemetery.

I’m taking an awful chance in picking up my pen again. Nearly a month of failure tends to make one discouraged. Further discouragement is not good. Maybe it’ll be OK though if I allow myself to be a little freer in my writing. I’m going to ignore some of the parameters I’ve laid down for myself since I’m in such a bind at the moment.

If you’ve been wondering whether the drawings that accompany this text are integral to it or are just tacked on for no real reason, let me assure you that the former is, in fact, the case. Since I recognize the weakness of my writing I feel that the addition of the drawings adds value to it.

Rapidly Icelandic, I have no direct experience of the Scandinavian world. Poetically inclined, I speak in dreammush now that all of my ambitions are chiseled on a tombstone.
I thought I remembered when Pringles first appeared on the market, but it turns out that I do not. I do remember the introduction of the Erasermate pen; I had to have one as soon as they came out. What a disappointment.
My only goal now is to fill up seventy sheets of paper so that I can declare this volume of The Procurement Man complete. Then I can moan at liberty.
I don’t have a point. I don’t have a story to tell. My goal is, or rather, was, to write a bunch of short pieces with an absurdist, silly mindset, but I seem to have lost my ability to do so. Maybe my brain is finally decaying as my doctor warned me it might due to the radiation treatments I received about eight or nine years ago. What a life. No circle of friends with whom to discuss anything of an intellectual nature. It wouldn’t matter anyway: I’ve long since drifted away from anything rapidly Icelandic.

Five discontinuous mice face the uncertain leagues like cheap plastic bowling pins at the end of the hall in the little trailer, pink and brown. Discourteous naïf.
“I like it when you turn the television up so loud that I can hear it above the sound of music in my headphones. That’s mighty pleasing.”

Too much groping; not enough moping.

It whistles because it cannot slur.

Master Tiger Suit

Cothylwy was waiting for Tamza Wung when he emerged from the tidily ordered forest.
“Didn’t expect to see me, did you?” She asked on seeing his look of surprise.
“No, in truth, I did not.” Wung replied. He glanced at the red brick castle in the distance behind Cothylwy. “What are you doing here?” He asked.
“You were hoping to escape me, weren’t you?” The woman, dressed in black bell-bottom trousers and a light blue oxford shirt, had her arms folded haughtily.
“Escape you? No, I…” Wung fumbled for the proper words. “What are you doing here, Cothylwy? What I mean is, how did you get here? I thought that the only way was through…”
“There’s more than one way to the land of low expectations.” Gifford McCufford said loudly, slipping past Wung. He smiled at Cothylwy as he passed her as well, heading in the direction of the castle. “Good day, ma’am.” He said.
“I met that man on my way here.” Wung pointed at the short fellow’s back.
“He’s right,” Cothylwy spared a glance at McCufford. “But I wouldn’t call this the land of low expectations. Except when you’re around.” She glared at Wung.
“Have it your way, Cothylwy.” Wung threw up his hands. “I’m glad to see you again, even if you are mad at me, but I’ve got things to do.” He started walking, following the beaten dirt path that led towards the horizon.
“Like what?” Cothylwy asked. Now she was behind Wung, following him.
Wung said nothing. His eyes were on McCufford’s back.
High up in the castle Tate the Impetuous watched the figures of McCufford, Tamza Wung, and Cothylwy moving closer.
“Visitors.” He called out to the uniformed flunky across the room. “Came out of the southern woods. Two men and a woman.” He rubbed his chin. “The woman looks familiar. Bring me your binoculars.” He ordered the man in the uniform. Upon receiving the binoculars, he put them to his eyes and focused on Cothylwy. “Yes.” He said. “I’ve seen her before. But where?”
“May I look, sir?” The other man asked.
“Go ahead.”
“She’s an actress.” The man pronounced, having taken a look. “She used to be on that TV show ‘Graveyard Multiplex,’ but it’s been cancelled.”

A Seat Higher Than it is Tall

Gifford McCufford, unlike Tamza Wung and Cothylwy, carried a card that entitled him to enter the castle. He did so now, leaving Wung to curse him audibly at being thus stymied.
“Long trip?” Davison, a castle employee, asked McCufford as the latter replaced his entry card in his wallet.
“And getting longer.” McCufford removed his hat and reached inside it. He pulled out the head of another man, an imaginary man named Jerry Lancaster. On Jerry’s hand was a puppet named Dr. Fungrous. This last individual acknowledged Davison’s presence with a nod and proceeded to fit a key into the mouth of Gifford McCufford. Turning the key activated a mechanism that made the short man with the red beard collapse to the ground like an empty sock, which in essence he was. As he collapsed he revealed the animating foot within. That foot is me, to quote the bad guy from one of my favorite movies.
“Thank you, Dr. Fungrous.” I said. “Jerry, are you having trouble getting out of there?” I asked, for Jerry’s upper half still protruded from the hat.
“Yes, could you give me a hand, please?”
I did so. I then smiled at Davison.
“A nifty ruse, eh?” I asked.
“It sure is, sir.” Agreed the delighted man.
“Surely.” I corrected. “It surely is.”
“Surely, yes, sir.”
I picked up the hat from which Jerry had been released and reached inside it. Pinching the interior of the crown, I inverted the hat, revealing it to be my own hat, the Gearender. I slapped it into shape and put it on my head. I smiled at Davison again.
“Sir?” The man addressed me.
“Yes?”
“They say you are finally coming to grips with your identity.”
“Do they?” I laughed. “Lucky for you, I guess.” I pointed at the staircase that led to the upper levels of the castle. “Come on, Jerry.”
“Come on, Dr. Fungrous.” Jerry gestured to the puppet.
“I’m just along for the ride.” The brilliant theoretician sighed.

Molting Sharply

Dr. Fungrous placed the appropriate cube into the audiovisual display unit.
“This is the television program you requested.” He said.
“Ah yes, ‘Graveyard Multiplex.’” I nodded with satisfaction.
“Now, I want to warn you,” The balding, bespectacled puppet said as the opening credits of the show began to unwind before me, “That this program is one of unfettered mediocrity.”
“I understand.” I gestured with a miniature lamp. “Let me watch.”
A prominent attorney with the fictional company of Flounder, Flipp, and Flossbinder, Blankete Ramdacter was under an injunction from his elderly client Major Cruddlimp to safeguard the fortunes of Kentucky Fried Lungfish, the major’s contribution to the greater food service industry. Ramdacter’s daughter, China Parakeet (played by the actress Cothylwy), was, unknown to the super-powered lawyer, working at the Kentucky Fried Lungfish franchise in the small town of Fragrant Privies in order to obtain background material for her novel-in-progress, How I Smashed the Imperialist State. When she began a sexual relationship with Russ, the redneck gun dealer who manned the biscuit machine at the restaurant, I announced that I had had enough.
“Sir,” Said Dr. Fungrous, “The miniature lamp.” He pointed to the object in my hand that I was on the point of marching out of the room with.
I agitatedly looked about for a place to throw the lamp as I stood in the doorway, but finally settled on handing it to Davison, who sat innocently in a beanbag chair just to my right.
“Thank you, sir.” He said, taking the lamp.
“Carry on.” I instructed, lifting one mighty, over-sized Wellington after another towards the room at the other end of the hallway.
“All is of utter inconsequence.” I complained to Todd Melker upon finding him in the room.
“But at least it isn’t mediocre.” He pointed out.
I snorted.
“It’s too obscure to be mediocre.”
“Maybe this will cheer you up.” Melker suggested, passing me a stuffed octopus toy with features much like our friend Tamza Wung.

Manfred Discovered Just How Hot It Is

As usual, Manfred had worn his special vest with the extra pockets. Although summer was nearly over, it was still hot. Mrs. Soulville had explained that the heat was due to the unique combination of the northern hemisphere being tilted towards the sun and the fires of Hell reaching into every household through the TV. Manfred didn’t know whether he believed Mrs. Soulville, but he could not question the heat. It was a fact. Yet he did not take off his vest.
“I have to have it.” He told Comrade Minsk. “I have no other way of carrying all the various items necessary to my daily duties.”
“You are indeed fortunate.” Comrade Minsk congratulated Manfred. “It is not every Tom, Dick, and Harry who is permitted so many diversionary responsibilities.”
“Harry was the infamous third Smothers brother.” Dr. Fungrous made comment.
“I thought they were both hairy.” Jerry observed. I quickly silenced him with a shushing sound, though I did not actually say the word “shush.”
“Is someone watching us?” Manfred wondered aloud, jerking his head towards the enclosed catwalk overhead.
“Someone is always watching.” Comrade Minsk sagely replied.
“You two need to keep moving.” Mrs. Soulville called from the doorway that led to the Room of Love Trees. Her homemade dress dragged the floor. One could only see her fuzzy bedroom slippers when she stumbled.
After she had retreated, Manfred assured Comrade Minsky of her relative innocuousness.
“She has no real authority.” He said. He unzippered one of the pockets on his upper left breast and withdrew a small toy snake.
“What will you do with that?” Comrade Minsk asked. His eyes were as wide open as Manfred had ever seen on the other man. Riveted they were on the toy.
“I’m going to make sure that the old lady keeps moving.” Manfred, whose vest bore the legend, “Mr. Bad-Ass” embroidered on the back, intoned menacingly, but not without humor.
My hand strayed to the thermal controls.
“No, Toadsgoboad!” Dr. Fungrous begged. “The cyclonic average could be affected!”
I glanced up guiltily; my fingers were already on their way to my mouth.

Time for the Duodonic Thruster

Although the drawing of straight lines was not his forte, Tamza Wung had decided to draw up the plans for the new duodonic thruster himself. The first objection to this decision came from Buster Beggins, the pianist with the old Roger Crowfist quartet.
“Tamza,” He managed to rasp through a mouthful of toasted hemp seeds, “The creation of blueprints isn’t like cartooning: the ability to draw straight lines is essential.”
“Buster,” Wung countered, a look of saint-like patience on his big head, “I have it on the authority of an old man at the museum that artists who cannot draw straight lines are not to be respected. Therefore, it is in the realm of technical drawing that this so-called skill is overvalued.” He smiled and shook his head. “Silly man.”
Buster Beggins held up his hands.
“I’m an artist myself, Tamza. I know what I’m talking about.” He said plaintively. One could see the tears beginning to fill the man’s eyes as the strong feelings he had for aesthetics welled up within him.
Wung looked away, embarrassed.
“The duodonic thruster…” He muttered.
“The duodonic thruster is to be designed and constructed by Endolian Mustard Canneries, Inc.” A cold, hard voice snapped.
Both Wung and Beggins looked up to see Marshall Ohio entering the room.
“Impossible.” Wung expostulated. He even loosed a fleck or two of spittle from his oversized, wrinkly lips, so great was his incredulity. “How will quality control be assured?”
“The notary public has been granted investigative and regulatory powers over such matters.” Marshall Ohio said as he took his seat in the official marshall’s chair at the center of the C-shaped table.
“Well, damn.” Wung sounded defeated, but resigned as he glanced at Beggins.
“Don’t be so downhearted.” The pianist urged his colleague. “No duodonic thruster can take the place of a good woman.”
Tamza Wung burst into tears.

Squanto Pushed the Coffee Back

At the second annual feast of gratitude that the colonists held, their guests the Indians were intrigued by the hot beverage on offer.
“It is called coffee.” Captain Bravefellow told Squanto, the Indian who served as translator for the rest of his tribesmen. “It has stimulating properties, which, upon ingesting, enable one to meet one’s daily chores with much energy, praise be to God.”
Squanto rubbed his big nose and stared at the surface of the rudely constructed picnic table at which he sat, considering how best to translate this explanation.
“He says it’s called coffee.” He began, speaking in the tongue of his birth. “Apparently, it’s some kind of drug. I wouldn’t touch it if I were you.”
Apchuk and Talachu, the two Indians closest to Squanto, nodded in acknowledgement and turned their attention to the stuffing and cranberry-flavored gelatin mass, the latter of which seemed vaguely disconcerting to them.
“They don’t like the coffee.” Chastitiy Goodwoman worried to her husband, Captain Nils Goodwoman.
“Tell them we have saccharine and non-dairy creamer!” The Reverend John Stalewort suggested.
Before any further actions could be taken, the sound of cannon fire boomed in the small bay just behind the gathered celebrants.
“The French!” Someone shouted as everyone turned to look.
“No, I think it’s the Spanish!” Another cried on seeing the encroaching ship.
“The Spanish don’t have little flower things on their flag!”
“What do they have?”
“I don’t know! Does anyone know what the Spanish flag looks like?”
As memories were consulted and muskets loaded, a small boat was lowered from the larger and its occupants began rowing towards the shore. As the male colonists advanced to meet the boat, the Indians silently retreated until they stood once more inside the reassuring confines of the forest.
“What is happening, Squanto?” Apchuk asked.
“The men in the small boat are attired in strange dress. They bear many crates.” The educated Indian peered hard at the scene. “And a large banner with English words. It says… ‘Drink Coca-Cola.’”

I Tried to Talk Her Out of It

My companions, Jerry Lancaster, the imaginary man; and Dr. Fungrous, the puppet; and I were in straitened circumstances during the final leg of our journey across the Getz Wastes. I had nothing more than peanut butter and saltines to eat. Fortunately, neither Jerry nor Dr. Fungrous required what I may term “real food” to survive. Jerry subsists almost entirely on ethereal paste, along with an occasional bag of subduodonic platelets. Dr. Fungrous is content with periodic administration of matriculation oil. However, all of us felt the lack of civilized entertainment deep down in the metaphoric places of sensitivity within us.
“I’ll die if I don’t see ‘Mr. Turd’s Enduring Verities’ soon.” Jerry wailed. We sat glumly on the solar raft that carried us leisurely across the endless miles of white, hard-packed earth. I had drawn faces on two of my saltines and was making them dance together, exchanging pleasantries. With a sigh, I dropped the two back into the envelope in which they slept.
“I’d be satisfied with a detective novel.” I admitted.
“Oh, Toadsgoboad!” Dr. Fungrous remonstrated. “We’re not that bad off!”
“Really?” I huffed. “Don’t pretend you don’t crave even the most elementary of scientific journals. Tell the truth: you’d devour a copy of Jewel Case Technology, wouldn’t you?”
“I refuse to countenance such a suggestion with anything approaching consideration.” Dr. Fungrous did not look at me as he said this. He merely stared at the nebulous shapes on the horizon, shapes that tantalizingly evoked images of crabs, spacecraft, and jellyfish.
“Toadsgoboad,” Jerry cautiously addressed me. “Isn’t that a woman?” He pointed somewhere in the distance.
“Where?” I asked, not expecting anything more than vague silhouettes.
“There.” He put his head against mine and pointed again.
“I see it too.” Dr. Fungrous concurred.
“Now, dammit,” I swore, “That looks like Imogene Schuldd.”
“Who?” Jerry demanded.
“You probably know her better as Cothylwy.” I reiterated. To my dismay, Jerry spoke in glowing terms of the mediocre show Imogene used to be on.

The Branch Manager’s Response

The letter arrived in a large envelope made of eelskin, the addressee’s name written in gold ink. Parson, sickly in his rimless glasses and bowtie, delivered it to the branch manager, Mr. Gooberstein, immediately on its receipt.
“That gold ink is hard to read against the brown of the leather.” Parsons commented, trying to drag out his stay in Gooberstein’s office long enough to learn of the letter’s contents. “It is leather, isn’t it?”
Gooberstein glanced up at Parsons. He held the letter in one hand, the envelope in the other. He rubbed his thumb and index finger against the envelope.
“Eelskin.” He decided, sounding much like James Mason in an oceanographic role. “That will be all, Parsons.” Gooberstein watched the younger man leave the room and returned his attention to the letter.
Downstairs Parsons relieved his frustration by ordering one of the new girls to re-count her till. He poured a cup of coffee and delivered himself of an impromptu lecture on the importance of exactitude in all tasks connected with money. He broke off when he saw Mrs. Welsh, Gooberstein’s secretary, descending the stairs with a large manila envelope.
“Is that from Mr. Gooberstein?” He almost shouted.
Mrs. Welsh stared at him for a moment.
“Yes.” She said.
“It’s to be mailed?” Parsons put down his coffee. “I can take it to the mail drop for you.”
Mrs. Welsh looked down at Parson’s shoes and up at his receding hairline.
“If you really want to.” She said, surrendering the envelope wonderingly.
“No trouble at all.” Insisted Parsons, showing his teeth, all crowded together like spectators at a parade.
Outside on the sidewalk Parsons held the envelope up to the light of the sun, trying to see into its mysteries. As he slowly made his way to the mailbox he tested the seal. Maybe it would come open with only a hint of force. He was nearly determined to conceal the envelope and take it home with him when herealized that he had made it to the box and that there stood the mailman.
“Nice day, sir.” Said the uniformed man as he emptied the box into his bag.
“Yeah.” Parsons agreed.

Data Analysis in the Day of the Penny

“How long ago was Gail’s sister fired?” Wondered Tamza Wung.
Purvis, the only other person in the room and therefore the only person to whom Wung’s question could have been addressed, mused for a moment.
“I can’t remember. It was this year, wasn’t it?” He said, finger against his lips.
“Seems like it,” Said Wung, “But I can’t tell. Ever since this new century got under way I can’t seem to keep track of the time flying by.”
“That’s just you getting older.” Purvis corrected his fellow occupant gently. His lips were thinner than Wung’s and not nearly as wrinkly. In addition, his head was smaller in proportion to his body, approaching the ideal for such relative parts. As you know, Wung’s head would be considered much too large for his body to students of supposedly ideal forms such as Michelangelo’s statue of David. Would that Sir Kenneth Clark were here to advise us on these matters!
Tamza Wung stared at Purvis, considering either the latter’s response or his tiny, traditionally attractive head. Did females flock to such an elfin cranium? Was it that obvious that he was getting older? These questions, potential subjects for debate though they might be, seemed to dissipate from Wung’s countenance: he appeared to lapse into thoughtlessness as he continued to merely stare.
Eventually Purvis waved his hand before Wung’s eyes.
“Don’t go senile on me yet.” He joked.
Wung blinked several times and sat up as straight as he could in his beanbag chair.
“Do you happen to know what ever happened to her?” He asked Purvis.
“No idea. Why?”
“Just wondering. I liked her.”
“Liked her? She was ugly.”
Wung leaned forward.
“We can’t all have perfect features, smoothly functioning limbs, cute little heads!” He sad sharply, though he had reined in his temper to a degree that would have shocked those who knew him ten years before. His long tutelage under Lord Fidzmus had given him great self-control.

The Disused Penguin

“What’s this?” Ken Milligram asked his host and guide, the painter Don Melker. He was pointing to an ornately framed painting of a penguin, executed in soft tempera.
“That,” Melker replied, removing his pipe from his mouth, “Is the original version of the Van Pleskin penguin.”
The painting hung on a short, wood-paneled corner wall between two wings of Melker’s cavernous private warehouse. The two men stood looking up at it from a narrow pathway through the accumulated piles of artifacts, the detritus of a long and productive career in the arts.
“The symbol for their line of naval jellies and gum pastes?” Milligram asked.
“Exactly. I was asked to submit a design and this is what I came up with.” He gestured with his pipe. “They nearly took it, too. But at the last second I was informed they were going with a different artist. I think you can adequately judge which of the two was the better design.”
“It’s a damn shame.” Milligram declared, wedging himself between two stacks of cardboard boxes full of drawings to get a closer look.
“Now, here it hangs, a piece of fine art by default.” Melker’s eye was caught by an assemblage of wooden doodads he hadn’t seen in years. As Milligram extricated himself from the boxes, Melker directed his attention to the sculpture. “Look at that.” He said with a contemptuous chuckle. He knew how crappy it was.
“Mr. Melker!” A voice called from the stairs on the other side of the warehouse that led up to the workshops. It was old Savage, the handyman.
“What?” Melker called back.
“There’s a sheriff’s deputy here to see you!”
“Christ.” Muttered Melker. He told Milligram, “Probably here to serve me with a subpoena regarding that murder I’m supposed to have ‘witnessed.’ I’ll be right back.” He sighed. He called out to Savage again, saying to tell the deputy he would be there as fast as he could, and then set off through the maze of aesthetic junk.
Ken Milligram waited until Melke was out of sight before he began stuffing his pockets with small objects.

Scattered Syrup Saucer

Panda Shrandell and Clam Tadley, lately deposited in the woods by charitable balloonists in the employ of Citizen Caffeine, spent nearly a day in finding the warped tree that was the orientation marker on their map. After that, however, it was a relatively simple matter to follow the map’s directions to the site of the downed saucer. It was mid-morning when they entered the clearing.
“How long has this been here?” Tadley asked as they approached the rusted and overgrown wreckage.
“About two years.” Shrandell answered. He folded the map, put it in the inner pocket of his adventurer’s vest, and took out the tiny digital camera provided him by the editor of Gunkumus magazine.
“I would have thought more, based on the growth of these honeysuckles.”
“Speculate on your own time.” Shrandell advised. “We’re here to document.” He quickly exhausted the remaining space on the camera’s data card.
“I’ll have to delete some of the pictures we took previously.” He said and began to review those earlier pictures on the camera’s miniscule viewing screen. Meanwhile, Tadley had put on a pair of gardening gloves and begun ripping away the vines that obscured the saucer’s rusted hull.
“Did you want to keep this picture of the waitress?” Shrandell called to Tadley.
“What? That waitress?” Tadley looked up from his labor. “Yeah. Got to keep that. She was nice.”
“Cute, too.” Shrandell added.
“You didn’t think so at the time.” Tadley pointed out.
“Well, digital photography has a way of revealing more than the eye can see on first perusal.” He continued to review. “What about this picture of the dog wearing the bandanna?”
“Let me see that.” Tadley stepped through the brush to Shrandell’s side.
“How can you make anything out on that tiny screen?” He asked.
If Shrandell had an answer it was interrupted by the appearance of the Ones Who Watch. Preceded by only a few seconds’ worth of dramatic music, they stepped down from their invisible platform and stood menacingly before the two men, fists on hips, legs akimbo.

