Utility Freight Digest

The Procurement Man,
Volume Five,
Stiff with Lightning
Part Two: Utility Freight Digest
By Toadsgoboad

Unknown except to a handful of losers in and around College City, the painter Birthright Molecules yet became one of the most and popular painters in the world following his death. At an auction held only ten years after his death one of his paintings, “Wrinkly-Faced Chagrin,” broke all records for an acrylic painting of its size. An anonymous bidder from the island kingdom of Suamisoot paid nearly one hundred million dollars for the 32”x32” depiction of a child’s clumsy attempt at suicide.
The new owner of the painting was a man named Priam Gunroot. He bought it not because he liked it, although he did appreciate its merits, but rather as an investment. In fact, Priam Gunroot had formulated a scheme to insure that he would get substantially more money for the painting than he had paid for it. After he had taken possession he informed the world that unless he received the sum of one billion dollars in thirty days he would burn “Wrinkly-Faced Chagrin.”
“I think that went pretty good.” He said to his assistants, Merle and Keith, after the camera was turned off and his filmed threat was complete.
“Yeah, I think so.” Merle agreed.
“You know I’d never do this to a Francis Bacon or an Immendorff.” Gunroot felt compelled to explain.
“Sure.” Keith nodded as he watched a replay of the film. On it his employer walked slowly around the painting and described the exact procedure by which it could be saved from destruction.
“Except those worm things he did near the end.” Gunroot added, distaste marring his normally pleasant countenance.
“We’re ready to transmit this to all relevant news organizations.” Merle informed him.
“Please do so.” Gunroot pointed at the computer screen, as if the rest of humanity lay behind it, waiting to be shocked by his demands. He looked down at his finger, wondering at its steadiness. Was he really going to carry out his threat? He smiled triumphantly. He was proud of himself.
Across town, in the official residence of the king of Suamisoot, Gunroot’s cousin Primo, the king himself, signed a resolution from Parliament regarding the upcoming tourist season (they wanted to market Suamisoot’s beaches as a relaxing alternative to war, disease, and economic uncertainty) and waited for the phone to ring. When it did he gestured to his secretary to leave the room.
“Yes?” Primo answered the phone.
“It’s done.” Priam Gunroot informed his cousin.
“My god.” The king sighed. “I can’t believe you’re actually going through with it.”
“You didn’t believe me?” Like His Majesty, Gunroot was alone. He had sent Merle and Keith out of the room. He respected his cousin’s title and would not appear speaking so informally to his cousin in the presence of anyone outside the family.
“Yes, I suppose I did. It’s just that now that it’s happening…”
“Don’t lose your nerve.” Gunroot urged, holding aloft his finger and smirking at it. “When this comes off--”
“If this comes off.” The king interjected.
“It will. And when it does you and I are going to be extremely wealthy.”
King Primo stared at various objects on his desk. These included photographs of members of his family, Priam Gunroot among them, framed in silver. A ceramic cow, made by his son when he was seven, abutted a picture of Gunroot and his parents taken on the day Priam had returned from his trip to Mars.
“I shall use the money to restore the palace and its grounds to their original state.” Primo spoke as if he was taking an oath of office.
“Phil,” Gunroot called his cousin by his family nickname, “I think that’s noble of you. As for myself, I shall use the money to buy more art.”
“Scandalous.” The king facetiously scolded.
Across the ocean in the land of faded eagle feathers, Don Molecules, only son of Birthright Molecules (I suppose I should tell you now that that last name is pronounced Mo-LEC-Yu-Leez), stared at the wall next to his bed and grimly worked up the energy to cast off his blankets and rise to his feet. The wall was green. Green like the color of a bell pepper on Mars, whatever that means. Still, it was how Don Molecules described the color to himself and to the couple of friends who had visited his apartment, see the wall, and agreed with him that there actually was no color like it in nature.
“No, there is one thing.” Merkin Yam had pointed out. Don had thought he was going to say “puke” and worried that Halica Sturley, another guest on that occasion, might be put off potentially sleeping with Don on account of his having friends that say the word “puke” in front of women, but no; Merkin had concluded, “There’s a giant cactus that’s colored like that. I can’t think of its name.”
“Outside of the saguaro, I don’t think I could name a single cactus.” Don had said then.
“Is it the saguaro?” Halica Sturley asked, looking at Merkin and then, receiving the inevitable negative reply, at Don, as if to say, “Well, I think that about concludes all necessary discussion on this topic.”
Now, one week after the gathering mentioned above, Don found the memory of it to be one more reason not to get out of bed. Or was it? Surely, he said to himself, your failure with Halica should anger you and further motivate you to turn your life around, to make something of yourself. He looked at the green wall and thought that it looked just like the color his father would have painted a wall, not just in one of his lousy paintings, but in real life.
“Only my father would have slept with Halica on the first try.” He found himself saying aloud as he urinated. It was the need to urinate that finally proved the ultimate compulsion to get up. In fact, he had to urinate so much that he could not get to the phone in time to stop the answering machine from picking up the call.

Theme Music and Scenes Never Seen

On some sort of screen, perhaps one made of a dirty old sheet or perhaps only the side of a building just across the street from Don Molecules’ apartment, the animated opening credits of the long-forgotten TV show, “Vince Mixon, Editor-at-Large,” began. White, seven-pointed stars emerged from the blackness and began rotating as the theme music blared from Burl Moody’s car parked not far away. Then, still shots of Carey Slitgill in character as Vince Mixon flashed one after another. None of these shots were scenes from any of the fourteen produced episodes of “Vince Mixon.” They showed Mixon doing typical Mixonesque things that established him as an indifferent dresser, a bargain hunter at the local fish market, and a man with an eye for the ladies. None of these scenes related in any way nor cast any light on the central premise of the show: that Vince Mixon, so-called editor-at-large for a small, cheaply produced muckraking magazine, wandered the streets of San Gabardini and the surrounding hills looking for trouble and invariably finding it.
As the screen went blank and the music ended, Burl Moody whispered to his friend Denise,
“Did you see where the film was being projected from?”
“A window in that apartment building.” She replied, indicating with an unadorned finger the place.
“Crazy, isn’t it?” Burl commented as he fixed the window in mind and counted up the floors.
Denise took a sip of her milkshake through the straw.
“You should be a cop.” She said.
Burl’s eyes flashed at her, though his closely shorn head never moved.
“