Gosling Approximate Fiasco

In place of a battery the Lohanalyzer used a gosling.
“Due to the uniquely conductive nature of the gosling’s down.” Explained Schaftenlick, chief of research on the project.
“When slicked down with Van Pleskin’s naval jelly #5.” Added Eiremus, an old schoolmate of Schaftenlick’s, whom the latter had hired out of pity.
“Yes.” Schaftenlick glanced at Eiremus. “Yes, the conductivity of the down does not manifest itself until the transducive medium has been introduced.”
The journalists gathered to witness the first public display of the Lohanalyzer seemed more interested in the gosling inside the transparent box attached to the device than in Schaftenlick’s words.
“What’s the baby goose’s name?” Asked Arnold Limber, a reporter with the Lee Sowko-owned Mall City Detachment.
“Gosling.” Corrected Eiremus. “And it doesn’t have a name.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Schaftenlick agreed, turning a scowl on the men from the press. Age had given him bristling brows to compensate for the diminution of his natural force. “Gentlemen, we don’t allow ourselves to develop emotional responses to the equipment. This is science.”
“But surely you must have some means of distinguishing this gosling from the others in your project.”
Schaftenlick gaped at his old friend beside him, his tongue spilling out involuntarily. Eiremus spoke up.
“This particular gosling is #73.” He said. The journalists each wrote the number down. “When it dies, as it inevitably will, it will be replaced by #74. It’s as simple as that.”
“Is #73 in any pain?” Asked a fat man with Fritters, the transatlantic news agency.” Again Schaftenlick gaped at Eiremus, flabbergasted at the general thrust of the questioning.
After the press conference had ended and the Lohanalyzer has performed as expected, the two scientists tarried over the remains of the coconut cake that had been on offer for the occasion.
“Eiremus,” Schaftenlick began, liking his knobby fingers, “I must confess something. I had had it in mind to fire you. But your performance today had convinced me otherwise.”

A Disturbing Green Color

As an experiment, Manfred had exchanged the vest he usually wore for a shirt such as a health care professional might wear. My staff informs me this particular kind of clothing is called “scrubs,” but I don’t feel comfortable using this term, as I am referring only to the shirt portion of the ensemble. As the word “scrubs” is nominally plural and I am only referring to a shirt, it seems wrong to say something like, “He was wearing his scrubs,” when the man in fact was only wearing the shirt and not the pants.
This shirt that Manfred wore was equipped with two large breast pockets and a pouch-like pocket across the belly divided into segments (or segmented into divisions, as you prefer). He had foregone the cutesy patterns these shirts sometimes come in, covered in pandas dressed as physicians or phrases like, “Jesus Wants You to Get Well!” in favor of a shirt in solid green.
“Unfortunately,” Comrade Minsk admitted under close questioning by the Subpecuniary Committee, “This green that he chose was of a most disturbing shade. Or tint. I am unfamiliar with the distinction.”
“What was so disturbing about it?” Committee member Buster Beggins asked.
“Yes, that’s what I’d like to know too.” Captain Bravefellow chimed in. He had laid aside his tall hat with the buckled band in deference to the dignity of these proceedings, but kept an eye on it throughout. Even now he glanced over at the hat where it lay next to Beggins’ cane and Eliza Welkin’s artificial miniature emu. Should one of the children try to snatch it he was ready for them, a paper bag full of unshelled pecans on the floor between his feet.
“Well, committee members,” Comrade Minsk began haltingly, twisting his gardening gloves nervously in his big hands, “It reminded me of the color of the public pool in the little town of my childhood.”
“Yes?” Eliza Welkin prompted. “And why was this reminder disturbing to you?”
Comrade Minsk hesitated, groping for words to express his loathing of the sickly pale green.
“Ms. Welkin, I think we need not delve into psychology here.” Beggins interrupted. “After all, this is merely a preliminary hearing.”

Bogged Down by Relativist Attitudes

The one in the devil horns offered the one in the ten-gallon hat a fat-free yogurt from his seemingly inexhaustible stock of refreshments. Ten-gallon hat refused with a wave of his hand. All of his attention was on the writing of a complaint about the employment of Legget Crouch at the Chemistry Building. He had tried warning the building’s superintendent about Crouch’s behavioral problems and emotional instability, but had not received the satisfaction of seeing his concerns taken seriously.
“It is not for us to judge others.” The superintendent had said illogically, frustratingly.
“At least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing they’ll have this on file.” Ten-gallon hat told his wife, who had stopped by to drop off a whole strawberry cake. “With frosting.” Ten-gallon hat noted greedily.
“How do you know they won’t just throw it in the trash?” Mrs. Ten-gallon hat asked her husband for assurances.
“Martha,” Ten-gallon hat said patiently, more patiently than he would have had they been in the privacy of their home, “They’re legally obligated to keep all correspondence for a year. That’s something I learned while I was working at the radio station.” He took a piece of the cake and ate it, showing his delight with all the pantomimic skill of a great actor, partially to mollify any hurt feelings and also because he truly did appreciate his wife’s bringing the cake.
After she had left, to return to the small outbuilding behind their house where she kept her sewing machine, the one in the devil horns approached Ten-gallon hat.
“So, you’ll eat your wife’s highly caloric strawberry cake, but you won’t eat my fat-free yogurt?” Devil horns seemed to demand an explanation.
He got none.
Ten-gallon hat signed his name to his letter of complaint with an angry flourish and got up from the table, folding the letter. As he exited the lunchroom without a glance at Devil horns, the latter called out to him,
“The Rocky Horror Picture Show is playing at the Collegiate Theater this Saturday! Are you going?”

Twenty Sailors Double Their Enjoyment

Tamza Wung put the fancy binoculars to his eyes.
“How many men on board the Twisted Intaglio?” He asked.
“Forty-eight.” Hollinshead replied. “That’s total. What the proportion of officers to crew is I don’t know.”
“And we counted twenty men getting off the boat.”
“Right.”
“How many of those do you think were officers?” Wung handed the binoculars back to Hollinshead. The latter fitted the plastic caps back over the lenses and put the whole thing carefully back in its case. He always made certain to do this. Many years ago his father had lost the protective caps to a pair of binoculars that Hollinshead had owned as a boy. What was even more irksome was the fact that his father had only borrowed the binoculars to look important at a football game he had no actual interest in in the first place.
Hollinshead shook off the memory that had once again seized him.
“We have no way of knowing,” He said, “But probably none. Most likely, all those who were granted shore leave are members of the crew.”
Wung stared at their meager supply of explosives as he mused on these facts. He glanced back at the lights of the city behind them. What mischief would those twenty men get up during their leave?
Of course, the twenty sailors were not monolithic in their tastes. They did not stay together in one group as they visited the city’s various attractions. In fact, two of the sailors had no interest in the bars and whorehouses their fellows panted after. These two, Doug Amelgo and Joe Pinswap, headed straight for the nearest branch of the public library.
“Where is your biography section?” Amelgo asked the pretty young woman behind the front desk. He and Pinswap followed her directions and without too much effort found what they were looking for: a half-dozen volumes on the life of Lord Fidzmus. They took these to a table and began combing through them.
“Aha!” Amelgo hissed in triumph. He turned the open book to his mate.
“‘Although not born to the nobility, Fidzmus achieved distinction through his art.’” He read aloud. Pinswap, however, was still not convinced.

I Restore Color to the Cheeks

It was in the early fall that I received a note from my kinsman the Fra of Sparklerama reading either, “The flies are more than usually aggressive this year,” or, “The importance of the vitamin content of one’s food has been overstated,” depending on how one held the note.
“This is an example of the Fra’s ambiguous handwriting.” I said, handing the note to Jerry, who, for lack of anything better to say, replied that he was a fan of automatic writing.
Dr. Fungrous said nothing, having been shut away in my valise.
I carefully folded the note small enough to fit into a plastic sleeve in the confines of my wallet.
“What does the note mean, though?” Jerry asked me to help him out.
“It means we are summoned to Sparklerama. Cheer up, Jerry; good times await us.”
“You’re never down, are you?”
“Not for long.” I smiled, flashing my eyes and hefting the valise. “Oh, here. Hold out your hand.” I opened the valise and fished out Dr. Fungrous, narrowly avoiding poking my fingers on the steeple of a stolen church. I placed Dr. Fungrous on Jerry’s outstretched hand. The puppet yawned indulgently.
“A trip?” He asked, seeing our preparations. “Where to?”
“Sparklerama.” Jerry told him.
“In the Fifth Integument.” Dr. Fungrous mused. His knowledge of geography is extensive.
“Follow me.” I instructed, as is my wont, opening a closet and stepping inside.
Our journey to Sparklerama took nearly a week. This is not the place for a detailed recapitulation of our adventures along the way. Be content with my promise that nothing of an untoward nature occurred and that any private dwellings entered or ransacked during this time were violated only to some good purpose. I have a sworn statement from Dr. Fungrous on file somewhere to the effect that these purposes included valid scientific research.
Thus it was that we stepped out of a modified Buick one Friday morning to find ourselves in Sparklerama, a tiny principality in the Fifth Integument, an integument only one away from the first, oddly enough.

I Coordinate the Relief Effort

It took me a long time to figure out what was going on. This was a recurring theme in my life and it boiled down to my not being curious about what I was supposed to be curious about. Often this led me to the understanding of facts outside the experience of my peers, but as often it left me ignorant of commonplaces that others took for granted. In this instance I was far more interested in exploring the Museum of the Old PBS than I was in assisting with the distribution of food and blankets to the needy.
“Look, it’s the old PBS logo!” I cried, heedless of the admonitory looks of the museum’s staff.
“They’ve allowed some two hundred refugees to use the museum’s storeroom as temporary shelter.” Jerry informed me.
“I hope they don’t break anything.” I muttered as I wandered into a full size reproduction of the Land of Make Believe. “Or,” I added, stifling a “God forbid,” “steal anything.”
The museum’s director’s bald head appeared behind one of the encircling walls. He stepped around a corner and approached.
“Mr. Toadsgoboad, it is an honor, sir, a great honor!” He shook my hand warmly.
“You hear that, Jerry?” I raised an inquiring eyebrow at my imaginary friend.
“Would that I were able to show you some of the more esoteric artifacts,” the director continued, “But, alas, they are in the storeroom and, with our poor, unfortunate guests in residence, it would be most difficult to get unimpeded access.”
“Do you have anything related to the presentations of Kabuki that used to be on PBS in the seventies?” I asked eagerly.
The director frowned as he thought.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” He said.
“Or that yoga show.” I tried again. So many memories to explore.
“Mr. Director,” A young man appeared from inside X the Owl’s tree, “We have a situation developing downstairs.” He sounded fearful.
“Ah, the refugees!” I gasped. “My friends, I’ll handle this. Jerry,” I called as I headed for the stairs, “Bring the Oreos.”


Tamza Wung Eats a Sandwich

Instead of purchasing something out of one of the vending machines, Tamza Wung opened a much used paper sack and from it withdrew a plastic baggie containing an egg salad sandwich.
“And not just egg salad,” Wung told his tablemate, Mr. Sorenson, “But sliced tomatoes and black pepper on toasted whole wheat.”
“I would imagine that your bread isn’t quite as crisp now after hours in the bag as it was directly out of the toaster.” Mr. Sorenson observed. His own lunch consisted of a hamburger from the refrigerated vending machine, heated in one of the microwave ovens the Institute had thoughtfully provided.
“Yes, but that’s one of the little inconveniences of life that we must endure.” Wung made ritual obeisance to his god before eating. He took out a small idol from a breast pocket of his “ranger” vest and placed it on the table before him. He clapped his hands twice and said the magic words, “Scriolto voltno veltnim.” Now he was free to eat.
“You must endure.” Mr. Sorenson corrected the other man as he held up his partially eaten hamburger. “I have a hot meal.”
“Cow meat.” Wung dismissed Mr. Sorenson’s claims to a superior experience.
“Hmm.” Mr. Sorenson made a sound of contemplation. “You’re no vegan. What exactly is your religion?”
“Well, it has nothing to do with my food choices.” Wung made clear. “I am a Circumbobologist. That’s a…” He tried to think of how to explain.
“It’s an offshoot of the Intentionalist Church of the Primary Awareness. Right?” Mr. Sorenson pushed the last bite of his hamburger into his bearded face.
“Well, not an offshoot in the sense of a splinter group. More of a select subset of the main organization.” Wung had begun eating his sandwich. He found the bread chewier than he expected, but of course he said nothing to Mr. Sorenson about this.
“Are you barred from looking at pornography?” The bearded man asked, reaching into his briefcase.
“Not that I’m aware of.” Wung replied curiously. Mr. Sorenson handed him a copy of the March 1971 issue of Melonmaster, containing an interview with noted breast aficionado Gordon Parks.

Comrade Minsk and the Concrete Goose

Immediately following the conclusion of the televised presentation of Todd Melker’s Undersea World, Comrade Minsk exited his simple domicile and walked out into the commons behind the apartment building. He looked up at the stars, happy at how cool the nights were becoming. He hated summer.
Having tried and failed to identify even a single star, Comrade Minsk turned to go back inside. He caught sight of the small garden some of the young married couples in the building kept and decided to take a look. There would probably be nothing but cabbages at this time of year, he thought. How stunned he was to see the large concrete goose standing in the middle of the tilled earth!
“Is it a goose?” He asked himself. “Or,” He wondered with his keen mind for intrigue, “Is it a swan?” He ran his hands over the cold concrete, concluding, based on his training in the engineering arts, that the object had been cast using the Fuldio method.
“Too bad I became a food systems analyst.” He thought bitterly, cursing himself the next moment. “I mustn’t let my emotions control me.”
“There’s someone down there with the goose.” Hollinshead looked out the window of the apartment he and Mr. Sorenson had appropriated for the duration of their assignment.
“Who?” Mr. Sorenson demanded with an accurate approximation of concern in his voice. He roughly folded the sports section of the local paper and tossed it aside to flutter messily to the floor as he rose from his seat in some old woman’s green easy chair.
“Can’t tell.” Hollinshead replied.
“Better to kill him just in case.” Mr. Sorenson sounded grim, determined. His nickname among the brotherhood wasn’t “Dartmouth” for nothing.
Hollinshead turned from the window angrily. “It might be Mrs. Quack!” He snapped.
“If it is, then there’ll be no problem. I can give her the data cube after she has verified her identity.”
Hollinshead tried to find fault in Mr. Sorenson’s words, but couldn’t. He knew the man made no sense, but something was fogging his own ability to think. Could it be the curse of the concrete goose after all? He shuddered as he dumbly watched Mr. Sorenson remove the paralyzer cone from its case.

The Failure of the Animated Grisaille

“Tommy,” Purvis was emphatic, “The kids aren’t ready for a black and white cartoon!”
“I hardly think you have the all-encompassing perception to know what ‘the kids’ are ready for. And don’t call me ‘Tommy.’” The man’s name was Thomas. Someone he had recklessly made friends with years ago, back when he was but an upholstery technician with the studio, had called him ‘Tommy’ in front of a group of people one day and ever since then the word ‘Tommy’ had cropped up like the occasional wild onion in an otherwise perfectly manicured lawn.
Purvis let the man’s latter remonstrance pass without comment. He sighed, building up strength to make his argument. Fate, however, in the shape of the normally silent Grover Archway, stepped in.
“I think that is precisely the point, Purvis.” Said Archway. “This program will not be specifically targeted to ‘kids.’ Certainly there won’t be anything that will be overtly objectionable to the parents or guardians of said ‘kids,’ but the subject material will necessarily be geared to a more intellectually mature audience.”
With this unassailable mouthful all further obstacles to the project were swept aside. “The Adventures of Boyd Stomie” was cleared for production.
To give you an example of what the show was about, the first episode dealt with the arrival of government troubleshooter Boyd Stomie and his highly trained team at the site of an intergalactic Jazz festival.
“The Fra of Sparklerama is here.” Stomie, voiced by Rod “Stringbean” Gibbler, growled. “I can smell him.”
“Should I tell Boyd I farted?” The wacky Melvin whispered to “Doubletime” Jones. The latter character, voiced by an aging Mr. T, said nothing in response. He merely polished his mechanical hand with an old Earth, Wind, and Fire t-shirt.
Some have argued that it was not the black and white format that led to the show’s poor ratings and subsequent cancellation, but the lack of music. However, as my sister pointed out in her on-line column, “Speaking for My Generation,”
“Cartoons are supposed to be in color. Everyone knows that!”
One lasting consequence of the show is the relatively high asking price for “Boyd Stomie”-related merchandise (toys, pajamas, Pez dispensers, etc.).

The Story of the Letter ‘B’

Our modern letter ‘B’ is descended from the ancient Sumerian pictogram for the word-concept of “stranger:” a crude drawing of an anthropomorphic fish in a rowboat, pulling at the oars with his little, ill-suited fins. You can just make out a smile on his face. It is conjectured by leading psycho-linguists that this smile is a smug one, expressing his self-satisfaction at having attained superiority over his fellow fish. In a like manner, the Sumerians are saying through their script that they are a proud people, proud at having achieved eminence over their primitive forebears.
Time passed and this pictogram became streamlined through its use as a symbol on barrels of pine resin floated up the coast from distant Samoa, ultimately mutating into what even one of today’s children would recognize as a ‘B.’ Its place as the second letter in our alphabet was determined at the Council of Livermore in the year 426. In those days a simple plurality was all that was needed for a letter to become the first in line. Were it not for a handful of lazy ‘B’ proponents, who slept late that day and missed the vote, our alphabet would be called the “betalpha.”
The unique shape of the letter ‘B’ has leant itself many times to interpretation as a bee (the insect) with only a few strokes of the artist’s brush. This has proven useful to processors and packagers of honey whose corporate names begin with the letter ‘B.’ Only the other day I was touring the offices of the Belchman Honeyworks and noted a framed letter on the wall from the president of the company expressing his gratitude to the letter ‘B’ for so easily transforming into a bee.
“Gosh.” I said aloud as I read this document. “The letter ‘B’ surely is amazing.”
“I prefer ‘L’ myself,” replied a secretary sitting at her desk a few feet away, “But I guess ‘B’ is alright.”
“‘L?’” I scoffed. “What does ‘L’ stand for? Loser?”
“Well, there’s ‘love.’” The woman began, counting on her index finger.
“‘B’ stands for ‘beauty’ and… ‘Beatles’ and… and…”
“‘Bees.’” She kindly helped me out.
“Yes; ‘bees!’ That’s a good one.”

Something About Gravy

The gravies essential to the proper functioning of the mashed potatoes were those of the so-called “brown” family. Consisting of approximately twenty gravies, the brown family included the unreliable Spanish Rose, a gravy long known for its clear depth of field, as well as its equally strong tendency to break down in sunlight. Of course, this was the only gravy available to Clam Tadley as he began transmitting.
“The mashed potatoes are instant.” Tadley told Roger, his eleven-year-old apprentice. “That’s good. The artificial starching agents in them should help to stabilize the gravy long enough for us to transmit our data.”
“You say ‘should,’ but what you really mean is, you don’t know!” Roger cried. His missed his mama. He couldn’t help it; he loved her. The other boys, those whose mothers had left for the streets of Las Vegas years ago, they could mock him all they liked; they didn’t know. They just didn’t know!
“Now, now, calm down, Roger.” Tadley spoke in the assuring voice of manly authority he had been coached in over the past two months. “The amount of data we have to transmit isn’t that great. We should have it done well before the sun clears the tops of the trees.”
To Roger’s credit, he took a deep breath and forced himself to concentrate as Tadley inserted the heavy gauge wires into the mashed potatoes. This had to be done in a certain way and Roger was keen to learn. He watched as Tadley then poured out a measure of the gravy.
“You know,” Tadley said by way of a distraction, to amuse the boy and help him keep his emotions in check, “Northerners can’t abide the expression, ‘mash the button.’ They prefer to say, ‘press the button.’ I used to joke with a friend of mine from the North that they ought to call mashed potatoes, ‘pressed potatoes.’”
Roger’s mouth fell open.
“My mother’s from the North!” He informed his instructor.
“Roger…” Tadley groped for words, but the boy was already on his feet, running towards the tent.
Turning back to his transmission dish, Tadley found that he had misjudged the starch-to-plasma ratio. He would have to begin again.

John Coltrane Never Sniffed His Fingers

Many years ago Tamza Wung had taken part in a scientific experiment. The experiment, which involved his willingness to deliver painful electric shocks to total strangers, is irrelevant to our discussion. However, in the course of classifying and cataloging Wung prior to the experiment, the graduate students performing the experiment tested him in various ways. One of these tests revealed Wung to be a foetidosoph, or one who enjoys the smell of rot. Wung found this most enlightening, far more so than the knowledge that he was average when it came to hurting others. The label explained to him why he had always enjoyed sniffing at his fingers. Actually, it did not explain so much as give him a foundation on which to begin analyzing and accepting this odd habit. Primarily this was because his foetidosophia was set against another state of mind called steptiphilia, or the love of chemical smells. Thus, in Wung’s mind, there was no “normal” viewpoint regarding smells, only two modes. It was many years before he conceived that there might be a third mindset, one that abhorred all smells. That insight would come only after he had been married for a few years. But that was to happen some time after the events detailed here occurred.
He thought on these things as he sat in the window of a disused office in the old Belchman Honeyworks. Despite his growing awareness of the ubiquity of tiny digital cameras, he had continued to sniff his fingers in public places. One day he would be captured on film in the act and displayed for ridicule throughout the many worlds of the Procurementation, but that was to happen some time after the events detailed here occurred. For now, it was enough that Purvis had not only caught him in the act, but made comment on it.
“Stop doing that.” Purvis begged. “It’s nasty.”
“Sorry. Can’t help it.” Wung put his hand in his lap.
“Can’t help it?” Purvis sounded angered by this response. “People who can’t help it are addicts. You’re not an addict, are you?”
Wung sighed. “No, I’m not an addict.”
As Purvis continued to berate him, it struck Wung to wonder what body part did steptiphiliacs sniff?

The Determination Was Horses

My fear was that I would be thrown from the horse and have my neck broken like Christopher Reeves. No more painting, no more guitar playing, and all subsequent books would have to be dictated. To whom, I had no idea. All efforts at reassuring me were met with good humor, but I remained unconvinced.
“We’ve chosen a particularly gently horse for you.” Lord Fidzmus told me as he patted my mount’s flank.
Indeed, the animal did appear docile. He seemed, in fact, the equine equivalent of an old man who has found that his retirement check isn’t enough to survive on and has been forced to take a job bagging groceries. I wondered how he would manage to carry me all the way to Surplus City.
“I miss my mechanical camel.” I joked, trying to recall exactly why I wasn’t using said conveyance on this trip.
Lord Fidzmus accepted a glass of whiskey from a servant.
“I wish you luck, sir.” He said as he tipped the tasty substance down his throat.
“What’s your horse’s name?” Jerry, mounted on a donkey to my rear, asked.
“Rolute. What’s yours?”
“Mine’s named Nebou and he’s a donkey, not a horse.”
“I know.” I forced a smile. No making a scene in front of Lord Fidzmus and his guests.
The third member of our expedition to Surplus City, Dr. Fungrous, was seated on the vestigial hump of a paraboo, a primitive creature recently discovered in the cluster of closets in between the Intercessory Hills and the Forehead of Proto-Don. He seemed quite happy at the prospect of a journey fraught with uncertainty. His mount ate leaves out of a wooden chest and appeared bored.
Dr. Fungrous was chatting with a lady whom I recognized as a member of the notorious Oculomotility theater company.
“I plan on submitting an account of our trip to the proper scientific journal.” He informed this woman smugly, closing his eyes and pushing up his bottom lip.

Green Conning Tower Emerges from the Soup

The green of the conning tower offset the green of the soup so that together they reminded Budge Samson of his grandmother’s living room.
“What kind of soup is that?” He asked Lug Nutsen, another of Captain Jim’s men.
“Oh, it’s probably split pea.” Nutsen was dismissive. Soup was food for invalids. A big, healthy man ate the chopped flesh of animals stuffed into their own entrails. He wiped his nose with thick, hairy fingers and returned to hauling at the rope.
Budge Samson kept his eyes on the bowl adjacent to the one in which Captain Jim’s Mother’s Folly lightly floated. The conning tower rising from its contents bore a symbol the likes of which he had never seen before.
“It looks like a bacillus.” He reported to Mr. Nathan, in charge of the Mother’s Folly while Captain Jim was in town having his teeth cleaned.
“A bacillus, Mr. Samson?” Mr. Nathan sounded openly skeptical. What sort of submarine-operating organization would choose a bacillus-like symbol for itself?
“A bacillus with four legs.” Samson added.
“I’ll have to take a look.” Mr. Nathan led the way back to the deck, a copy of Cow’s Compendium of Maritime Symbols in his hand.
He and Samson were just stepping into the light of the afternoon sun when Captain Jim boarded the vessel. Smiling proudly, the Captain greeted the two men.
“Gentlemen,” He said, “How goes our crime-fighting commission this day?”
“He’s still goofy from the gas!” Mr. Nathan thought with horror. Aloud, he said, “How many cavities, sir?”
“Just the one.” Captain Jim put his hands on the rail and looked down on the sea of chili below. “How I love this ship.” He muttered.
“Captain Jim,” Samson stepped forward, “We’ve got an unidentified…”
Mr. Nathan interrupted him.
“Perhaps you’d like to lie down, Captain.” He held the book of symbols behind his back. “I’m sure you must feel a little light-headed.” He snapped his fingers at Lug Nutsen and had him escort Captain Jim to his cabin.

Yellow Metal Friday

When asked, Ned Lethargic explained that his band’s music was “Yellow Metal,” an offshoot of Lo-Fi, so he claimed, “with lots of guitar solos.”
“Does the term Yellow indicate some kind of moral cowardice?” Asked a woman reporter straight out of The Doors movie.
“Does it mean an affinity with the Oriental metal scene?” Asked a serious-looking and grave-voiced man from one of the great English universities.
“Is it a reference to Yellow journalism?” Someone else, ill defined in appearance, but sounding much like a Mike Wallace or a Kevin Phillips, asked.
To all of these questions Ned Lethargic merely smiled his enigmatic half-smile and sat there sipping peppermint tea. He could afford to do that, since the press conference was all in his head. As a reporter from Rolling Stone asked him whether the lack of any other members in his band beside himself would pose any particular problems for the upcoming world tour, Dame Shaftburner and Hectus Protor watched from across the room.
“Have you heard his latest album?” Dame Shaftburner asked her companion.
“No. I haven’t heard any of his albums since Bucolic Interlude.” Protor answered. He selected a piece of pickled okra and nibbled at its pointed end.
“He’s probably done ten albums since then.” The lady, well known for her generous patronage of the arts, sought to educate Protor.
“Why does he pretend he’s a band when he’s just a solo artist?”
“It’s all pat of the Yellow Metal aesthetic.”
Ned Lethargic’s band, Sparklerama, had recorded seventeen albums in its brief existence. The latest, Mr. Reactor’s Fuming Silent, was the one that moved the band from a cult sensation to the more nearly mainstream audience of the college crowd. Of course, long-time fans felt the album to minor in comparison to such early classics as My Jealousy Knows No Bounds and Strapping Tape, but their opinions were meaningless to Lethargic. He was after the big money. Soon he would he forty years old. It was time he saw some financial remuneration for his life of obscurity and pain.
Perhaps his parents would finally be pleased.
“I’m proud of you, son.” Ned’s father, Mr. Lethargic, told him over the phone. He made the call from his brother’s camper in the back yard.



Mild-Mannered Duck

This was no crime-fighting duck with an alter ego and a colorful costume. Edgar Fulsome didn’t understand why people couldn’t just accept the fact that he was only what he seemed to be: a mid-level supervisor with the university’s Grounds Management Department. Of course, he knew the reason, much as he didn’t like it and disagreed with it: people thought ducks were inherently funny. This attitude irritated him, but he would never make a scene because of it; he was just too mild-mannered.
On Friday Fulsome arrived at the university about five minutes earlier than usual. He started to pull into his designated parking space, but couldn’t as there were two uniformed employees squatting before the curb, one holding a stencil, the other a can of spray paint.
“Orders.” Explained the taller, fatter half of the pair. On the curb where as of yesterday it had read, “Asst. Director of Grnds Mngmt,” it now read, “Guest of the President.”
“I see.” Fulsome said curtly through the pearl-like teeth that lined his bill. He backed out and found a parking space a quarter of a mile away in one of the lots reserved for lesser employees like janitors and the people who worked in the copy room at the library.
“Why wasn’t I informed that my parking space was being reassigned?” He asked Glagok, the top man in Grounds Management.
“I’m sorry.” Glagok wrinkled his brow. “I apologize. I didn’t find out myself until after you had left yesterday.”
“Then why was it being done just before I arrived?”
Glagok ignored this.
“This is something the president ordered. I had nothing to do with it.” He begged Fulsome to believe him.
“Yes, but why does it have to be my space? Jackson’s and Llewellyn’s are adjacent to mine, and they’re each junior in seniority to me.”
“Well, that’s true,” Glagok admitted, “But… well, you are just a duck.”
Fulsome gaped.
“They’re people!” Glagok added by way of explanation.
It was then that Fulsome decided on a life of crime, but one without a disguise.

Lioncharger Proceeds Inviolate

The absurdity of hatless Lioncharger making his lonely way to Skyclad Mountain caused more than one superannuated member of the Surplus City chamber of commerce to wonder just what nonsense would next be indulged by the so-called “intellectuals.” I admit that their concerns, when viewed with an eye for history and the larger picture of man’s folly, had some validity, but in fact, Lioncharger was not alone. A host of followers, most of them picked up along the way, accompanied the puissant, hatless beast.
Perhaps “beast” seems a harsh way to describe this being on whom so many of that generation based their hopes and secret fantasies of power, but that was the term that even newspapers, magazines, and filmmakers sympathetic to Lioncharger’s cause used. Certainly the name “Lioncharger” implies such a term. At any rate, Lioncharger himself would not and did not object to its use. He laughed and roared, “The call me a beast, well, I am a beast!”
On Skyclad Mountain his arrival was awaited with the usual preparations. Plastic figures of Lioncharger; posters bearing his image, both photographic and cartoon stylizations; hats; t-shirts; and all manner of novelties, some only tenuously relating to the ideals and motives of the great beast, were placed prominently on sale alongside the occult paraphernalia and traditional woodcrafts that had been the basis of the tourist trade on Skyclad Mountain for years. It is unknown if Lioncharger disapproved of this merchandising, if he thought it cheapened his message. Many of his chroniclers and closest assistants expressed opinions on the subject in later years, but the mindset of the one for whom they spoke remains a mystery, for the simple truth is that Lioncharger never reached Skyclad Mountain.
“I find it hard to believe that with all the build-up, all the anticipation engendered among the populace, the damn thing never completed his journey.” So said Tamza Wung in a television documentary on those exciting years. His feelings of frustration were shared by many. There were those, however, that found understanding in their hearts.
“After all,” Said one anonymous old lady, caught on film by a contemporaneous film crew, “He couldn’t be expected to walk all that way without a hat. And as for his shoes—pitiful!”




The Financier’s Hat Buckles

Lord Fidzmus, the financier of note, returned from his trip to Surplus City with a hat that buckled around his head.
“How convenient.” Observed Martha. “If your head shrinks, you can cinch the strap a little tighter.”
Lord Fidzmus acknowledged the woman’s witticism with all the emotional outlay he felt it deserved: a slow, shallow nod accompanied by a thin smile. He returned the hat to his head after having polished its silver buckle with a piece of rag he found in the pocket of his coat. As he stuffed the piece of rag back into his pocket he was halted by Mr. Sorenson.
“Lord Fidzmus, what’s that cloth you have there?” He asked.
“This?” Asked the nobleman, drawing out the rag again. “Oh, just a piece of rag I found in my pocket, as my memoirs will show.”
“But it looks like it has some writing on it.”
“Well,” Admitted Lord Fidzmus, “If you want to know the truth, it’s supposed to be part of some sort of map. I put it in my pocket the last time I wore this coat. Goulet knows how long ago that was.”
“May I see?” Mr. Sorenson asked.
“Surely.” Lord Fidzmus handed over what we are now obliged to call the map fragment. Mr. Sorenson held it so that his neighbors, Todd Melker and an aging Andy Summers, could examine it as well.
“It’s quality work.” Declared Melker, but recently honored for his decade’s worth of work on the comic strip Jamie’s Gamble. The former Police guitarist said nothing, contenting himself with a grunt before settling back in his seat to stare across the room at what visions of past glories none now can say.
“Do you think it’s a treasure map?” Asked Mr. Sorenson. “I think I recognize those hills.”
“Well, obviously they’re meant to be the Intercessory Hills,” Lord Fidzmus replied, waggling his hand at Mr. Sorenson for the return of his property. “But as for its being a treasure map, I doubt it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because, now that I think about it some more, I recall that the man from whom I got this piece of rag is the same one that sold me this hat.”

Tamza Wung Uncovers the Conspiracy

“It was childishly simple really.” Wung recalled in an interview at his ranch. The sun had wrinkled his face like the skin on a windfallen peach and the years of labor had twisted his body like a stunted tree, but his memory, so he claimed, was as sharp as ever. This was rumored to be as sharp as a tack, but there were those who whispered of other similes.
“I merely rummaged about in Manfred’s desk one day when he excused himself to go to the bathroom.” Wung continued, puffing on the safety pipe his work with Goat Laboratories had helped to develop.
“This is Manfred Gomez you’re talking about?” The interviewer asked.
“Yes.” Wung nodded. Who knew why he had in his retirement adopted this whole cowboy image? Many men do. It remains a mystery. He wore a bolo. Just behind him on the wall over the sofa hung a framed antique blanket, the geometric patterns of some extinct tribe woven into it.
“And what did you find?” The interviewer, a young man from Holland, bent forward eagerly so that his white man’s afro jiggled. He held a bottle of homemade sarsparilla in one hand, a small microphone in the other.
“A photograph.” Wung revealed. He certainly knew how to drag out a story.
“A photograph of what?”
“A photograph of Manfred, Mr. Sorenson, and Hollinshead together with Dr. Finagle, the head of Project Black Clam.”
“Project Black Clam, the secret effort on the part of the shadow government to relocate whole regions of the earth to the Procurementation?”
“Well, that was only part of it.” Wung told the young man.
In the kitchen, Wung’s wife Abigail was cleaning out a pumpkin.
“You don’t celebrate Halloween in Holland, do you?” She asked the photographer that had accompanied the interviewer.
“Actually, I’m from Texas.” The man replied.
“Oh, really? Then you’re a real cowboy.” Like many old women talking to strangers, Abigail didn’t really listen to what she was saying.
“No, I wouldn’t say that.” The photographer sipped his sarsparilla and looked about at the American southwestern artifacts that filled every available space.

Mrs. Nash Searches the Sofa

Mrs. Nash, the stationery advisor who rose to national prominence during the Ibbleschibbler cheese affair, waited until Manfred went to the bathroom to start digging under the cushions on the sofa in his office. She found forty-five cents and a comb (pink?), but not that which she sought. Glancing at the door to the bathroom, she produced a small pocketknife from her sock. She cut a wide gash in the material under the cushions, but only had time for a cursory glance down into the springs before she heard the toilet flush. She saw nothing.
“Sorry about that.” Manfred said as he emerged, blotting his eyes with a piece of rag. “I seem to be having some sort of… trouble lately.”
“That’s quite alright.” Mrs. Nash said pleasantly. She sat in the middle of the sofa with a primness that would have done your grandmother’s third grade teacher proud. As Manfred moved back to his place behind the desk, Mrs. Nash caught sight of the piece of rag.
“Now, about this complaint of yours…” Manfred lifted a large glass paperweight containing a mysterious swirl in its depths that reminded many people of historical depictions of Boncho Flick, the supposed son of Goulet, from a stack of papers. He picked up the top sheet and examined it. “It seems to me that you really ought to address this to Eliza Welkin, as she is the Adversarial Liaison to the Structure.”
“Well, Mr. Gomez,” Mrs. Nash wriggled forward to the edge of the sofa, “There’s something I haven’t told you.” Her flank had reached the terminus of the sofa’s support. “Something I haven’t shown you, actually.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Nash rose from the sofa, smoothing down her skirt with a movement that Manfred prayed to Boncho Flick wasn’t some sort of prelude to an embarrassing seduction attempt. She walked towards the desk, reaching into the left cuff of her shirt.
“If I can just get it out.” She muttered. Before Manfred could react with the swiftness his grandfather’s gym coach would have expected of him, Mrs. Nash had conked him on the head with the paperweight. As he lay bleeding and unconscious, she examined his piece of rag.
“It’s nothing but an old treasure map!” She wailed with disappointment.

Enduring Memories of the Old Church Bell

So great was the young Dutch interviewer’s interest in Tamza Wung’s involvement in the great Sparkler conspiracy that he barely probed Wung’s formative years. That subject was left for Wung’s grandchildren to explore.
“I still remember the sound of the church bell on Sunday mornings, summoning us to the service.” Wung spoke to Becky, Mark, and Sonny as they all sat on the porch eating homemade ice cream. Summer was almost over. Wung wanted the children to go back to school with more in their heads than just television shows and frightening memories of teenagers in bikinis.
“They used the bell to summon you to church?” Mark asked.
“Yes. That’s what church bells are supposed to be for.” Wung answered. “They’re saying ‘Time for church. Time for church.’”
“And you had to go?” Asked Becky.
“No.” Wung shook his head. “Well, we had to, because there was no way that my parents were going to skip church or allow us, my sister and I, to skip. But it wasn’t compulsory.”
“What does compulsory mean?” Sonny asked. His head was shaved, revealing a skull extraterrestrial in shape.
“It means you have to.” Becky told him.
“My uncle, my great uncle, was the one who rang the bell.” Wung continued. “He got up early and drove to the church and rang the bell. You could hear it all the way to our house, which was about a mile away. That may not sound like much,” Wung added as he reconsidered what to him had up until that moment always seemed so impressive, “But I don’t think it would be possible today, with all the noise we have now. You can’t go anywhere and know what quiet really is.” The children’s parents; Muncie, Wung’s son, and Sharia, his wife, came out onto the porch. “There was a time,” Wung said, glancing up, “When you could sit in a backyard in a bench swing and read a book and suddenly look up and realize that it was so quiet you could hear someone coughing in a yard far away.”
“Oh, Pop.” Muncie groaned, dismissing such distortions. Everyone knew that TV and radio had been around for more than a hundred years now, dominating the soundscape. He sat down next to Sonny and offered him a look at the funny film clip on his watch.

Medcalf Stages Mr. Sorenson’s Memoirs

Tamza Wung wasn’t the only survivor of those adventuresome old days to make his recollections of them public. Mr. Sorenson had written six volumes of memoirs during the past ten years. The first two of these had been dramatized by Phil Medcalf of the Oculomotility theater group as a play entitled The Concrete Goose. As an evening’s entertainment, it proved surprisingly popular, not just with the history buffs and Jazz aficionados to whom it had been expected to appeal, but to legions of threadbare, haggard housewives, most of whom hadn’t set foot in a theater since their days as temps with a carpet and upholstery cleaning service.
“I believe I cleaned this theater once.” Mrs. Sniffer whispered to Houseman, her husband of twenty-one years.
“How could you have?” Houseman demanded, irritated at the woman’s stupidity. “You’d never been to Surplus City before we moved here and you stopped working as a temp a year before we got married.”
Mrs. Sniffer’s lips parted. She glanced at the turquoise dress of the woman in front of them. “Yes, that’s right.” She agreed.
After an announcement by a portly, effeminate man to the effect that donations to the theater were always appreciated, the curtain rose on a desolate street in the middle of a typical ghost town of the Old West. In the distance were the forbidding natural monuments of the American southwest. Out of a dry goods store on the left emerged a young man in a clerk’s costume; string tie, vest, and spectacles. He stepped down into the street and looked up into the sky as he intoned, “To think that I, Storm Sorenson, should be cursed to spend the most important days of my life stuck here in this wretched little town, why, it’s downright exasperating.”
This line doesn’t seem funny when one reads it, but the way the actor, Pucker Parsons, dropped his head wearily on the last word brought a hearty laugh from the audience. He held this position indicative of defeat for a second or two until an offstage voice shouted, “The stage’s coming!” He then looked up and moved aside to allow passage of the cardboard conveyance.
“My name’s Lord Fidzmus,” A distinguished-looking man said, poking his head out of a window in the stagecoach. “I’m looking for someone named Sorenson.”

Lord Fidzmus Drinks Poison

“The question is, did Lord Fidzmus know there was moctecycine in the orange juice?” Inspector Barnaby posed the question as the police photographer took pictures of the surprisingly small dining room in which Lord Fidzmus had been found dead.
“You mean was it suicide?” Tom Reynolds of the Surplus City Department of Municipal Services asked.
“Well, orange juice would be the ideal substance to disguise the taste of the poison.” Barnaby considered.
“Which also leads one to believe that someone could have added poison to the orange juice.” Reynolds pointed out.
“Yes, but why would a nobleman like Lord Fidzmus be drinking orange juice in the middle of the day? Don’t these guys usually drink brandy or scotch? If someone wanted to poison realized that he had made it to the box and that there stood the mailman.
“Nice day, sir.” Said the uniformed man as he emptied the box into his bag.
“Yeah.” Parsons agreed.

Data Analysis in the Day of the Penny

“How long ago was Gail’s sister fired?” Wondered Tamza Wung.
Purvis, the only other person in the room and therefore the only person to whom Wung’s question could have been addressed, mused for a moment.
“I can’t remember. It was this year, wasn’t it?” He said, finger against his lips.
“Seems like it,” Said Wung, “But I can’t tell. Ever since this new century got under way I can’t seem to keep track of the time flying by.”
“That’s just you getting older.” Purvis corrected his fellow occupant gently. His lips were thinner than Wung’s and not nearly as wrinkly. In addition, his head was smaller in proportion to his body, approaching the ideal for such relative parts. As you know, Wung’s head would be considered much too large for his body to students of supposedly ideal forms such as Michelangelo’s statue of David. Would that Sir Kenneth Clark were here to advise us on these matters!
Tamza Wung stared at Purvis, considering either the latter’s response or his tiny, traditionally attractive head. Did females flock to such an elfin cranium? Was it that obvious that he was getting older? These questions, potential subjects for debate though they might be, seemed to dissipate from Wung’s countenance: he appeared to lapse into thoughtlessness as he continued to merely stare.
Eventually Purvis waved his hand before Wung’s eyes.
“Don’t go senile on me yet.” He joked.
Wung blinked several times and sat up as straight as he could in his beanbag chair.
“Do you happen to know what ever happened to her?” He asked Purvis.
“No idea. Why?”
“Just wondering. I liked her.”
“Liked her? She was ugly.”
Wung leaned forward.
“We can’t all have perfect features, smoothly functioning limbs, cute little heads!” He sad sharply, though he had reined in his temper to a degree that would have shocked those who knew him ten years before. His long tutelage under Lord Fidzmus had given him great self-control.

The Disused Penguin

“What’s this?” Ken Milligram asked his host and guide, the painter Don Melker. He was pointing to an ornately framed painting of a penguin, executed in soft tempera.
“That,” Melker replied, removing his pipe from his mouth, “Is the original version of the Van Pleskin penguin.”
The painting hung on a short, wood-paneled corner wall between two wings of Melker’s cavernous private warehouse. The two men stood looking up at it from a narrow pathway through the accumulated piles of artifacts, the detritus of a long and productive career in the arts.
“The symbol for their line of naval jellies and gum pastes?” Milligram asked.
“Exactly. I was asked to submit a design and this is what I came up with.” He gestured with his pipe. “They nearly took it, too. But at the last second I was informed they were going with a different artist. I think you can adequately judge which of the two was the better design.”
“It’s a damn shame.” Milligram declared, wedging himself between two stacks of cardboard boxes full of drawings to get a closer look.
“Now, here it hangs, a piece of fine art by default.” Melker’s eye was caught by an assemblage of wooden doodads he hadn’t seen in years. As Milligram extricated himself from the boxes, Melker directed his attention to the sculpture. “Look at that.” He said with a contemptuous chuckle. He knew how crappy it was.
“Mr. Melker!” A voice called from the stairs on the other side of the warehouse that led up to the workshops. It was old Savage, the handyman.
“What?” Melker called back.
“There’s a sheriff’s deputy here to see you!”
“Christ.” Muttered Melker. He told Milligram, “Probably here to serve me with a subpoena regarding that murder I’m supposed to have ‘witnessed.’ I’ll be right back.” He sighed. He called out to Savage again, saying to tell the deputy he would be there as fast as he could, and then set off through the maze of aesthetic junk.
Ken Milligram waited until Melke was out of sight before he began stuffing his pockets with small objects.

Scattered Syrup Saucer

Panda Shrandell and Clam Tadley, lately deposited in the woods by charitable balloonists in the employ of Citizen Caffeine, spent nearly a day in finding the warped tree that was the orientation marker on their map. After that, however, it was a relatively simple matter to follow the map’s directions to the site of the downed saucer. It was mid-morning when they entered the clearing.
“How long has this been here?” Tadley asked as they approached the rusted and overgrown wreckage.
“About two years.” Shrandell answered. He folded the map, put it in the inner pocket of his adventurer’s vest, and took out the tiny digital camera provided him by the editor of Gunkumus magazine.
“I would have thought more, based on the growth of these honeysuckles.”
“Speculate on your own time.” Shrandell advised. “We’re here to document.” He quickly exhausted the remaining space on the camera’s data card.
“I’ll have to delete some of the pictures we took previously.” He said and began to review those earlier pictures on the camera’s miniscule viewing screen. Meanwhile, Tadley had put on a pair of gardening gloves and begun ripping away the vines that obscured the saucer’s rusted hull.
“Did you want to keep this picture of the waitress?” Shrandell called to Tadley.
“What? That waitress?” Tadley looked up from his labor. “Yeah. Got to keep that. She was nice.”
“Cute, too.” Shrandell added.
“You didn’t think so at the time.” Tadley pointed out.
“Well, digital photography has a way of revealing more than the eye can see on first perusal.” He continued to review. “What about this picture of the dog wearing the bandanna?”
“Let me see that.” Tadley stepped through the brush to Shrandell’s side.
“How can you make anything out on that tiny screen?” He asked.
If Shrandell had an answer it was interrupted by the appearance of the Ones Who Watch. Preceded by only a few seconds’ worth of dramatic music, they stepped down from their invisible platform and stood menacingly before the two men, fists on hips, legs akimbo.

Gosling Approximate Fiasco

In place of a battery the Lohanalyzer used a gosling.
“Due to the uniquely conductive nature of the gosling’s down.” Explained Schaftenlick, chief of research on the project.
“When slicked down with Van Pleskin’s naval jelly #5.” Added Eiremus, an old schoolmate of Schaftenlick’s, whom the latter had hired out of pity.
“Yes.” Schaftenlick glanced at Eiremus. “Yes, the conductivity of the down does not manifest itself until the transducive medium has been introduced.”
The journalists gathered to witness the first public display of the Lohanalyzer seemed more interested in the gosling inside the transparent box attached to the device than in Schaftenlick’s words.
“What’s the baby goose’s name?” Asked Arnold Limber, a reporter with the Lee Sowko-owned Mall City Detachment.
“Gosling.” Corrected Eiremus. “And it doesn’t have a name.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Schaftenlick agreed, turning a scowl on the men from the press. Age had given him bristling brows to compensate for the diminution of his natural force. “Gentlemen, we don’t allow ourselves to develop emotional responses to the equipment. This is science.”
“But surely you must have some means of distinguishing this gosling from the others in your project.”
Schaftenlick gaped at his old friend beside him, his tongue spilling out involuntarily. Eiremus spoke up.
“This particular gosling is #73.” He said. The journalists each wrote the number down. “When it dies, as it inevitably will, it will be replaced by #74. It’s as simple as that.”
“Is #73 in any pain?” Asked a fat man with Fritters, the transatlantic news agency.” Again Schaftenlick gaped at Eiremus, flabbergasted at the general thrust of the questioning.
After the press conference had ended and the Lohanalyzer has performed as expected, the two scientists tarried over the remains of the coconut cake that had been on offer for the occasion.
“Eiremus,” Schaftenlick began, liking his knobby fingers, “I must confess something. I had had it in mind to fire you. But your performance today had convinced me otherwise.”

A Disturbing Green Color

As an experiment, Manfred had exchanged the vest he usually wore for a shirt such as a health care professional might wear. My staff informs me this particular kind of clothing is called “scrubs,” but I don’t feel comfortable using this term, as I am referring only to the shirt portion of the ensemble. As the word “scrubs” is nominally plural and I am only referring to a shirt, it seems wrong to say something like, “He was wearing his scrubs,” when the man in fact was only wearing the shirt and not the pants.
This shirt that Manfred wore was equipped with two large breast pockets and a pouch-like pocket across the belly divided into segments (or segmented into divisions, as you prefer). He had foregone the cutesy patterns these shirts sometimes come in, covered in pandas dressed as physicians or phrases like, “Jesus Wants You to Get Well!” in favor of a shirt in solid green.
“Unfortunately,” Comrade Minsk admitted under close questioning by the Subpecuniary Committee, “This green that he chose was of a most disturbing shade. Or tint. I am unfamiliar with the distinction.”
“What was so disturbing about it?” Committee member Buster Beggins asked.
“Yes, that’s what I’d like to know too.” Captain Bravefellow chimed in. He had laid aside his tall hat with the buckled band in deference to the dignity of these proceedings, but kept an eye on it throughout. Even now he glanced over at the hat where it lay next to Beggins’ cane and Eliza Welkin’s artificial miniature emu. Should one of the children try to snatch it he was ready for them, a paper bag full of unshelled pecans on the floor between his feet.
“Well, committee members,” Comrade Minsk began haltingly, twisting his gardening gloves nervously in his big hands, “It reminded me of the color of the public pool in the little town of my childhood.”
“Yes?” Eliza Welkin prompted. “And why was this reminder disturbing to you?”
Comrade Minsk hesitated, groping for words to express his loathing of the sickly pale green.
“Ms. Welkin, I think we need not delve into psychology here.” Beggins interrupted. “After all, this is merely a preliminary hearing.”

Bogged Down by Relativist Attitudes

The one in the devil horns offered the one in the ten-gallon hat a fat-free yogurt from his seemingly inexhaustible stock of refreshments. Ten-gallon hat refused with a wave of his hand. All of his attention was on the writing of a complaint about the employment of Legget Crouch at the Chemistry Building. He had tried warning the building’s superintendent about Crouch’s behavioral problems and emotional instability, but had not received the satisfaction of seeing his concerns taken seriously.
“It is not for us to judge others.” The superintendent had said illogically, frustratingly.
“At least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing they’ll have this on file.” Ten-gallon hat told his wife, who had stopped by to drop off a whole strawberry cake. “With frosting.” Ten-gallon hat noted greedily.
“How do you know they won’t just throw it in the trash?” Mrs. Ten-gallon hat asked her husband for assurances.
“Martha,” Ten-gallon hat said patiently, more patiently than he would have had they been in the privacy of their home, “They’re legally obligated to keep all correspondence for a year. That’s something I learned while I was working at the radio station.” He took a piece of the cake and ate it, showing his delight with all the pantomimic skill of a great actor, partially to mollify any hurt feelings and also because he truly did appreciate his wife’s bringing the cake.
After she had left, to return to the small outbuilding behind their house where she kept her sewing machine, the one in the devil horns approached Ten-gallon hat.
“So, you’ll eat your wife’s highly caloric strawberry cake, but you won’t eat my fat-free yogurt?” Devil horns seemed to demand an explanation.
He got none.
Ten-gallon hat signed his name to his letter of complaint with an angry flourish and got up from the table, folding the letter. As he exited the lunchroom without a glance at Devil horns, the latter called out to him,
“The Rocky Horror Picture Show is playing at the Collegiate Theater this Saturday! Are you going?”

Twenty Sailors Double Their Enjoyment

Tamza Wung put the fancy binoculars to his eyes.
“How many men on board the Twisted Intaglio?” He asked.
“Forty-eight.” Hollinshead replied. “That’s total. What the proportion of officers to crew is I don’t know.”
“And we counted twenty men getting off the boat.”
“Right.”
“How many of those do you think were officers?” Wung handed the binoculars back to Hollinshead. The latter fitted the plastic caps back over the lenses and put the whole thing carefully back in its case. He always made certain to do this. Many years ago his father had lost the protective caps to a pair of binoculars that Hollinshead had owned as a boy. What was even more irksome was the fact that his father had only borrowed the binoculars to look important at a football game he had no actual interest in in the first place.
Hollinshead shook off the memory that had once again seized him.
“We have no way of knowing,” He said, “But probably none. Most likely, all those who were granted shore leave are members of the crew.”
Wung stared at their meager supply of explosives as he mused on these facts. He glanced back at the lights of the city behind them. What mischief would those twenty men get up during their leave?
Of course, the twenty sailors were not monolithic in their tastes. They did not stay together in one group as they visited the city’s various attractions. In fact, two of the sailors had no interest in the bars and whorehouses their fellows panted after. These two, Doug Amelgo and Joe Pinswap, headed straight for the nearest branch of the public library.
“Where is your biography section?” Amelgo asked the pretty young woman behind the front desk. He and Pinswap followed her directions and without too much effort found what they were looking for: a half-dozen volumes on the life of Lord Fidzmus. They took these to a table and began combing through them.
“Aha!” Amelgo hissed in triumph. He turned the open book to his mate.
“‘Although not born to the nobility, Fidzmus achieved distinction through his art.’” He read aloud. Pinswap, however, was still not convinced.

I Restore Color to the Cheeks

It was in the early fall that I received a note from my kinsman the Fra of Sparklerama reading either, “The flies are more than usually aggressive this year,” or, “The importance of the vitamin content of one’s food has been overstated,” depending on how one held the note.
“This is an example of the Fra’s ambiguous handwriting.” I said, handing the note to Jerry, who, for lack of anything better to say, replied that he was a fan of automatic writing.
Dr. Fungrous said nothing, having been shut away in my valise.
I carefully folded the note small enough to fit into a plastic sleeve in the confines of my wallet.
“What does the note mean, though?” Jerry asked me to help him out.
“It means we are summoned to Sparklerama. Cheer up, Jerry; good times await us.”
“You’re never down, are you?”
“Not for long.” I smiled, flashing my eyes and hefting the valise. “Oh, here. Hold out your hand.” I opened the valise and fished out Dr. Fungrous, narrowly avoiding poking my fingers on the steeple of a stolen church. I placed Dr. Fungrous on Jerry’s outstretched hand. The puppet yawned indulgently.
“A trip?” He asked, seeing our preparations. “Where to?”
“Sparklerama.” Jerry told him.
“In the Fifth Integument.” Dr. Fungrous mused. His knowledge of geography is extensive.
“Follow me.” I instructed, as is my wont, opening a closet and stepping inside.
Our journey to Sparklerama took nearly a week. This is not the place for a detailed recapitulation of our adventures along the way. Be content with my promise that nothing of an untoward nature occurred and that any private dwellings entered or ransacked during this time were violated only to some good purpose. I have a sworn statement from Dr. Fungrous on file somewhere to the effect that these purposes included valid scientific research.
Thus it was that we stepped out of a modified Buick one Friday morning to find ourselves in Sparklerama, a tiny principality in the Fifth Integument, an integument only one away from the first, oddly enough.

I Coordinate the Relief Effort

It took me a long time to figure out what was going on. This was a recurring theme in my life and it boiled down to my not being curious about what I was supposed to be curious about. Often this led me to the understanding of facts outside the experience of my peers, but as often it left me ignorant of commonplaces that others took for granted. In this instance I was far more interested in exploring the Museum of the Old PBS than I was in assisting with the distribution of food and blankets to the needy.
“Look, it’s the old PBS logo!” I cried, heedless of the admonitory looks of the museum’s staff.
“They’ve allowed some two hundred refugees to use the museum’s storeroom as temporary shelter.” Jerry informed me.
“I hope they don’t break anything.” I muttered as I wandered into a full size reproduction of the Land of Make Believe. “Or,” I added, stifling a “God forbid,” “steal anything.”
The museum’s director’s bald head appeared behind one of the encircling walls. He stepped around a corner and approached.
“Mr. Toadsgoboad, it is an honor, sir, a great honor!” He shook my hand warmly.
“You hear that, Jerry?” I raised an inquiring eyebrow at my imaginary friend.
“Would that I were able to show you some of the more esoteric artifacts,” the director continued, “But, alas, they are in the storeroom and, with our poor, unfortunate guests in residence, it would be most difficult to get unimpeded access.”
“Do you have anything related to the presentations of Kabuki that used to be on PBS in the seventies?” I asked eagerly.
The director frowned as he thought.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” He said.
“Or that yoga show.” I tried again. So many memories to explore.
“Mr. Director,” A young man appeared from inside X the Owl’s tree, “We have a situation developing downstairs.” He sounded fearful.
“Ah, the refugees!” I gasped. “My friends, I’ll handle this. Jerry,” I called as I headed for the stairs, “Bring the Oreos.”


Tamza Wung Eats a Sandwich

Instead of purchasing something out of one of the vending machines, Tamza Wung opened a much used paper sack and from it withdrew a plastic baggie containing an egg salad sandwich.
“And not just egg salad,” Wung told his tablemate, Mr. Sorenson, “But sliced tomatoes and black pepper on toasted whole wheat.”
“I would imagine that your bread isn’t quite as crisp now after hours in the bag as it was directly out of the toaster.” Mr. Sorenson observed. His own lunch consisted of a hamburger from the refrigerated vending machine, heated in one of the microwave ovens the Institute had thoughtfully provided.
“Yes, but that’s one of the little inconveniences of life that we must endure.” Wung made ritual obeisance to his god before eating. He took out a small idol from a breast pocket of his “ranger” vest and placed it on the table before him. He clapped his hands twice and said the magic words, “Scriolto voltno veltnim.” Now he was free to eat.
“You must endure.” Mr. Sorenson corrected the other man as he held up his partially eaten hamburger. “I have a hot meal.”
“Cow meat.” Wung dismissed Mr. Sorenson’s claims to a superior experience.
“Hmm.” Mr. Sorenson made a sound of contemplation. “You’re no vegan. What exactly is your religion?”
“Well, it has nothing to do with my food choices.” Wung made clear. “I am a Circumbobologist. That’s a…” He tried to think of how to explain.
“It’s an offshoot of the Intentionalist Church of the Primary Awareness. Right?” Mr. Sorenson pushed the last bite of his hamburger into his bearded face.
“Well, not an offshoot in the sense of a splinter group. More of a select subset of the main organization.” Wung had begun eating his sandwich. He found the bread chewier than he expected, but of course he said nothing to Mr. Sorenson about this.
“Are you barred from looking at pornography?” The bearded man asked, reaching into his briefcase.
“Not that I’m aware of.” Wung replied curiously. Mr. Sorenson handed him a copy of the March 1971 issue of Melonmaster, containing an interview with noted breast aficionado Gordon Parks.

Comrade Minsk and the Concrete Goose

Immediately following the conclusion of the televised presentation of Todd Melker’s Undersea World, Comrade Minsk exited his simple domicile and walked out into the commons behind the apartment building. He looked up at the stars, happy at how cool the nights were becoming. He hated summer.
Having tried and failed to identify even a single star, Comrade Minsk turned to go back inside. He caught sight of the small garden some of the young married couples in the building kept and decided to take a look. There would probably be nothing but cabbages at this time of year, he thought. How stunned he was to see the large concrete goose standing in the middle of the tilled earth!
“Is it a goose?” He asked himself. “Or,” He wondered with his keen mind for intrigue, “Is it a swan?” He ran his hands over the cold concrete, concluding, based on his training in the engineering arts, that the object had been cast using the Fuldio method.
“Too bad I became a food systems analyst.” He thought bitterly, cursing himself the next moment. “I mustn’t let my emotions control me.”
“There’s someone down there with the goose.” Hollinshead looked out the window of the apartment he and Mr. Sorenson had appropriated for the duration of their assignment.
“Who?” Mr. Sorenson demanded with an accurate approximation of concern in his voice. He roughly folded the sports section of the local paper and tossed it aside to flutter messily to the floor as he rose from his seat in some old woman’s green easy chair.
“Can’t tell.” Hollinshead replied.
“Better to kill him just in case.” Mr. Sorenson sounded grim, determined. His nickname among the brotherhood wasn’t “Dartmouth” for nothing.
Hollinshead turned from the window angrily. “It might be Mrs. Quack!” He snapped.
“If it is, then there’ll be no problem. I can give her the data cube after she has verified her identity.”
Hollinshead tried to find fault in Mr. Sorenson’s words, but couldn’t. He knew the man made no sense, but something was fogging his own ability to think. Could it be the curse of the concrete goose after all? He shuddered as he dumbly watched Mr. Sorenson remove the paralyzer cone from its case.

The Failure of the Animated Grisaille

“Tommy,” Purvis was emphatic, “The kids aren’t ready for a black and white cartoon!”
“I hardly think you have the all-encompassing perception to know what ‘the kids’ are ready for. And don’t call me ‘Tommy.’” The man’s name was Thomas. Someone he had recklessly made friends with years ago, back when he was but an upholstery technician with the studio, had called him ‘Tommy’ in front of a group of people one day and ever since then the word ‘Tommy’ had cropped up like the occasional wild onion in an otherwise perfectly manicured lawn.
Purvis let the man’s latter remonstrance pass without comment. He sighed, building up strength to make his argument. Fate, however, in the shape of the normally silent Grover Archway, stepped in.
“I think that is precisely the point, Purvis.” Said Archway. “This program will not be specifically targeted to ‘kids.’ Certainly there won’t be anything that will be overtly objectionable to the parents or guardians of said ‘kids,’ but the subject material will necessarily be geared to a more intellectually mature audience.”
With this unassailable mouthful all further obstacles to the project were swept aside. “The Adventures of Boyd Stomie” was cleared for production.
To give you an example of what the show was about, the first episode dealt with the arrival of government troubleshooter Boyd Stomie and his highly trained team at the site of an intergalactic Jazz festival.
“The Fra of Sparklerama is here.” Stomie, voiced by Rod “Stringbean” Gibbler, growled. “I can smell him.”
“Should I tell Boyd I farted?” The wacky Melvin whispered to “Doubletime” Jones. The latter character, voiced by an aging Mr. T, said nothing in response. He merely polished his mechanical hand with an old Earth, Wind, and Fire t-shirt.
Some have argued that it was not the black and white format that led to the show’s poor ratings and subsequent cancellation, but the lack of music. However, as my sister pointed out in her on-line column, “Speaking for My Generation,”
“Cartoons are supposed to be in color. Everyone knows that!”
One lasting consequence of the show is the relatively high asking price for “Boyd Stomie”-related merchandise (toys, pajamas, Pez dispensers, etc.).

The Story of the Letter ‘B’

Our modern letter ‘B’ is descended from the ancient Sumerian pictogram for the word-concept of “stranger:” a crude drawing of an anthropomorphic fish in a rowboat, pulling at the oars with his little, ill-suited fins. You can just make out a smile on his face. It is conjectured by leading psycho-linguists that this smile is a smug one, expressing his self-satisfaction at having attained superiority over his fellow fish. In a like manner, the Sumerians are saying through their script that they are a proud people, proud at having achieved eminence over their primitive forebears.
Time passed and this pictogram became streamlined through its use as a symbol on barrels of pine resin floated up the coast from distant Samoa, ultimately mutating into what even one of today’s children would recognize as a ‘B.’ Its place as the second letter in our alphabet was determined at the Council of Livermore in the year 426. In those days a simple plurality was all that was needed for a letter to become the first in line. Were it not for a handful of lazy ‘B’ proponents, who slept late that day and missed the vote, our alphabet would be called the “betalpha.”
The unique shape of the letter ‘B’ has leant itself many times to interpretation as a bee (the insect) with only a few strokes of the artist’s brush. This has proven useful to processors and packagers of honey whose corporate names begin with the letter ‘B.’ Only the other day I was touring the offices of the Belchman Honeyworks and noted a framed letter on the wall from the president of the company expressing his gratitude to the letter ‘B’ for so easily transforming into a bee.
“Gosh.” I said aloud as I read this document. “The letter ‘B’ surely is amazing.”
“I prefer ‘L’ myself,” replied a secretary sitting at her desk a few feet away, “But I guess ‘B’ is alright.”
“‘L?’” I scoffed. “What does ‘L’ stand for? Loser?”
“Well, there’s ‘love.’” The woman began, counting on her index finger.
“‘B’ stands for ‘beauty’ and… ‘Beatles’ and… and…”
“‘Bees.’” She kindly helped me out.
“Yes; ‘bees!’ That’s a good one.”

Something About Gravy

The gravies essential to the proper functioning of the mashed potatoes were those of the so-called “brown” family. Consisting of approximately twenty gravies, the brown family included the unreliable Spanish Rose, a gravy long known for its clear depth of field, as well as its equally strong tendency to break down in sunlight. Of course, this was the only gravy available to Clam Tadley as he began transmitting.
“The mashed potatoes are instant.” Tadley told Roger, his eleven-year-old apprentice. “That’s good. The artificial starching agents in them should help to stabilize the gravy long enough for us to transmit our data.”
“You say ‘should,’ but what you really mean is, you don’t know!” Roger cried. His missed his mama. He couldn’t help it; he loved her. The other boys, those whose mothers had left for the streets of Las Vegas years ago, they could mock him all they liked; they didn’t know. They just didn’t know!
“Now, now, calm down, Roger.” Tadley spoke in the assuring voice of manly authority he had been coached in over the past two months. “The amount of data we have to transmit isn’t that great. We should have it done well before the sun clears the tops of the trees.”
To Roger’s credit, he took a deep breath and forced himself to concentrate as Tadley inserted the heavy gauge wires into the mashed potatoes. This had to be done in a certain way and Roger was keen to learn. He watched as Tadley then poured out a measure of the gravy.
“You know,” Tadley said by way of a distraction, to amuse the boy and help him keep his emotions in check, “Northerners can’t abide the expression, ‘mash the button.’ They prefer to say, ‘press the button.’ I used to joke with a friend of mine from the North that they ought to call mashed potatoes, ‘pressed potatoes.’”
Roger’s mouth fell open.
“My mother’s from the North!” He informed his instructor.
“Roger…” Tadley groped for words, but the boy was already on his feet, running towards the tent.
Turning back to his transmission dish, Tadley found that he had misjudged the starch-to-plasma ratio. He would have to begin again.

John Coltrane Never Sniffed His Fingers

Many years ago Tamza Wung had taken part in a scientific experiment. The experiment, which involved his willingness to deliver painful electric shocks to total strangers, is irrelevant to our discussion. However, in the course of classifying and cataloging Wung prior to the experiment, the graduate students performing the experiment tested him in various ways. One of these tests revealed Wung to be a foetidosoph, or one who enjoys the smell of rot. Wung found this most enlightening, far more so than the knowledge that he was average when it came to hurting others. The label explained to him why he had always enjoyed sniffing at his fingers. Actually, it did not explain so much as give him a foundation on which to begin analyzing and accepting this odd habit. Primarily this was because his foetidosophia was set against another state of mind called steptiphilia, or the love of chemical smells. Thus, in Wung’s mind, there was no “normal” viewpoint regarding smells, only two modes. It was many years before he conceived that there might be a third mindset, one that abhorred all smells. That insight would come only after he had been married for a few years. But that was to happen some time after the events detailed here occurred.
He thought on these things as he sat in the window of a disused office in the old Belchman Honeyworks. Despite his growing awareness of the ubiquity of tiny digital cameras, he had continued to sniff his fingers in public places. One day he would be captured on film in the act and displayed for ridicule throughout the many worlds of the Procurementation, but that was to happen some time after the events detailed here occurred. For now, it was enough that Purvis had not only caught him in the act, but made comment on it.
“Stop doing that.” Purvis begged. “It’s nasty.”
“Sorry. Can’t help it.” Wung put his hand in his lap.
“Can’t help it?” Purvis sounded angered by this response. “People who can’t help it are addicts. You’re not an addict, are you?”
Wung sighed. “No, I’m not an addict.”
As Purvis continued to berate him, it struck Wung to wonder what body part did steptiphiliacs sniff?

The Determination Was Horses

My fear was that I would be thrown from the horse and have my neck broken like Christopher Reeves. No more painting, no more guitar playing, and all subsequent books would have to be dictated. To whom, I had no idea. All efforts at reassuring me were met with good humor, but I remained unconvinced.
“We’ve chosen a particularly gently horse for you.” Lord Fidzmus told me as he patted my mount’s flank.
Indeed, the animal did appear docile. He seemed, in fact, the equine equivalent of an old man who has found that his retirement check isn’t enough to survive on and has been forced to take a job bagging groceries. I wondered how he would manage to carry me all the way to Surplus City.
“I miss my mechanical camel.” I joked, trying to recall exactly why I wasn’t using said conveyance on this trip.
Lord Fidzmus accepted a glass of whiskey from a servant.
“I wish you luck, sir.” He said as he tipped the tasty substance down his throat.
“What’s your horse’s name?” Jerry, mounted on a donkey to my rear, asked.
“Rolute. What’s yours?”
“Mine’s named Nebou and he’s a donkey, not a horse.”
“I know.” I forced a smile. No making a scene in front of Lord Fidzmus and his guests.
The third member of our expedition to Surplus City, Dr. Fungrous, was seated on the vestigial hump of a paraboo, a primitive creature recently discovered in the cluster of closets in between the Intercessory Hills and the Forehead of Proto-Don. He seemed quite happy at the prospect of a journey fraught with uncertainty. His mount ate leaves out of a wooden chest and appeared bored.
Dr. Fungrous was chatting with a lady whom I recognized as a member of the notorious Oculomotility theater company.
“I plan on submitting an account of our trip to the proper scientific journal.” He informed this woman smugly, closing his eyes and pushing up his bottom lip.

Green Conning Tower Emerges from the Soup

The green of the conning tower offset the green of the soup so that together they reminded Budge Samson of his grandmother’s living room.
“What kind of soup is that?” He asked Lug Nutsen, another of Captain Jim’s men.
“Oh, it’s probably split pea.” Nutsen was dismissive. Soup was food for invalids. A big, healthy man ate the chopped flesh of animals stuffed into their own entrails. He wiped his nose with thick, hairy fingers and returned to hauling at the rope.
Budge Samson kept his eyes on the bowl adjacent to the one in which Captain Jim’s Mother’s Folly lightly floated. The conning tower rising from its contents bore a symbol the likes of which he had never seen before.
“It looks like a bacillus.” He reported to Mr. Nathan, in charge of the Mother’s Folly while Captain Jim was in town having his teeth cleaned.
“A bacillus, Mr. Samson?” Mr. Nathan sounded openly skeptical. What sort of submarine-operating organization would choose a bacillus-like symbol for itself?
“A bacillus with four legs.” Samson added.
“I’ll have to take a look.” Mr. Nathan led the way back to the deck, a copy of Cow’s Compendium of Maritime Symbols in his hand.
He and Samson were just stepping into the light of the afternoon sun when Captain Jim boarded the vessel. Smiling proudly, the Captain greeted the two men.
“Gentlemen,” He said, “How goes our crime-fighting commission this day?”
“He’s still goofy from the gas!” Mr. Nathan thought with horror. Aloud, he said, “How many cavities, sir?”
“Just the one.” Captain Jim put his hands on the rail and looked down on the sea of chili below. “How I love this ship.” He muttered.
“Captain Jim,” Samson stepped forward, “We’ve got an unidentified…”
Mr. Nathan interrupted him.
“Perhaps you’d like to lie down, Captain.” He held the book of symbols behind his back. “I’m sure you must feel a little light-headed.” He snapped his fingers at Lug Nutsen and had him escort Captain Jim to his cabin.

Yellow Metal Friday

When asked, Ned Lethargic explained that his band’s music was “Yellow Metal,” an offshoot of Lo-Fi, so he claimed, “with lots of guitar solos.”
“Does the term Yellow indicate some kind of moral cowardice?” Asked a woman reporter straight out of The Doors movie.
“Does it mean an affinity with the Oriental metal scene?” Asked a serious-looking and grave-voiced man from one of the great English universities.
“Is it a reference to Yellow journalism?” Someone else, ill defined in appearance, but sounding much like a Mike Wallace or a Kevin Phillips, asked.
To all of these questions Ned Lethargic merely smiled his enigmatic half-smile and sat there sipping peppermint tea. He could afford to do that, since the press conference was all in his head. As a reporter from Rolling Stone asked him whether the lack of any other members in his band beside himself would pose any particular problems for the upcoming world tour, Dame Shaftburner and Hectus Protor watched from across the room.
“Have you heard his latest album?” Dame Shaftburner asked her companion.
“No. I haven’t heard any of his albums since Bucolic Interlude.” Protor answered. He selected a piece of pickled okra and nibbled at its pointed end.
“He’s probably done ten albums since then.” The lady, well known for her generous patronage of the arts, sought to educate Protor.
“Why does he pretend he’s a band when he’s just a solo artist?”
“It’s all pat of the Yellow Metal aesthetic.”
Ned Lethargic’s band, Sparklerama, had recorded seventeen albums in its brief existence. The latest, Mr. Reactor’s Fuming Silent, was the one that moved the band from a cult sensation to the more nearly mainstream audience of the college crowd. Of course, long-time fans felt the album to minor in comparison to such early classics as My Jealousy Knows No Bounds and Strapping Tape, but their opinions were meaningless to Lethargic. He was after the big money. Soon he would he forty years old. It was time he saw some financial remuneration for his life of obscurity and pain.
Perhaps his parents would finally be pleased.
“I’m proud of you, son.” Ned’s father, Mr. Lethargic, told him over the phone. He made the call from his brother’s camper in the back yard.



Mild-Mannered Duck

This was no crime-fighting duck with an alter ego and a colorful costume. Edgar Fulsome didn’t understand why people couldn’t just accept the fact that he was only what he seemed to be: a mid-level supervisor with the university’s Grounds Management Department. Of course, he knew the reason, much as he didn’t like it and disagreed with it: people thought ducks were inherently funny. This attitude irritated him, but he would never make a scene because of it; he was just too mild-mannered.
On Friday Fulsome arrived at the university about five minutes earlier than usual. He started to pull into his designated parking space, but couldn’t as there were two uniformed employees squatting before the curb, one holding a stencil, the other a can of spray paint.
“Orders.” Explained the taller, fatter half of the pair. On the curb where as of yesterday it had read, “Asst. Director of Grnds Mngmt,” it now read, “Guest of the President.”
“I see.” Fulsome said curtly through the pearl-like teeth that lined his bill. He backed out and found a parking space a quarter of a mile away in one of the lots reserved for lesser employees like janitors and the people who worked in the copy room at the library.
“Why wasn’t I informed that my parking space was being reassigned?” He asked Glagok, the top man in Grounds Management.
“I’m sorry.” Glagok wrinkled his brow. “I apologize. I didn’t find out myself until after you had left yesterday.”
“Then why was it being done just before I arrived?”
Glagok ignored this.
“This is something the president ordered. I had nothing to do with it.” He begged Fulsome to believe him.
“Yes, but why does it have to be my space? Jackson’s and Llewellyn’s are adjacent to mine, and they’re each junior in seniority to me.”
“Well, that’s true,” Glagok admitted, “But… well, you are just a duck.”
Fulsome gaped.
“They’re people!” Glagok added by way of explanation.
It was then that Fulsome decided on a life of crime, but one without a disguise.

Lioncharger Proceeds Inviolate

The absurdity of hatless Lioncharger making his lonely way to Skyclad Mountain caused more than one superannuated member of the Surplus City chamber of commerce to wonder just what nonsense would next be indulged by the so-called “intellectuals.” I admit that their concerns, when viewed with an eye for history and the larger picture of man’s folly, had some validity, but in fact, Lioncharger was not alone. A host of followers, most of them picked up along the way, accompanied the puissant, hatless beast.
Perhaps “beast” seems a harsh way to describe this being on whom so many of that generation based their hopes and secret fantasies of power, but that was the term that even newspapers, magazines, and filmmakers sympathetic to Lioncharger’s cause used. Certainly the name “Lioncharger” implies such a term. At any rate, Lioncharger himself would not and did not object to its use. He laughed and roared, “The call me a beast, well, I am a beast!”
On Skyclad Mountain his arrival was awaited with the usual preparations. Plastic figures of Lioncharger; posters bearing his image, both photographic and cartoon stylizations; hats; t-shirts; and all manner of novelties, some only tenuously relating to the ideals and motives of the great beast, were placed prominently on sale alongside the occult paraphernalia and traditional woodcrafts that had been the basis of the tourist trade on Skyclad Mountain for years. It is unknown if Lioncharger disapproved of this merchandising, if he thought it cheapened his message. Many of his chroniclers and closest assistants expressed opinions on the subject in later years, but the mindset of the one for whom they spoke remains a mystery, for the simple truth is that Lioncharger never reached Skyclad Mountain.
“I find it hard to believe that with all the build-up, all the anticipation engendered among the populace, the damn thing never completed his journey.” So said Tamza Wung in a television documentary on those exciting years. His feelings of frustration were shared by many. There were those, however, that found understanding in their hearts.
“After all,” Said one anonymous old lady, caught on film by a contemporaneous film crew, “He couldn’t be expected to walk all that way without a hat. And as for his shoes—pitiful!”




The Financier’s Hat Buckles

Lord Fidzmus, the financier of note, returned from his trip to Surplus City with a hat that buckled around his head.
“How convenient.” Observed Martha. “If your head shrinks, you can cinch the strap a little tighter.”
Lord Fidzmus acknowledged the woman’s witticism with all the emotional outlay he felt it deserved: a slow, shallow nod accompanied by a thin smile. He returned the hat to his head after having polished its silver buckle with a piece of rag he found in the pocket of his coat. As he stuffed the piece of rag back into his pocket he was halted by Mr. Sorenson.
“Lord Fidzmus, what’s that cloth you have there?” He asked.
“This?” Asked the nobleman, drawing out the rag again. “Oh, just a piece of rag I found in my pocket, as my memoirs will show.”
“But it looks like it has some writing on it.”
“Well,” Admitted Lord Fidzmus, “If you want to know the truth, it’s supposed to be part of some sort of map. I put it in my pocket the last time I wore this coat. Goulet knows how long ago that was.”
“May I see?” Mr. Sorenson asked.
“Surely.” Lord Fidzmus handed over what we are now obliged to call the map fragment. Mr. Sorenson held it so that his neighbors, Todd Melker and an aging Andy Summers, could examine it as well.
“It’s quality work.” Declared Melker, but recently honored for his decade’s worth of work on the comic strip Jamie’s Gamble. The former Police guitarist said nothing, contenting himself with a grunt before settling back in his seat to stare across the room at what visions of past glories none now can say.
“Do you think it’s a treasure map?” Asked Mr. Sorenson. “I think I recognize those hills.”
“Well, obviously they’re meant to be the Intercessory Hills,” Lord Fidzmus replied, waggling his hand at Mr. Sorenson for the return of his property. “But as for its being a treasure map, I doubt it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because, now that I think about it some more, I recall that the man from whom I got this piece of rag is the same one that sold me this hat.”

Tamza Wung Uncovers the Conspiracy

“It was childishly simple really.” Wung recalled in an interview at his ranch. The sun had wrinkled his face like the skin on a windfallen peach and the years of labor had twisted his body like a stunted tree, but his memory, so he claimed, was as sharp as ever. This was rumored to be as sharp as a tack, but there were those who whispered of other similes.
“I merely rummaged about in Manfred’s desk one day when he excused himself to go to the bathroom.” Wung continued, puffing on the safety pipe his work with Goat Laboratories had helped to develop.
“This is Manfred Gomez you’re talking about?” The interviewer asked.
“Yes.” Wung nodded. Who knew why he had in his retirement adopted this whole cowboy image? Many men do. It remains a mystery. He wore a bolo. Just behind him on the wall over the sofa hung a framed antique blanket, the geometric patterns of some extinct tribe woven into it.
“And what did you find?” The interviewer, a young man from Holland, bent forward eagerly so that his white man’s afro jiggled. He held a bottle of homemade sarsparilla in one hand, a small microphone in the other.
“A photograph.” Wung revealed. He certainly knew how to drag out a story.
“A photograph of what?”
“A photograph of Manfred, Mr. Sorenson, and Hollinshead together with Dr. Finagle, the head of Project Black Clam.”
“Project Black Clam, the secret effort on the part of the shadow government to relocate whole regions of the earth to the Procurementation?”
“Well, that was only part of it.” Wung told the young man.
In the kitchen, Wung’s wife Abigail was cleaning out a pumpkin.
“You don’t celebrate Halloween in Holland, do you?” She asked the photographer that had accompanied the interviewer.
“Actually, I’m from Texas.” The man replied.
“Oh, really? Then you’re a real cowboy.” Like many old women talking to strangers, Abigail didn’t really listen to what she was saying.
“No, I wouldn’t say that.” The photographer sipped his sarsparilla and looked about at the American southwestern artifacts that filled every available space.

Mrs. Nash Searches the Sofa

Mrs. Nash, the stationery advisor who rose to national prominence during the Ibbleschibbler cheese affair, waited until Manfred went to the bathroom to start digging under the cushions on the sofa in his office. She found forty-five cents and a comb (pink?), but not that which she sought. Glancing at the door to the bathroom, she produced a small pocketknife from her sock. She cut a wide gash in the material under the cushions, but only had time for a cursory glance down into the springs before she heard the toilet flush. She saw nothing.
“Sorry about that.” Manfred said as he emerged, blotting his eyes with a piece of rag. “I seem to be having some sort of… trouble lately.”
“That’s quite alright.” Mrs. Nash said pleasantly. She sat in the middle of the sofa with a primness that would have done your grandmother’s third grade teacher proud. As Manfred moved back to his place behind the desk, Mrs. Nash caught sight of the piece of rag.
“Now, about this complaint of yours…” Manfred lifted a large glass paperweight containing a mysterious swirl in its depths that reminded many people of historical depictions of Boncho Flick, the supposed son of Goulet, from a stack of papers. He picked up the top sheet and examined it. “It seems to me that you really ought to address this to Eliza Welkin, as she is the Adversarial Liaison to the Structure.”
“Well, Mr. Gomez,” Mrs. Nash wriggled forward to the edge of the sofa, “There’s something I haven’t told you.” Her flank had reached the terminus of the sofa’s support. “Something I haven’t shown you, actually.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Nash rose from the sofa, smoothing down her skirt with a movement that Manfred prayed to Boncho Flick wasn’t some sort of prelude to an embarrassing seduction attempt. She walked towards the desk, reaching into the left cuff of her shirt.
“If I can just get it out.” She muttered. Before Manfred could react with the swiftness his grandfather’s gym coach would have expected of him, Mrs. Nash had conked him on the head with the paperweight. As he lay bleeding and unconscious, she examined his piece of rag.
“It’s nothing but an old treasure map!” She wailed with disappointment.

Enduring Memories of the Old Church Bell

So great was the young Dutch interviewer’s interest in Tamza Wung’s involvement in the great Sparkler conspiracy that he barely probed Wung’s formative years. That subject was left for Wung’s grandchildren to explore.
“I still remember the sound of the church bell on Sunday mornings, summoning us to the service.” Wung spoke to Becky, Mark, and Sonny as they all sat on the porch eating homemade ice cream. Summer was almost over. Wung wanted the children to go back to school with more in their heads than just television shows and frightening memories of teenagers in bikinis.
“They used the bell to summon you to church?” Mark asked.
“Yes. That’s what church bells are supposed to be for.” Wung answered. “They’re saying ‘Time for church. Time for church.’”
“And you had to go?” Asked Becky.
“No.” Wung shook his head. “Well, we had to, because there was no way that my parents were going to skip church or allow us, my sister and I, to skip. But it wasn’t compulsory.”
“What does compulsory mean?” Sonny asked. His head was shaved, revealing a skull extraterrestrial in shape.
“It means you have to.” Becky told him.
“My uncle, my great uncle, was the one who rang the bell.” Wung continued. “He got up early and drove to the church and rang the bell. You could hear it all the way to our house, which was about a mile away. That may not sound like much,” Wung added as he reconsidered what to him had up until that moment always seemed so impressive, “But I don’t think it would be possible today, with all the noise we have now. You can’t go anywhere and know what quiet really is.” The children’s parents; Muncie, Wung’s son, and Sharia, his wife, came out onto the porch. “There was a time,” Wung said, glancing up, “When you could sit in a backyard in a bench swing and read a book and suddenly look up and realize that it was so quiet you could hear someone coughing in a yard far away.”
“Oh, Pop.” Muncie groaned, dismissing such distortions. Everyone knew that TV and radio had been around for more than a hundred years now, dominating the soundscape. He sat down next to Sonny and offered him a look at the funny film clip on his watch.

Medcalf Stages Mr. Sorenson’s Memoirs

Tamza Wung wasn’t the only survivor of those adventuresome old days to make his recollections of them public. Mr. Sorenson had written six volumes of memoirs during the past ten years. The first two of these had been dramatized by Phil Medcalf of the Oculomotility theater group as a play entitled The Concrete Goose. As an evening’s entertainment, it proved surprisingly popular, not just with the history buffs and Jazz aficionados to whom it had been expected to appeal, but to legions of threadbare, haggard housewives, most of whom hadn’t set foot in a theater since their days as temps with a carpet and upholstery cleaning service.
“I believe I cleaned this theater once.” Mrs. Sniffer whispered to Houseman, her husband of twenty-one years.
“How could you have?” Houseman demanded, irritated at the woman’s stupidity. “You’d never been to Surplus City before we moved here and you stopped working as a temp a year before we got married.”
Mrs. Sniffer’s lips parted. She glanced at the turquoise dress of the woman in front of them. “Yes, that’s right.” She agreed.
After an announcement by a portly, effeminate man to the effect that donations to the theater were always appreciated, the curtain rose on a desolate street in the middle of a typical ghost town of the Old West. In the distance were the forbidding natural monuments of the American southwest. Out of a dry goods store on the left emerged a young man in a clerk’s costume; string tie, vest, and spectacles. He stepped down into the street and looked up into the sky as he intoned, “To think that I, Storm Sorenson, should be cursed to spend the most important days of my life stuck here in this wretched little town, why, it’s downright exasperating.”
This line doesn’t seem funny when one reads it, but the way the actor, Pucker Parsons, dropped his head wearily on the last word brought a hearty laugh from the audience. He held this position indicative of defeat for a second or two until an offstage voice shouted, “The stage’s coming!” He then looked up and moved aside to allow passage of the cardboard conveyance.
“My name’s Lord Fidzmus,” A distinguished-looking man said, poking his head out of a window in the stagecoach. “I’m looking for someone named Sorenson.”

Lord Fidzmus Drinks Poison

“The question is, did Lord Fidzmus know there was moctecycine in the orange juice?” Inspector Barnaby posed the question as the police photographer took pictures of the surprisingly small dining room in which Lord Fidzmus had been found dead.
“You mean was it suicide?” Tom Reynolds of the Surplus City Department of Municipal Services asked.
“Well, orange juice would be the ideal substance to disguise the taste of the poison.” Barnaby considered.
“Which also leads one to believe that someone could have added poison to the orange juice.” Reynolds pointed out.
“Yes, but why would a nobleman like Lord Fidzmus be drinking orange juice in the middle of the day? Don’t these guys usually drink brandy or scotch? If someone wanted to poison his orange juice, it seems to me they would have done it at breakfast.” Barnaby nodded to the photographer who had completed his work and now was exiting the room.
“Maybe he was having a late breakfast. You know these noblemen, up until all hours, partying with celebrities.”
“No I don’t.” The inspector denied all knowledge of Lord Fidzmus’ social group. He put a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. “Who was Fidzmus anyway? What’s his story?”
“Well, I’m no expert,” Reynolds qualified his answers. “But what I do know is that Fidzmus’ real name is Clarence Wallaby. He made a fortune in the publishing business. He owns Gunkumus magazine. He bought the title of Fidzmus from the previous holder. The family had gone bankrupt years ago. I don’t think the previous Lord Fidzmus even knew he was nobility.”
“Really?” Inspector Barnaby found that hard to believe.
“I don’t know.” Reynolds waved away his own words. What did he know? He was just a city employee. His job was to make sure the investigation didn’t tread on any influential toes.
Barnaby chewed his gum and looked around the room. The rest of the mansion was overwhelming in its opulence, yet this dining room had a folksy intimacy that reminded him of his grandmother’s house.

Hollinshead’s Camel Display

The old fashioned rotary phone rang, delighting the handful of tourists that watched in fascination as old Hollinshead proceeded to answer it.
“Hello?” The old man said into the antique device.
“Just thought you’d like to know: Lord Fidzmus is dead.” A voice informed the old man.
“Dead? How? Who is this?” Hollinshead demanded in a cracked voice.
The tourists watched him speak wide-eyed. He was so old!
“My grandmother had a phone like that.” One man told his children.
“He was poisoned.” Hollinshead’s caller continued.
“Who is this?” Hollinshead again demanded.
“Who is Fidzmus’ heir, Hollinshead?” The voice on the phone asked playfully. Hollinshead heard the voice chuckle briefly before the connection was broken.
“Hello? Hello?” Hollinshead bellowed. He recradled the receiver angrily.
“Hey, old man,” A rat-faced youth among the tourists called out, “You need to get with the times!” He brandished the latest in communications technology at Hollinshead with a contemptuous sneer.
The old man barely registered awareness of the boy’s remark. He shuffled in a daze back to his customary perch in the shadows at the rear of the converted barn.
“That’s not nice, Jack.” The boy’s mother remonstrated with him. The father, on the other hand, glared at Jack menacingly. Wait until we get back to the car, he thought.
Jack repocketed his miniature telephone and reluctantly followed his parents as they and the other tourists walked about Hollinshead’s Roadside Camel Museum. As they stopped before yet another stuffed camel, this one dressed in the costume of a stereotypical Viking, the boy thought again, what a dump. He rolled his eyes up to the rafters with a sigh. What he saw, however, intrigued him against his will. He approached Hollinshead about it.
“Hey, uh… sir, uh,” He began. “What’s that little camel with the wings doing up there?” He pointed, but Hollinshead did not answer. He was too busy rummaging through an old, water-stained valise.
“I know it’s in here somewhere.” He muttered.




Cracker Basket Christmas

I love to hear them laugh. The one in the Green Lantern t-shirt, the one with the impossibly big ass, and the one that sings gospel songs to herself. They sit together and have a merry time while I struggle alone in the corner, trying to get the cracker basket ready in time for Christmas.
Obtaining the crackers was the easiest part of the project. I sneaked into the breakroom after the cleaning crew had moved on and smashed open the appropriate vending machine with a sledgehammer.
“All the necessary varieties were made available to me with that bold action.” I later told Tamza Wung.
“You call that bold?” He wheezed. “Why, in my time with the League of Boldness, we would have robbed a convenience store or, hell, a cracker warehouse!” The slide on his string tie was in the shape of a longhorn’s skull. He wore moccasins of soft deerskin on his little blue feet.
Despite my friend’s dismissal of my method, I felt relieved at having gotten at least that much accomplished. The hard part, constructing the basket, still loomed before me.
Due to the wartime embargo, I had not been able to secure a supply of the Vietnamese reeds that I had hoped to use. Luckily, Dr. Fungrous pointed out that South Carolina’s native sawtooth jute was both plentiful and a fair substitute for the former plant, having many of the same desirable qualities. I ordered a shipment from some acquaintances of mine in Charleston and had it shipped to my corner.
My previous experience with crochet, which I had so long prided myself on, proved of little value in the weaving. I was clumsy and my fingers, unused to any work more strenuous than the pushing of mining carts full of ore, soon were sore and blistered. I feared for my saxophone playing. Would it suffer?
I was sitting dejected, thinking on these things, as well as the upcoming deadline, when one of the three laughing ladies addressed me.
“I didn’t think you celebrated Christmas.” She of the giant ass observed.
“I don’t,” I replied, “But certain obligations accrue to me as a result of my methodologies.”

As We Remotely Engage

Having reestablished my link with events outside this particular volume, my first course of action was to contact Colonel Calculer.
“Good morning, Toadsgoboad!” The Colonel hailed me over the ethereal diometer in his transdimensional scow, The Abandoned Doctorate.
“It’s evening here.” I replied. I spoke into the Gearender, my sentient, symbiotic fedora. Certain chemical processes inside the hat mimicked the function of an ethereal diometer, as well as other devices.
“Why aren’t you asleep then?”
“I never sleep at night anymore.” I said more grimly than I intended.
“I’m so sorry. Anything I can do?” The Colonel is ever solicitous.
“Well, that’s what I’m calling about. There is something I’d like you to do.”
“Aha.”
“Not about my sleep patterns, but about the resolution of certain matters here on my end.”
“Your end?”
“This end of the Procurementation.”
“Toadsgoboad, you’re not making any sense, I’m afraid.”
How true this was, I considered. There was no way I could simplify what had to be said. Of course, I could just give the Colonel instructions and trust him to carry them out, but, as a friend, I felt I owed him more of an explanation.
“Colonel, at this very moment the ancient reservoir beneath Mall City has collapsed, sending a flood of water over the Cosmetic Plain. Thousands of refugees are on the move. This is a unique opportunity to break into the Periodicals Archive and obtain those back issues of National Geographic World I want. Do you think you can go to Lady Pidgpug’s apartment and distract her for… oh, say three hours?”
“Toadsgoboad, I’d love to, but there’s just one problem.” The Colonel’s voice was thin and trebly as it came out of my hat.
“What’s that?”
“I’m already in Lady Pidgpug’s apartment. The Abandoned Doctorate is stuck in her bathroom. Only thing is, Lady Pidgpug isn’t here.”

Thunderous Applause For Another Peep

At the conclusion of a Friday night performance of The Concrete Goose Phil Medcalf had the inspiration to offer the audience another look at the concrete goose prop itself along with the bows of the cast members.
“They love it!” Medcalf roared as he looked out from backstage. “Turn it around!” He instructed a couple of stagehands. The two men rushed out and took hold of the seven-foot goose, turning it around to give the audience a look at its backside.
“Do you see what I see?” Don Delano, sitting three rows back from the foot of the stage, whispered to his neighbor, Comrade Minsk.
“The handprint?” Comrade Minsk replied.
Delano nodded.
“That’s no prop.” He said.
Comrade Minsk made his way to the aisle past the clapping, cheering people to his right and headed for the exit. Delano followed soon after, having made his apologies to the woman on his left, Lady Pidgpug.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to catch up with you later. Something important has just come up.” He told her.
“More important than my strawberry glacé?” She demanded.
Out in the lobby Comrade Minsk had found a quiet niche behind a potted tree and was trying to make contact with the Zombiso dirigible fleet with the small tin box full of electronics he held.
“Any luck?” Delano asked when he found his comrade.
“No. I don’t what’s wrong with this thing.” Comrade Minsk twisted the knob on the exterior of the box back and forth.
“The goose!” Delano hissed. “It’s interfering with transmission!”
“Do you really think it could?”
“Why do you think it was stolen in the first place?” Delano remembered his history. He suggested they try again from across the street. Meanwhile, back in the dressing rooms Gavin Combover, who had played Buster Beggins in the play, lamented the many obvious historical inaccuracies in it.
“I don’t know what the audience is raving about.” He complained. “In real life Beggins’ skills were actually quite rudimentary.”

Folding Dilemma

“It doesn’t matter to me whether or not the Intercessory Hills show on the outside.” Colonel Calculer insisted to Syvert Nasum, his partner in the operation of The Abandoned Docto-rate.
“Well, it matters to me.” Nasum replied testily. Perhaps he was actually worried about not going back to school more than how the old treasure map was folded. Who can say? He had been in a bad mood all week.
“So fold it however you want to fold it.” The Colonel shook his head and kept his eyes on the “road,” a series of colorful, abstract pylons that marked out their path through the negative ether.
“Well, it should be folded as it was intended to be folded, the way it came from the factory.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Colonel Calculer felt a headache coming on.
“If we fold it that way, then the Intercessory Hills will be showing.” Nasum reminded him in exasperation as if the utter wrongness of this course of action should be obvious.
At the time these trivial details were being hashed out, I had not yet seen the treasure map. My suspicions were that the treasure would turn out to be the concrete goose itself, now missing from the spot marked with a elongated ‘Q’ on the map, but these would prove to be as incorrect as my earlier assumption that Dr. Fungrous would reveal a secret sympathy with the forces of evil as personified by the Subpecuniary Committee. Unfortunately I didn’t keep this assumption to myself, but published a pamphlet on the subject supposedly only to be distributed in Zone Four. Dr. Fungrous found out about it, however. I had wounded him and I had to make it up.
It was at Dolphy’s, a Mexican restaurant in a valley somewhere between Surplus City and Mall City that I presented Dr. Fungrous with an automated puppet stand of his very own.
“No more relying on Jerry to carry you around.” I said, the tears welling up in my eyes as naturally as my hair curls when it gets long.
“Oh, well done!” Jerry clapped.
“I don’t know what to say.” Dr. Fungrous admitted.
I signaled the waitress for the check.

The Shirt Read “Dry”

Even though I couldn’t stop thinking about the cake, I was yet able to maintain my focus on the task at hand: watching the back of the Gooberstein Building. Rammikin was bound to come out eventually. I had made myself as comfortable as possible in the observation can, but one thing nagged at me: that damn cake.
With misguided solicitude, my current assistant Nan had provided me with a cake for my nourishment. Although I had firmly squelched her initial offer she had managed to sneak the cake into the van anyway. I only discovered it after I had parked and removed a bag full of technical manuals from the passenger seat. Now it weighed on my mind like a stove that might or might not have been left on.
I glanced back and forth between the rear of the building and the manual on vending machine repair I held in my hands. I checked the time. It had been nearly three hours since I had last eaten. Normally I try to keep my consumption of food to intervals of at least four hours, if not more. I had a can of beans and a can of turnip greens waiting on me back at the hidden base. Despite all of this I dropped my reading material and picked up the cake.
Rammikin didn’t show as the first slice disappeared down into my gullet, nor on the second. Mercifully, and this is something I will be forever grateful to him for, he stepped out of the building as I was preparing to eat a third. Despite my sticky hands and my obvious duty, it was still a struggle to put the cake aside and do what needed to be done. As I got out of the van I resolved to punish Nan in some fitting manner.
“Bob Rammikin?” I addressed the man as I accosted him, blocking him in against the side of his panel truck with my increased bulk.
He wore a sports jacket over a t-shirt. The t-shirt was red. Across the chest was the word “DRY” in white letters. Some kind of statement about alcoholism I supposed.
“What do you want?” He asked, anxiety evident in those frantic eyes.
“Revenge.” I hissed. The paralyzer cone I turned on Rammikin was unfamiliar to him, but still he jumped at the sight of it. Before he could manifest his desperation as action I had enveloped him in caloric overload.

Contusion Desperado

When next I saw Bob Rammikin he was a caricature of himself, a character in a play called “Contusion Desperado” (conveniently enough).
“I’m thinking of filming one of the performances,” The playwright and director of the piece, Malcolm Bishop, told me during intermission. “And having that be my first film. I’ve always wanted to get into filmmaking.”
“I see.” I replied, catching sight of myself in the mirrors that lined the lobby wall. It would be another six months at least before my hair was as long as I wanted it to be. Now that my parents were dead, I felt free to be as “freaky” as I wanted. Once upon a time I would have gotten a tattoo, but now that even the Pope sported one (an edelweiss on his left shoulder), all the attraction was gone.
“Excuse me.” Bishop begged, lightly touching me with his fingertips. “I see someone I must talk to.” He moved away through the crowd.
“You must feel special.” A woman whom I immediately recognized as Lady Pidgpug addressed me.
“For what?” I asked, thinking maybe she was going to comment on my vintage clothing.
“Getting the play’s author to speak to you alone for nearly five minutes.” She replied. I observed her closely, though I did so unobtrusively, making faces the whole time to distract her from my true intentions. She was, I concluded, at least twelve years older than I. The reports I had received speaking of her great wealth were not exaggerations. A fabulous, jewel-encrusted, miniature piano was strapped to her left wrist.
“I see you’ve noticed this.” Lady Pidgpug smiled, holding out the aforementioned ornament. I nearly gasped. She had detected my close observation!
“A gift from Buster Beggins.” She explained. “It really plays, too, as well as registering barometric pressure.”
“Buster Beggins?” I repeated. “Then you must have known that whole crowd; Hollinshead, Comrade Minsk, Todd Melker…”
My attempt at soliciting information, however, was unsuccessful. The lady excused herself with a smile and a chiding finger and walked away.

Ethel Gibbons Names the Cat

Lady Pidgpug’s fiftieth birthday passed without a celebration of the magnitude she had conjured up for her fortieth. It was a quiet occasion with a handful of friends, nothing like the hundreds that had attended the one ten years previous. She received a few, well chosen gifts, but no surprises.
The next day, however, Lady Pidgpug, in a reflective mood, went out onto her balcony to look upon the city she had reigned over (not literally; you know what I mean) for so many decades. There she found a cat.
“He’s just a baby.” Angelina, her maid, pronounced on being shown the foundling.
“He’s not still… nursing, is he?” Lady Pidgpug worried.
“No.” Decided Angelina, taking the animal into her strong, peasant hands and looking him over. “I just meant he’s still a little cat yet. Probably just been weaned, though. Another thing;” She added, holding the cat up to the light. “He is a she.”
“Really.” Lady Pidgpug said with satisfaction. She took the cat back into her arms, already deciding that this was her birthday present from the cosmos, and a wonderful one at that.
“You going to keep him, I mean, her?” Angelina asked.
“I certainly am.” Lady Pidgpug replied. “Tell Reeves to go out and get cat food, a little basket for her to sleep in, and whatever else the people at the pet store recommend.”
“What you going to name her?”
Lady Pidgpug paused at the door to the kitchen.
“I’ll have to think about that.”
While watching for Reeves, nominally the butler, but actually more the household’s handyman and resident supplier of brute force, to return, Lady Pidgpug sat on the sofa facing the balcony with the cat in her lap thinking. By the time Reeves had laid out the dozen or so items on the rug before her, she had decided.
“Reeves, do we have any paint?” She asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want you to paint the name ‘Tangles’ on her food bowl.”

It Happens Just Like on TV

Many people want to know if the adventures I have with my friends Jerry Lancaster and Dr. Fungrous, as well as Colonel Calculer and Syvert Nasum, are as exciting as they are depicted on “Brash Anemia,” the TV show based on my life. While I have only seen a couple of episodes of the show, I can say that as far as I can determine it is a fairly accurate account, although there are a few differences. For instance, my hair is brown, not blond as is that of Pucker Parsons, the actor who plays Rectanglo, the character based on me.
That’s another thing; people have wondered why the character isn’t named Toadsgoboad. The reason for that is that as I am still in operation as an agent of Procurement, it might prove confusing to those fans of the show who also have to have dealings with me in real life. While the show is based on my life, the actual episodes are mostly either loose condensations of actual events or outright fabrications. You can see how some people might get confused. Other than that, however, and the fact that I am not a charming womanizer, the show is, as I say, fairly accurate.
At the request of the producers I have agreed to a cameo role on an upcoming episode. The idea is that I will play a senior defense analyst called in to give advice to Rectanglo and his crack team of assassins. I suggested that I give an impromptu performance on the saxophone, but was turned down. It bothers me that one rarely sees Rectanglo playing the saxophone (from what I’ve heard; again, I’ve barely seen the show). Oh, he picks it up now and again to emphasize some point as he’s about to back some slinky female against the edge of the bed, but he never cuts loose with one of those crazy solos that I have become so identified with.
Another aspect of the show that bothers me is the merchandising. I think the producers are missing out by not licensing more products, especially toys. I think the market is ready for a Toadsgoboad/Rectanglo action figure and an attendant line of combat vehicles and fashion accessories. I can easily see a Toadsgoboad version of Risk or even Clue. The murder took place in the corner of the breakroom. But an authorized Rectanglo cocktail shaker and martini glass? That’s not who I am.

Toweling Around the Waist

While toweling around the waist after a non-lavatory (i.e.; purely therapeutic) bath, I discovered the growth that now lies in an incubator at the laboratory. Of course, I had it removed. What with my failing eyesight and the increasing pain in my fingers, it is almost more than I can bear to have any further debilities or physical anomalies added to my share of suffering.
Dr. Fungrous was most interested in the growth.
“It appears to be a miniature human.” He said, moving smoothly away from the incubator on his automated puppet stand. “Fetus-like in development, of course.”
“Shades of Chris Ware.” I mused.
“Please!” Dr. Fungrous moaned. “Do not speak that name to me! I find… that person’s work to be both highly depressing and self-indulgent.”
Not wanting to say anything negative at this crucial juncture, I raised my eyebrows and stared at the stainless steel legs supporting the incubator. I sighed before diplomatically answering, “Strong feelings.”
“As a cartoonist yourself you should have strong feelings of your own on the subject.” Dr. Fungrous accused.
“As a scientist you should know the value of staying on the subject at hand.” I countered.
“You’re one to talk.” He laughed. “First you’re taking a bath, then you’re obliquely denigrating a famous cartoonist.”
“What,” I demanded emphatically, “More can you tell me about this growth?” I pointed at the little lump of pink matter struggling feebly against its wrappings of soft chinchilla within the incubator.
“I can tell you that it’s getting bigger.” Dr. Fungrous put his fake pipe in his mouth and puffed on relaxing flavored air.
“Just bigger? Or is it also developing?”
“Both. Already I’ve seen a marked improvement in its ability to fill out basic forms.”
“How soon before it can start making journal entries?” I asked.
“Let’s not rush things, Toadsgoboad.” Dr. Fungrous admonished me.

Pitcairn Bathes in Salt

In an effort to rid himself of the infestation of mites that had plagued him since his ill-advised tour of the cannery, Pitcairn, the growth removed from my waist now nearly grown to maturity, bathed in salt.
“I hate to see him suffer.” I confessed to a group of delegates as I conducted them through the maze of Central Processing.
“Do you in some way consider him your son?” Asked one of the delegates, a hulking creature with six limbs, four of which supported his barrel-like torso while the remaining two, corresponding to the arms with which he have been blessed by the blind watchmaker of evolution, shifted a heavy-looking copy of The Delegate’s Guide to Conversation back and forth one to the other.
“I don’t really know how to answer that.” I said uneasily. “I’ll have to give it some thought.” I saw to it that the group was given their snack of crème sandwich cookies and fruit punch and slipped out to a nearby meditation chamber.
What were my feelings towards Pitcairn? I had sent him to the finest boarding schools on the northern slope of Zone One. His progress had been extraordinary. He had the makings of a fine engineer. But a son? I didn’t think that was either appropriate or accurate. He was more like a book one has written that, unaccountably, has taken on a life of its own by capturing the public’s imagination. It is both the creation of one’s labors and an entity unto itself. He was not my son. My feelings were not those of a father. Why then, you ask, did I hate to see him suffer? For the same reason that I hated to see anyone suffer. I could imagine myself in his place.
As I exited the chamber and handed my meditation robe to the attendant I decided on a course of action. I would see my responsibilities, such as I understood them, fulfilled, but I would make no emotional or proprietary claims on Pitcairn.
“Uncle Toadsgoboad,” My little growth (now grown) greeted my as I entered the steam room where the salt was being licked from his body by a flock of moths. “I feel like a new man.”
“Strange that you should say that.” I commented, knowing that my next words might well sever Pitcairn from me more completely than by any surgeon’s knife.

Furbound Foxweigh

Kwai Miuk’s parents were proud of her appearance on “Brash Anemia,” despite her having only one line.
“It appears to be the same ideogram over and over again: ‘Foxweigh.’” She informed the main characters solemnly before being hustled offscreen.
“Kwai Miuk,” Her mother spoke to her over the phone after watching the episode. “I only want to know one thing: did they allow you to keep the gorgeous fur coat you wore on the program?”
“No, Mom. That was a prop. It belongs to the production company. Besides, I think it was a fake.” Kwai Miuk hoped she could end the call soon; she needed to talk to her agent.
“Well, if that was a fake, it was a marvelous fake. I think you looked beautiful in it.”
My memories of that episode are not as happy as Kwai Miuk’s. As a working actress, she at least had added another credit to her resumé. I, on the other hand, added only to my quantum of suffering. This was the episode in which I performed my cameo. Like Kwai Miuk, I was dressed in a fur coat.
“I thought I was supposed to be a senior defense analyst.” I questioned.
“You are,” Explained Dirk Davenport, the director. “But you’re not military. You’re civilian. Somebody from a private think tank or something.”
Minutes before filming of the scene began I was introduced to Pucker Parsons, the actor who played Rectanglo, the character based on me.
“Toadsgoboad,” He crooned in his laidback California accent, “It’s an honor to finally meet you.” He smiled for me, displaying pure, clean, milk-white and enamel lacquer teeth.
“Thank you.” I mumbled.
“Hey, I understand you play the saxophone.” He said, jabbing a finger at me. “Maybe you’d like to jam with my band, the Landlocked Pirates, sometime.”
“Uh, yeah. Maybe.”
“Places, everyone!” Davenport called.
“Well, back to the old grindstone, eh?” Parsons flashed his luminous smile again. Zombies of the night escorted him to his mark, each one smoothing down a separate section of the big star’s feathered person.

Released From a Bout with a Goof

“How much work can you possibly hope to get done in six minutes?” The goof demanded as he turned reluctantly from the television documentary on the Captain and Tennille.
“You’ll see.” Rectanglo retorted. “But first, I must have the proper working conditions!” He picked up a heavy brass ashtray (actually a ceremonial urn his uncle had brought back from Korea forty years ago, but who remembered such details?) and flung it into the probing eye/mouth of the TV.
The silence that followed was a shocking contrast to the blare of noise and chatter that had reigned before.
“That’s how I fucking feel!” Rectanglo announced.
“You fool!” The goof shouted while all around the wailing and screaming of the television-deprived rose up to whatever gods watch over the dedicated watchers.
“You fool!” The goof cried again. “You don’t know what you’ve done!”
“As I said,” Rectanglo answered, sitting down before a half-filled spiral-bound notebook. “I have created the proper working conditions—well, started to.” He withdrew a sexified, yet strangely de-beautified, version of the paralyzer cone from the interior of his vest and swept the room with its unique waves. The goof and all his contemporaries collapsed where they stood or sat. Now truly silence was the usurper in the room lined with colorful, food-dispensing robots.
Rectanglo looked about with an expression of satisfaction on his symmetrical, thin-nosed face.
“Maybe I can get some work done now.” He said aloud and picked up a pen. He had only filled in perhaps three or four lines in his notebook before the door opened and in stepped Mr. Locomotor, his main sidekick.
“Looks like a massacre in here.” The newcomer commented.
“If you don’t want to join them, keep quiet.” Rectanglo did not look up.
“Sorry, pal, but first of all, the paralyzer cone won’t work on me and second, it’s time to go.” Mr. Locomotor tapped the chronometer strapped to his wrist.
“Dammit!” Rectanglo swore, throwing down the pen. “And I was so close to completing today’s quota!”

Her Dismal Product

It had always galled me that I couldn’t speak a foreign language. My physician, Dr. Rubens, agreed with me. “That’s something I want to do before I die, learn to speak a foreign language.” He said on one occasion when he saw me with a German text. Of course, it occurred to me that if Dr. Rubens, with his advanced degree and abundant resources, couldn’t find the wherewithal to do it, then I had even less of a shot. However, resolve is one quality I’ve never lacked and so, one day in early autumn when I had some free time, I decided to take up the challenge.
I had tried French, German, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, and Swedish at different times, but had failed at each one. German was the one I really wanted to master, having gotten furthest along in it and having found it the easiest, but now it seemed to me that it wasn’t easy enough. I needed, if I was ever going to fulfill my promise to myself, the easiest language of all.
“I just want to say that you’ve made a wonderful decision in deciding to learn to foreign language, Mr. Toadsgoboad,” Mandy Asplundh assured me. “And in choosing Asplundh Language Learning Technics as your team partner, you’ve made an equally wonderful choice.”
“Yeah,” I agreed tepidly. “Now tell me, what is the easiest language to learn?”
“The easiest?” Ms. Asplundh pondered. “Well, the most popular is, of course, French.”
“No, I’ve tried French. I need something I can learn before I die.”
“Well, our average client acquires mastery of the language of his or her choice within six months.” Various charts and graphs on the walls about Ms. Asplundh’s desk affirmed this very fact.
“What, in your professional opinion, is the easiest language in the world to learn?” I asked again, this time putting the full force of my personality into my words.
“Well, among the language courses that we offer, I would have to say that English is the easiest.”
I glowered.
“But of course, you already speak that.”
“What languages do you speak?” I asked through a grim smile.
“I speak English and Latin.” Ms. Asplundh answered.

Set Tooth Under Imperial

My determination unabated, I turned to my friends at the university for advice.
“Without a doubt the easiest language in the world to learn is Grimpogan.” Professor MacNurd informed me.
“Grimpogan.” I repeated. I’d never heard of it.
“The language of the Pelit tribe on the island of Molot.” MacNurd explained. “Fifteen consonants. Three vowels. Extremely limited vocabulary. Their tenses tend to overlap a great deal.”
“Do you speak it?” I asked.
“Oh, heavens no. I specialize in Slavic tongues.” MacNurd laughed. “No, if you really want to learn Grimpogan, I think your best bet would be to spend some time on Molot Island. Shouldn’t take too long to assimilate the language. A month or two ought to do it.”
I debated with myself. A month or two on isolated Molot Island. How much German, by contrast, could I pick up in a month or two in Berlin? If I had that much time to waste, wouldn’t it be more profitably spent in Europe? On the other hand, death was looming ever closer and I had only boring old English to show for myself.
Two weeks later I was on Molot Island, living in a hut woven from sawtooth jute. A few of the local teenagers spoke a little English. I avoided them resolutely. I would have done so in any case, loathing and fearing all teenagers as I do. The most helpful member of the community was old Mogwip, a fisherman and carver of ceremonial urns.
“Trago mo sago.” He said, pointing to the gray mud that had been slapped over the sides of my hut to prevent mosquitoes from getting through the gaps.
“Trago mo sago.” I repeated.
Mogwip grunted in affirmation. He was pleased with my progress. I paid him for his time with pints of corn whiskey and bags of peppermint candy. He moved along the beach to a pile of garbage.
“Mogo tas sogo.” He said, gesturing vaguely.
“What does he mean by that?” I wondered.

Try Hodleronic

After I returned from Molot Island, newly bilingual and tanned most dangerously, I found myself somewhat out of the loop.
“The Subpecuniary Committee has established control over the newly opened Algebraic lands.” Were the first words out of Jerry’s mouth as I stepped off the train.
“The Algebraic lands?” I repeated with brows knitted. “What’re they?”
Jerry looked at me curiously for a moment before replying. “Oh, you weren’t here when they… oh well, never mind. Let’s get your luggage.”
“All I’ve got is my valise and this paper sack.” I indicated the two containers in my hands. “Tell me about this business with the Subpecuniary Committee.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just more of their nefarious activities. Hey, say something in Grimpogan!”
“Mito ga piso.” I muttered.
“What’s that mean?”
“‘Where’s the shovel.’”
“Where’s the shovel? That’s funny.”
“And useless, like just about everything else the Pelit say.”
“Yeah, I don’t imagine Grimpogan has much of a literature to delve into.” Jerry led me to the antique walking machine in which he purposed to drive me home.
“The Book of Sacred Clams, and that’s about it.”
As we stomped into town, heading for the underground apartment complex where I could make the secret transfer into the tunnel system, we passed several signs reading, “Try Hodleronic.” I didn’t say anything about them until we passed the fifth or sixth.
“What the hell is ‘Try Hodleronic?’” I demanded.
Jerry laughed.
“‘Try Hodleronic’ is the slogan of Hodleronic, an all-encompassing computer system run by the Subpecuniary Committee. It’s the cash cow by which they’ve been able to establish control over the Algebraic lands.”
“Which are what, exactly?”
“Some lands somewhere. Look, we’re here.”

I Can Eat Grass

My apartment in Mall City was merely a front for one of many secret entrances to the tunnel system; I didn’t maintain much in the way of an actual living space there. There were, however, a few homey, individual touches: a painting of a giant orangutan in a beret and striped shirt climbing up the Eiffel Tower, a diorama depicting the flooding of Goat Valley in exquisite, heartbreaking detail, and a small, but serviceable field of dwarf tuba grass.
“I’m sorry things aren’t more hospitable,” Jerry apologized, “But I didn’t have time to go to the store and you don’t keep much a larder here.”
“That’s OK; I can eat grass.” I dismissed Jerry’s worries as I opened the door to the field.
“You can?” Jerry asked in amazement.
“Dwarf tuba grass I can.” I clipped off a few strands with the pair of scissors that hung on a peg just inside the door. I stuffed the clippings in my mouth and chewed.
“What’s it taste like?” Jerry, who, being imaginary, eats only one of two competing brands of ethereal paste, wondered.
“Well, I usually eat it with bread of some kind, but this,” I considered, “Hasn’t been properly fertilized. It could use a couple of gallons of bone meal and a hard rain.”
Jerry glanced up at the black ceiling.
“Pretty hard to get any rain in here.” He said.
“Automated sprinkler system.” I explained. “Have to adjust it.” I clipped enough grass to fill my paper sack, having emptied it of Jerry’s present earlier. I had given him a ceremonial urn carved from a coffee maker that had fallen mysteriously from the sky onto Molit Island.
“And what did you bring for Dr. Fungrous?” Jerry asked as we sat down in the hallway. “You know he’ll be jealous.”
“Dr. Fungrous gets my animating hand, if he’s lucky.” I stuffed grass in my mouth, preparing myself for the long journey ahead of me.
“Tamza Wung lives in the Algebraic lands, you know.” Jerry gave me the facts.
I ruminated on these things.

Crazy Daemonic Extrapolations

As arranged, Jerry and I waited for Dr. Fungrous to join us. However, as he had not arrived by midnight that Saturday morning, we were forced to enter the tunnel system without him. Dr. Fungrous knew to meet us at the secondary rendezvous point if he had been delayed.
“What is the secondary rendezvous point?” Jerry asked as we walked along an unusually rough and unkempt section of tunnel.
“A small konditorei on Godard Street in Schizmodius.”
“I’ll never be able to keep track of all these names.” Jerry pulled at his nose. His brain was teeming with the details of a thousand adventures. I could not find the will to fault him.
“One day I’ll draw you a comprehensive map. It will be necessarily incomplete and confusing, but at least you’ll be able to make some sense of things.” The tunnel ceiling was much higher than in more civilized, developed areas. One could drive a herd of elephants through this area. The illumination was provided by large, crude oil lamps hung from the ceiling at intervals of thirty feet or so, instead of the small electric lights on the walls one would find in those more comfortable areas of the tunnel I just mentioned. In these latter were framed pictures on the painted walls. Around us now was nothing more than dull, purple-colored rock.
“Once we meet up with Dr. Fungrous,” I continued, “If we do, you’ll have to carry him. His automated puppet stand won’t work down here.”
“Why not?”
“Proximity to the cerebral threads will scramble its psychloric drive.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” Jerry scoffed. “Why not just say the ‘demons’ won’t allow it?”
I stopped short and huddled close to Jerry.
“Silence!” I hissed. “You don’t know what you might conjure up when you speak so casually!”
“What are you talking about?” Jerry pushed me away irritatedly.
“Just kidding.” I relented and continued to walk.
“And why do I always have to carry the puppet? Why can’t you?”
“I have to be free to fight the demons.” I insisted.

Don Hires A Priest

Don, first glimpsed in the background of the scene where Fletchley, president of Citizen Caffeine, offered Panda Shrandell and Clam Tadley the use of one of the company’s charity balloons, now came to the fore and revealed why Gunkumus magazine had named him its number one choice for Rising Star for the Coming Fiscal Quarter. He smiled ruthlessly at the girl behind the desk at the motor pool and forthrightly signed out a vehicle.
“Where you going looking so ruthless and forthright, sexy Don?” Wanda (the girl) asked him as he stepped away with the keys in his overly tanned hand.
“I’m going to hire a priest.” Don pulled one side of his mouth away from his teeth in a piratical rictus. As he exited the office Wanda shook her head as if to say, “Oh, that crazy man!”
The priest Don hired was affiliated with Lee Sowko’s Intentionist Church of the Primary Awareness. Don approached him in the lobby of the Schizmodius franchise.
“Of course,” The priest, Phil Stalewort, cautioned Don, “You realize that my work for the church comes before any extraecclesiastical activities.”
“Of course.” Don nodded as he counted out the money.
“If you want me to actually wear my official vestments,” Stalewort added, keeping as close a watch on the movement of bills as Don, “You’ll have to throw in an extra two hundred. I’ve got my integrity to maintain.”
Don glanced up.
“Naturally.” He said. He added the extra two bills to the pile and handed it over. The priest slipped the money into one of several hidden pockets inside his robes.
“Now, what was it exactly you wanted done?” He asked.
“You have the power to curse, as well as to bless?” Don put it to him.
“Yes, that power is within the purlieus of my duties.” The priest’s double chin was itself doubled as he swelled up with officialdom.
“I want you to curse, publicly, the concrete goose on display in the rotunda of the Mall City High Council.”
Stalewort looked at Don as if to say, “Are you crazy, man?”
“You’re not afraid, are you?” Don asked.
“No man need be afraid,” The priest decided, “If the Primary Awareness shines through him.”



The Priest Returns to Skyclad Mountain

It was said that Lee Sowko himself ordered Phil Stalewort to return to the Central Temple on Skyclad Mountain for an investigative interview. However, it was not with Sowko that Stalewort met, but with one of his top lieutenants (or “stewards,” in church parlance), Manfred Gomez.
“Brother Stalewort,” Gomez greeted the priest as a homely, middle-aged woman ushered him into the steward’s office, “Thank you for submitting so readily to the summons for travel.”
“It is not only my duty to obey, but my privilege.” Stalewort replied, offering his intricately folded hands up for review.
“Nobly spoken, brother. Please, have a seat.” Gomez gestured to the sumptuous leather chair before his desk. “Gum?” He asked, referring to the mildly psychoactive, peanut-based chewing substance that high officials of the church used to promote a constant state of devotion to Primary Awareness.
“No thank you, Steward Gomez. I had some coffee on the train; the two might conflict unproductively.” Stalewort politely refused the offer.
“Yes, conflict.” Gomez seized on the word as his opening onto the topic he must discuss with the priest. “Conflict is usually unproductive. It must be avoided, especially within the church itself.” He paused, examining the priest. The latter was a stocky man of average height. His hair was unimaginatively styled. His skin was pale, but not unhealthily so. He wore glasses with thick, heavy frames.
“Word has reached the Board of Oversight that you publicly cursed a statue in the rotunda of the High Council of Mall City.” Gomez stated bluntly. “This interview is just to find out why.”
“Well, Steward Gomez…” Stalewort began, but was interrupted by the entry of the homely, slightly hunchbacked old woman.
“Steward!” She cried frantically. “Come look!” She pointed the way she had come. “Out the window! They say it’s… they say it’s Lioncharger!”
“Nonsense, woman!” Gomez bellowed, rising from his seat. “Lee Sowko eliminated that threat before we were born! Where is your awareness?” Still he followed the old woman’s gaze and went to the window. Staring down into the valley over which the Central Temple loomed, he decided it was not Lioncharger at all, but a cunningly disguised imposter.

The Vial is Found Under the Statue of Ziphor

“I don’t understand.” Jerry breathlessly confessed as he ran after me. “The concrete goose’s name is Ziphor?”
“It all makes sense now.” I explained as we stopped before the elevator doors. I pushed the “up” button and made use of the time waiting for the elevator to explain further.
“According to tradition, Ziphor was the companion and herald of Lioncharger, who was a symbol…”
“Yes, I know all about Lioncharger.” Jerry interrupted impatiently.
“Well, anyway,” I continued, “The vial supposedly contains the preserved urine of Lioncharger. To the faithful…”
“Did you say ‘urine?’” Jerry interrupted again.
“Yes, urine. Supposedly, one of Lioncharger’s minions caught the sacred liquid as it fell from on high the day before Lioncharger was to ascend Skyclad Mountain.”
“Only he never made it.” Jerry concluded.
The doors to the elevator opened. Standing (by proxy) before us was Dr. Fungrous. With him was a strangely familiar young woman.
“Toadsgoboad, Jerry,” Dr. Fungrous nodded at us each in turn. “This is Kwai Miuk.”
“Ah yes, the actress.” I remembered. Jerry and I entered the elevator and pressed button number 63, which, hopefully, would take us to the uppermost level in the tunnel system. If temporal dislocation from the splashing about of Lioncharger’s pee hadn’t disrupted things too much, that is.
“Kwai has information about the Subpecuniary Committee that could aid us in defeating Lee Sowko.” Dr. Fungrous told me.
“Defeating Lee Sowko?” I repeated incredulously. “I have no interest in ‘defeating’ Lee Sowko. If anybody, it’s the Subpecuniary Committee itself that needs taking down a notch or two.”
“Please, Mr. Toadsgoboad,” Kwai Miuk begged. “I don’t think you realize the damage Lee Sowko’s organization is doing to our traditional belief system.”
“Kid,” I drawled, “The only belief system I’m interested in preserving is Procurement.”

Chemical Analysis of the Vial’s Contents Leads to Reform

It was Tamza Wung who brought the vial of holy urine to the laboratory. He looked haggard; smuggling can do that to you—but somehow younger than when I had last seen him. I drew him to one side after he had handed over the vial to Dr. Fungrous for analysis.
“Tamza, you didn’t sniff the contents of that vial, did you?” I asked, grinning.
“I had to.” He blurted. “I had to verify that it was what we suspected. There have been attempts at deception before.”
“Yes, I know.” I clapped him on the back. “Well, you did a good job. By the way, this is Kwai Miuk. She’s an actress.”
“Nice to meet you.” Wung said. They shook hands.
“I know you.” Kwai Miuk announced happily. “You used to date Cothylwy! She’s a great actress!”
At the mention of this name Wung’s face fell. He looked sick.
“I think you’re going to need another sniff of divine pee.” I joked.
“Semi-divine.” Dr. Fungrous’ voice was sharp. We all turned to the puppet scientist (or scientist puppet, if you prefer; it doesn’t matter to me). He held a slender beaker in his hands.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The preliminary tests are irrefutable: Lioncharger was only semi-divine.” Dr. Fungrous flatly asserted.
“What?” Kwai Miuk looked stricken. Her heartbreak was so evident that I refrained from making another “sniff the pee” joke.
“But not to worry.” Dr. Fungrous added. “This urine is still powerful enough to induce reform.”
“Reform in what?” Jerry, reclining on top of an expensive and delicate-looking piece of equipment, asked.
Dr. Fungrous looked at me.
“I think Toadsgoboad knows.” He said. “I think this is what you’ve been looking for, isn’t it? Some means of reforming the mechanism by which we all exist.”
I looked into the eyes of all these people, including the anonymous lab technicians and probably even into the eyes of the people secretly watching from their places of concealment, and I fumbled for words.

Comrade Minsk Details His Losses

“Comrade Minsk,” Buster Beggins, looking drawn and damp, leaned into his microphone and addressed the little orangutan in the beret. “I understand you have a statement you’d like to read to the committee?”
“Well, Mr. Beggins,” Comrade Minsk replied, taking out a sheet of paper from a folder, “It’s more of an itemization than a statement, but if the committee will indulge me, I’d like to read it.”
“Any objections?” Beggins asked his colleagues seated at the great, semi-circular desk.
“Can you vouch for this itemization’s relevance?” Eliza Welkin asked Beggins.
“I can vouch for the value of Comrade Minsk’s past contributions to the goals of this committee.” Was Beggins response.
Eliza Welkin nodded. She, too, looked weary.
“Members of the committee, this is an itemization of my personal losses in pursuit of the sacred artifacts desired by your honored selves.” Comrade Minsk began.
“Wait a minute.” Captain Bravefellow interrupted. “Are you asking for compensation?”
“Let him read it first.” Beggins insisted. “We can decide on its merits afterward.”
“Very well.” Bravefellow conceded with a huff, leaning back in his chair with his arms (once strong, now withered) folded across his chest.
“One striped shirt, one ten foot tall reproduction of the Eiffel Tower, one case of transparent umbrellas, one…” His enumeration was interrupted by the sudden appearance of The Abandoned Doctorate in the middle of the room.
“Where the hell are we?” Colonel Calculer cried, emerging from the scow in as nearly a disheveled state as the room into which he now stepped.
“Dead bodies everywhere, thousands of pieces of paper covered with memoranda of dubious worth, smashed furniture, broken glass; is this hell itself?” He wondered, stepping through the wreckage.
“The manifestation displacement governor is out of calibration.” Syvert Nasum decided, once he had followed the colonel into the room. “I gave up college for this?”

A New Day for Martha

“I’ve decided to run for governor.” Martha announced to a roomful of friends gathered to celebrate her birthday.
“Damn good idea!” Buke Sipcrest shouted. Others joined in, praising her decision and saying what a good governor she would make.
“You’ll need money.” Clem Starmaster reminded her, reminded everyone. “Lots of it.”
“I don’t think she’ll have too much trouble raising it.” Phyllis Grove countered. “The first governor of the Algebraic lands, a woman? It’s a fantastic idea! People will flock to her cause!”
“You know,” Red Phletchley said in an undertone to Gaff Migmog, “They’re right. She could win. If we get in on the ground floor of this thing, we could be sitting pretty a year and a half from now.”
“What are you thinking?” Migmog grinned. “Secretary of State Phletchley?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Director of Public Works Phletchley.”
Migmog considered.
“Lot of money in that.” He said.
Pletchley nodded solemnly.
The Algebraic lands, recently freed from the tyranny of the Subpecuniary Committee, were in the process of organizing its first representative government. One of the biggest obstacles the people of these lands faced in their task lay in the fact that, indeed, they were lands in the plural. Martha came down on the side of unification, going so far as to suggest a new name for the region, one that reflected their newfound freedom and unity.
“Populotopia.” She enunciated with a smile.
Phletchley and Migmog, now two of her closest assistants and advisors on her campaign staff, were quick to squelch the idea.
“Martha,” Pletchley said gently, “It’s going to be hard enough to get the ranchers in the northern areas to get along with the southern industrialists.”
“We need a name that everyone can agree on.” Migmog added. “Something like Algebraica.”
Phletchley raised his eyebrows. “That’s not bad.” He admitted.
“Well,” sighed Martha. “You two know best.”

Martha Once Owned A Poodle

Sparky, the poodle that Martha had bought as a puppy from a neighbor many years ago when she was known as Miss Tubers the fifth grade teacher and lived in Surplus City, had went missing and been presumed dead so long before that, aside from a single photograph of Martha taken with the dog, little remained to remind her of him.
“However,” Dr. Fungrous said, eyeing all of us with the wild stare of the born lecturer, “Sparky did not die, alone and frightened in some ditch. He was kidnapped.”
“By who?” Jerry asked.
“By whom.” I corrected him.
“By agents working on behalf of Citizen Caffeine.” Dr. Fungrous answered. “They took the dog to one of their secret labs and executed a series of operations on him that resulted in increased size, strength, and intelligence.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I asked, my mouth suddenly gone dry.
“I hope I’m saying what I think I’m saying. Your hand isn’t in me today.” Dr. Fungrous would have his little joke.
“What’s he saying?” Jerry asked.
“He’s saying…” I glanced at Dr. Fungrous’ black eyes. “…that Sparky the poodle became Lioncharger the semi-divine beast.”
Dr. Fungrous nodded smugly. Too smugly. I ought to lock him in an old saxophone case and forget about him for ten years.
“Does this in any way explain Lioncharger’s disappearance? His failure to take Skyclad Mountain?” Jerry wanted to know.
“Perhaps.” Dr. Fungrous mused.
“Oh, who cares?” I cried. “This doesn’t resolve anything.”
“I didn’t think you cared if anything was resolved.” Dr. Fungrous accused. “I just find it fascinating, that’s all.”
“I would find it far more fascinating if Colonel Calculer would show up exactly right when I wanted him to.”
As these words were spoken The Abandoned Doctorate materialized within the appropriate crystal berth, but I really hadn’t wanted it to.

Challenges Are Made to One Cultural Icon in Particular

Recently discovered recordings supposedly of Lioncharger playing the bifwiffik, a kind of primitive piano, had led to his posthumous adoption into the ranks of the musical greats. Of course, members of the semi-divine beast’s cult and ignorant teenagers were all for this further approbation for the already overly celebrated icon, but there were those who really had a problem with it.
“First of all,” I complained as Jerry and I walked among the cardboard trees. “There’s no proof that these noodlings are actually the work of that overgrown poodle.”
“Yeah.” Jerry agreed for the sake of moving the conversation forward.
We continued to walk, passing the little house where COAP, the local radio station, had its headquarters.
“And second of all?” Jerry asked.
“Second of all,” I said, groping for sufficient bile. “Second of all, there are hundreds of deserving musicians whose lives are devoted to music and music alone who aren’t getting the attention they deserve and here comes this charismatic religio/political leader and they make out like he’s Thelonious Monk.”
“Ah, I see. You’re jealous.” Jerry made an inference.
“My life is about more than just music.” I let him know.
“Yes, there’s your writing.”
I stopped short and stared at Jerry.
“We’ll see about this.” I finally said. I turned on the ball of my foot and headed for the little house a dozen yards back.
“Hello,” I greeted the morbidly obese young woman with the pretty face at the receptionist’s desk. “I’d like to take a look at your playlist.”
“Certainly, Toadsgoboad.” She replied.
“That was easy.” Jerry observed as we walked into the back rooms.
“This isn’t Mall City, you know. People know me here.” That was why it was all the more frustrating to find that none of the recordings of me on saxophone that I had provided the station, for free, were listed on the playlist.
“Where’s ‘Nocturnal Medley’ and ‘Drinking and Shoplifting?’” I asked aloud. “Where’s ‘Marriage Mail Blues?’”

Buried in the Back Yard

“I don’t want to hear anymore about Lioncharger.” I said to Jerry as he entered the chamber. “He’s dominated recent discussions too much already.”
“Well, OK.” Jerry shrugged his shoulders. “But you know how dogs like to bury things?”
I continued to write in my notebook. I was in the middle of a particularly good passage in which Rectanglo led his armada of dirigibles into battle against the wax bats of Genug Davon.
“Yes?” I asked finally when I could take it no more.
“Well, apparently Lioncharger buried something in the back yard a short time before he disappeared. They’re digging it up now.”
“Who’re they?” I demanded, rising from my desk and jamming the Gearender on my sorrow-crowned head.
“Robotic Potato Men from Gloush.”
“Ah.” I nodded.
We stepped out into the artificial sunlight. The air was alive with stingless, plastic bees and the recorded sounds of sprinklers and children squealing with summertime delight.
“Do they have any idea what it is yet?” I asked as we approached the excavation.
“Not really. It’s big though.”
“I see that.” I said, looking down into the red dirt pit. The Potato Men (robotic ones; not the organic ones you might have seen working at the cinema) stood on top of a large object, the outlines of which suggested a thermos big enough to hold a swimming pool of hot, black coffee.
“So, Lioncharger intended to come back and dig it up after the success of his march?”
“I don’t have all the answers, Toadsgoboad.” Jerry sounded testy. Perhaps he was missing his home, a subterranean canister that, now that I thought about it, looked much like the object being unearthed before our eyes. This same thought must have occurred to Jerry at that moment for he cried out in alarm and jumped down into the hole, staining his black corduroy trousers with the red dirt that inexplicably makes up the substance of this world.

The Leverage Inducer is Rusted Tight

“The leverage inducer is rusted tight.” Syvert Nasum pronounced as he dropped into his seat in the nose of the transdimensional scow. He held a rag in his hands on which he was wiping off grease from his explorations. A dab of grease was on his nose making him look, Colonel Calculer thought humorously, like Henry James.
“Rainwater must have leaked in through the ankle gasket.” The Colonel speculated.
“Possibly.” Nasum yawned. “What it means, though, is that until we can get it loosened we’ve only got a limited range of movement.”
The Colonel glanced at the necessarily vague map displayed on the instrumentation panel.
“From our present location, which is just about here,” He pointed at an image on the map that looked almost exactly like a single piece of Corn Chex brand cereal sitting on top of a slice of tomato. “Where do you estimate we could go?”
Nasum considered.
“Well, I think we could make it over here to this bottle-of-shampoo-looking thing or maybe over here,” He moved his finger across the map, “To this dog suspended by the balloon.”
“Wish we had names for all these places.” Colonel Calculer mused.
“Hey, we’re explorers. We get to name them.”
“Only every time we go someplace, we find out someone’s already living there and they’ve already got a name for it.”
“Or that it’s all part of the same place we’ve been before.”
The Colonel was silent. He took in Nasum’s remark slowly. He turned to his young friend.
“You know, you may have something there.” He said.
“What exactly do I have?”
“Chances are that we don’t need to use the scow at all to get to either one of those places.” He nodded at the map. “Since they’re probably all connected.”
“Yeah, but what if we’re the connection?”
“Your education has made you cynical.” The Colonel judged.
Nasum ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling the grime.

Mauve Underlings Attempt the Impossible
(Ms. B’s Candidate for the Worst Story Ever Written)

The allure of an old Mexico that probably never existed drew Lady Pidgpug to make one last pilgrimage to the faux ruins of Crimpo Lugo. Ailing ever since the amputation of her left leg, just below the faded and smeared tattoo of Sean Connery in full carnival attire, she clutched a length of sleigh bells as she was lifted into the seven-wheeled conveyance that would bear her and her chosen possessions to her intended destination.
“Keep up your spirits!” She called to the members of her household staff gathered to see her off. She jingled the bells feebly and smiled her ghastly, wet paper smile. “Remember the good times!”
Tangles the cat had been dead for years, but her successor, grown just as fat, sat beside Lady Pidgpug as, a month later, they arrived at Crimpo Lugo.
“See how ominous it is!” Lady Pidgpug croaked to Wangles, looking out the window.
Her driver, Haben Sie Ein Fingerhut, pushed his hat back and sighed.
“You want to go to the hotel now, Lady Pidgpug?” He asked.
“The hotel?” The lady repeated as if he had suggested she eat at Dairy Queen. “Why would I want to go to a hotel when all my old friends are coming to see me?” She pointed towards the ruins whence, indeed, a host of comical dwarves in traditional outfits of mauve-colored suede waddled towards the vehicle, singing some merry song of welcoming in the local dialect, monkeys on leashes and baskets of fruit in their wake.
“Señora,” the lead dwarf, whose mustachios competed with his tummy for ultimate plumpness, greeted Lady Pidgpug with a large, aromatic blossom. “For you.”
“Thank you, Felicio.” She took the flower from him and jammed it crookedly through the gray tresses over her ear.
“Viva! Viva!” Felicio cried and all around took up the chant.
“Felicio, my old friend, can you do something for me?” Lady Pidgpug asked.
“What is it, Lady of the House in the Sky?”
“Can you rekindle the love of simplicity within my tired old heart?”
The dwarf’s mustachios drooped. He glanced at Fingerhut, who sat fanning himself with a much-abused road map.
“We can try, my lady.” He answered, a smile tickling the corners of his eyes. “We can but try.”





Skeptical Review From the East

“Like concrete, homemade cookies get harder with age.” This line, spoken by Rectanglo, the main character on the new animated grisaille “The Aromatic Juggernaut,” is just a sample of the kind of nonsense you can expect to find if you actually watch this show, which, having probably seen “Brash Anemia,” the earlier, live-action program featuring the Rectanglo character, you might justifiably elect not to do.
Where the earlier show placed Rectanglo at the center of a more aggressive “X-Files” type investigatory group, “The Aromatic Juggernaut” envisions Rectanglo as a private individual working to unravel esoteric mysteries for his own, obscure reasons. For those of you unfamiliar with the original, crudely drawn comic book from which Rectanglo is derived, neither of these two premises bears much, if any, resemblance to their source material. In the comic book Rectanglo is the super-powered, benevolent dictator of a world that exists inside a large box floating in space. Perhaps the reasons why a straightforward adaptation of this material is not feasible for television are obvious, but I (despite my lack of sympathy with any of the various permutations of the character and his attendants) and legions of Rectanglo fans (precisely because of their sympathies) cannot understand, in the face of the effort that Broadcasting Itself is making on its behalf, what those reasons could possibly be.
I know that I haven’t yet enumerated a single objectionable aspect, other than the nonsensical nature of most of Rectanglo’s utterances, of “The Aromatic Juggernaut,” but this is because I need not. I need only make my objection to Rectanglo himself clear. This is a character with whom I can find nothing to identify. He is completely self-absorbed. This was most clearly evident in the original comic book, less so in “Brash Anemia,” where he was surrounded by a team of devoted assistants whom he constantly risked almost certain disturbance of equanimity to rescue. “The Aromatic Juggernaut,” while necessarily showing Rectanglo isolated in his seemingly infinite apartment, is equally unconcerned about the people that might be outside that apartment, no matter how many of their houses and places of business he breaks into in search of clues to some vaguely formed question.
--Lurch Hurler

An Armada of Bubble-Shaped Vessels

“An abiding commitment to the improvisatory nature of Jazz won’t help us now.” Kipson Blackstool commented as much to himself as anyone around him as he and that distinguished group of folks with whom he stood and watched the approaching armada.
“Maybe not,” Sandy Burke replied, caring little whether Blackstool heard him or not, “But a thorough appreciation for the vagaries of 1960’s design never hurts.”
Plumber Tortelu’s voice knifed through the meandering thoughts of his compatriots. “Gentlemen, this banter is most engaging, but what we need right now is information.”
Detailed schematics of the bubble-shaped vessels were hard to come by, but eventually, through the medium of a giant sea snake operator in the employ of the Brotherhood of Gelatin Carvers and Breadstick Salters, the necessary information was made available.
` “Amazing.” Doc Dirksbun salivated as he and the rest of the select committee looked at the plans in a makeshift tent. “The outer hull is made of pure detergent!”
“It’s an obvious design.” That know-it-all Rusty Cardtrivet replied. “How else would they float?”
“This is all quite fascinating, yes,” Plumber Tortelu broke in. “But it doesn’t do anything to stop those vessels from reaching our shores!”
“As ever, the voice of reason.” Mr. Graves sneered, bowing low.
“Aren’t they here yet?” Anders John wondered. He looked at his watch. As he did so he remembered the Mickey Mouse watch an aunt had given him for a Wintertime Festival present. He had been a small boy, too young to know not to wind the watch too tightly. This was back when they had watches that required winding; obviously before your time. Oh, why had his aunt given him such a thing? He still regretted the watch’s destruction. Such a charming object. Not that he cared all that much for Mickey Mouse. Still, it was one more painful childhood memory to enter into the secret book he kept.
“Maybe if we knew more about the occupants of those vessels.” Suggested Fritz, a humble man from over the hill.
“It’s too late for that!” Snapped Plumber Tortelu.

No More Plaid Universe

Originally, the term “plaid universe” referred to the cosmological theories of Lee Sowko, but over the years I began to notice that young people were using the term in some way or ways that I couldn’t quite understand. For help on this matter, I sneaked into a lecture by the renowned word expert Zed Harper, himself a younger man than I. My first impression of the man was disappointingly negative, due to his opening remarks praising David Foster Wallace.
I frowned, folded my arms, and hunched down in my seat with a sour grunt. The girl beside me noted my reaction curiously.
“Are you alright?” She whispered.
I didn’t take my eyes off Harper, but spoke out of the corner of my mouth.
“Computer graphics have progressed to the point where I can no longer trust academia.” I then returned my full attention to the lecturer, feeling all the while the stare of the girl.
Unfortunately for me, and perhaps for you, just as Harper was coming to the part where he was to explicate the various uses of the term “plaid universe,” two men in the uniform of the campus police entered the room. They scanned the audience until they located me. One pointed at me with his baton.
“You.” He called out. “The man in the big hat and the dirty overcoat. May we speak with you outside, please?”
“Well, at least they’re courteous.” I said to my neighbor as I got up. “And grammatically correct.”
“He’s old.” I heard the students whisper to each other as I descended the steps to join the police.
“The universe isn’t plaid,” I said to Harper as I was escorted past him. “But it is kilt-shaped.”
“Mr. Toadsgoboad,” One of the policemen addressed me out in the hall close by the vending machines. “You’ve been asked not to disturb the classes before.”
“I no longer wish to be addressed as ‘Mr. Toadsgoboad.’” I replied, reaching into the Gearender for the light switch. “If you want to be formal, you may call me ‘Toadsgoboad, Creator of the Jesting Infinite.’”

They Talked of Nothing Else

The cancellation of “The Aromatic Juggernaut” was on everyone’s mind that Monday night at Cothylwy’s. It was all her guests talked about. Of course, Cothylwy herself had provided the voice of Rectanglo’s mysterious neighbor, Mrs. Bissett, but our host downplayed the whole thing and denied that she felt any disappointment.
“These things happen.” She wisely reminded everyone. “Besides, it was only a cartoon.”
“Only a cartoon?” I thought. “Was the Johnson administration only a cartoon?” This amused me so much that I scooped up a handful of salted peanuts and made my way to the balcony, smiling at everyone I passed.
The nostalgic smell of narcoweed greeted me on stepping outside. A couple huddled against the railing glanced furtively at me.
“Don’t mind me.” I said, hurling the peanuts over the side. I looked out over the city. The moon, an orange platform supporting a colony of kangaroo people, hung over the palace, the place I should be if the television was working.
“But, since it’s not…” I said aloud.
“Would you like a hit?” The male half of the smoking couple offered.
“I’d love to,” I answered. “But my principles won’t allow it.”
The woman snickered. “What principles?” She asked.
Back inside, I met Cothylwy under the portrait of Lord Fidzmus that hung over the vestigial fireplace.
“He was your father, wasn’t he?” I asked, gesturing with a breadstick.
She nodded.
“Why are you here, Toadsgoboad?” She asked, out of the blue, I might thusly characterize. “You don’t go to parties.”
“Party?” I replied. “I thought this was a wake.”
“Even if the show was cancelled, it’s still a part of history now. Your history.”
“That’s true, but…” I stopped, searching for a clever way to put my feelings into words, but did not go on due to the arrival of the boys from Geschwindigkeit, the hot new band that had just been cast as a gang of fun-loving, mystery-solving robot cowboys in their own TV show.
“I feel like I’m history.” I finally said, but Cothylwy had left me alone.

The Maid Remembers the Colonel

As the weeks passed, becoming months without anybody commenting on the fact, Lady Pidgpug’s household took on an altered routine in her continued absence. Angelina assumed control of operations, going so far as to open her employer’s mail and deal with matters contained within as she saw fit. With no lady of the house to care for, there was more time for leisurely activities such as entertaining a reporter that, had Lady Pidgpug been around, would never have made it past the door. Yet there he sat, in the kitchen (Angelina was not so disrespectful as to allow him to interview her in the apartment’s private rooms), talking with the maid.
“How long have you worked for Lady Pidgpug?” He asked.
“Twenty-three years.” Angelina replied proudly. She did not see it as wasted time. She did not see it that way at all.
“And what do you know about her past?”
“I know her real name is Ethel Gibbons.”
The reporter made a note in his book.
“She was once quite a socialite, wasn’t she?” He asked.
“She used to have people over to visit quite often, if that’s what you mean.” Angelina waved her hand at one of the other members of the staff, who had put her head in at the door, shooing her away.
“Did she ever have anyone by the name of Calculer to visit?”
“The Colonel?” Angelina’s eyes flashed. She put down her coffee cup. “I can tell you about the Colonel.” She declared. “He used to come to visit me as much as her ladyship.”
“Really. And why was that?”
“I think he liked me. I know he liked me.” The maid looked at the calendar. That month’s picture was of a baby chicken just hatching.
“What can you tell me about him?”
Angelina looked back at the reporter.
“What do you want to know about him for? I thought you were interested in Lady Pidgpug.” She wasn’t suspicious, just distracted.
“I’m interested in Lady Pidgpug and all her friends. Everyone connected with her or them.”
“That’s a lot of people.” Angelina stated truthfully.

Who Was the Colonel’s Companion?

Colonel Calculer’s companion, for those of you who have not yet read Eight Years On the Road: The Roger Eructo Story, was Syvert Nasum, at least as far as the purposes of our narrative are concerned. There has been some conjecture about the Colonel’s companions in the days before the events described herein, but, other than vague hints in Mrs. Copley’s Breading and Yam Initiative, we know very little of that time period.
However, it is Syvert Nasum that you want to hear about. He is the one inextricably linked in the public’s mind with Colonel Calculer. It is his doomed college career that inspired the name of his and the Colonel’s famous ship, the transdimensional scow, The Abandoned Doctorate.
But of course, you know all that; you know Syvert Nasum’s name and the ship’s name; you’ve read the story thus far. What you want is to know about Syvert Nasum himself. Perhaps the following anecdote will shed more light on this interesting, but sadly neglected character.
One day Nasum was on his way to his sociology class when he happened to notice two dirty athletic shoes protruding from beneath a bush. Normally inclined to mind his own business, Nasum took the time to investigate. He found what he took to be a person of no fixed abode either sleeping off a drunk or lying grievously injured. Looking about, Nasum saw no one. Fulfilling a longstanding fantasy, he searched the fellow’s pockets and found a wallet. Against all his prejudices, the wallet contained eighty-five dollars. He pocketed the cash and headed for class.
Coincidentally, in that day’s sociology class a film was shown dealing with the plight of the homeless. Despite the objective, documentary nature of the film, its makers could not keep a sympathetic tone from creeping in. Nasum sat through it all, experiencing an average emotional reaction to the material, yet he felt little guilt over having stolen the money. His only feelings of anxiety connected with the theft were over the possibility that he had been seen.
As he exited the building he quieted any residual guilt by telling himself that the man he had taken the money from couldn’t possibly have been that bad off.

Flustered in the South

“Any museums around here?” I asked the man behind the counter.
“Museums?” The man repeated as if I had asked where the nearest church of Satan was. “You mean like art museums?”
“Well, yeah,” I replied. “But any museum will do.”
“Well…” He rubbed his face, considering whether I should be made privy to the secret. “The only museum I know of around here is Hollinshead’s Roadside Camel Museum.”
“That sounds good. Where’s that?”
“About seven miles outside town down that road.” He pointed out the window. “Just keep looking to your right. You’ll see it. A great big barn with pictures of camels nailed all over it.”
“Thanks.” I said, but did not feel that the word was adequate. The sympathetic feelings for my fellow man were still there inside me, no matter how much I tried to suppress them. I grabbed a comic book and purchased it.
“You read these?” The old fellow asked as he handed me my change.
“Yeah. This is my favorite one.” It was the latest issue of Sock, the comic featuring Rectanglo. “I’m surprised you have it.”
“Why’s that?” Was there a hint of touchiness in his voice? I decided not to risk alienation.
“No reason. Seven miles, you said?”
I reached the edge of town in two miles. In that distance I counted five churches. During the subsequent journey to the camel museum I counted an additional five. Each bore on its marquee some variation of the exhortation “Pray For the Lord’s Blessings in our Country’s Military Campaign.”
Inside the camel museum I discovered that old Mr. Hollinshead had died. Management had passed to his widow, Frances. She sat and smoked while I wandered about, a solitary patron and, in fact, as she told me before I left, the only person to stop by all day.
Back in my car I glanced through my copy of Sock. Rectanglo had brought electricity and modern roads to the southern region, but he couldn’t get the natives to accept the fact that the world was inside a box.
“That goes against our heritage.” Someone in a baseball cap complained.

It Grows Steadily Cooler

With the passing of the Great TV into its all-too-brief passive phase, the nights began to get cooler. Of course, any LPs left in the car would still melt during the day, but what a relief it was at night.
“It’s so nice to be able to wear more than just shorts and a t-shirt.” I said to one of my fellow passengers on the train.
“My god, why would you want to?” This person replied. “If it was up to me, I’d go naked all year long.”
I nodded, my mouth set in a horizontal barrier of non-involvement, and exited the car, determined to put on my bow-tie, though it was a couple of hours yet before we crossed the border.
“Mr. Toadsgoboad!” One of the railroad personnel called my name just as I was about to step into the lavatory.
“Yes?” Irritated though I was, I skipped reprimanding the fellow for addressing my as “Mr.”
“Message for you, sir.” He handed me a folded piece of paper.
“Thank you.” I shook my head at him. There would be no gratuity. I stepped inside the lavatory and pulled my bow tie (a black bat wing with little red knights on horses) out of my trousers pocket while reading the message.
“Toadsgoboad,” It read, “Just received word of blizzard on other side of border. Suggest you complete mission early and dress appropriately.” It was signed, “Jerry.”
I folded the paper into as tight a square as I could and hid it in the mouth of a souvenir camel doll. Then I spent some time tugging my bow tie into exactly the right shape.
“Is it Halloween already?” My clothing-averse fellow passenger asked as I rejoined him. I noted once again the tattooed images of television sets on the backs of his hands.
“Almost.” I smiled. Glancing around to see that the other people in the car were occupied with their own struggles, I reached into my coat pocket. “I have something here for you.” I said.
“I hope it’s cash.” The unshaven redneck joked. It was, however, the opposite of cash.

Intensification of Contempt

The greatest contempt of all in terms of intensity is self-contempt. This is because one’s self-love is so great. You know how wonderful you could be if you did everything just right, but of course, you rarely do. The disappointment is so great you feel like smashing yourself in the face. I’ve done that on more than one occasion, usually when I’ve eaten more than I should in defiance of my own dietary policies. On the occasion that I am about to relate, however, the contempt was inspired by my failure to bring my lunch to work.
I was forced to eat a package of mayonnaise I had been keeping in my locker for some months.
It may surprise some of you to hear me speak of “work.” You know me only as the lord of the tunnel system, the author, the cartoonist, the saxophone player, but you don’t know the whole story. There is further contempt to uncover here.
Before I tell you the horrible truth, let me explain that time and space are like a reversible coat worn by two people at the same time. This is how I am able, on one level, to do all the things I do in and around the tunnels and, on another level, hold down a steady job at the Correspondence Factory. There are other levels as well. Toadsgoboads within Toadsgoboads. My mental apprehension of all this is the essence of Procurement. The sum total of this macro-reality is the Procurementation.
So I sat there in the break room at “work,” tasting the slimy, room temperature mayonnaise in my mouth, debating whether I should break into one of the vending machines, and feeling foolish for writing such silly nonsense, such silly concepts as Procurement and the extrapolated “reality” of my existence as Toadsgoboad, and I felt my contempt intensify even as I felt, through my acknowledgement of that contempt; that silliness; the whole absurdity; a strange delight at being the kind of person who prefers the necessity obscurity entailed by pursuing this ridiculous path to the remunerations of universality.
It must have been the lack of food playing hell with my emotions.
I looked up and saw the row of honey buns in the vending machine. All I needed was a long stick, say from one of the miniature flags that dotted the room.

Madly Mistaken About the Ralph

To wind up this volume of narrative and opinionation, I give you the story of Balia, a woman whose life, since turning thirty, had been closely tied to that of the Ralph, an anthropomorphic tree that lived in a large, wheeled bucket. Balia’s job was to push the Ralph about wherever he wanted to go.
Although the Ralph, imperious, aloof, and totally immersed in his complicated schemes, did not encourage any intimacy with his servant, it was only natural that some kind of relationship develop. Of course, he kept Balia in the dark on the subject of his ultimate goals, but they would from time to time make small talk. She told him about her life at home and he responded with general pleasantries, sometimes adding a comment about a visitor to the Ralph’s concrete enclosure.
One day Balia arrived for work to find a veritable army of police occupying the enclosure. The Ralph’s bucket was empty, dirt strewn about the floor, his splintered body lying on a vast stretcher, one usually used for transporting sharks from tank to tank.
“My employer!” Balia gasped as uniformed men rolled the Ralph outside to a waiting truck.
“Balia Flippen?” A tall, sallow detective called her name. “You were the deceased’s assistant, were you not?”
“I… I pushed his bucket around.” Balia answered. She watched in horror as they closed the back of the truck. One of the Ralph’s smaller branches was lodged in the tailgate.
“We’ve got some questions for you.” The detective jerked his thumb towards one of the cars. Balia was led away. As she sat on the hood of the car, her purse was ransacked and she was made to describe her work for the Ralph. How well did she know the tree?
“He kept his business dealings private.” She answered. “He was always very kind to me.” She cried openly.
“Business dealings?” The detective laughed derisively. “Didn’t you know you were working for one of the most devious assassins in the world? A terrorist?”
“A terrorist?” Balia repeated. “No, you’re wrong. He was… he was a tree.”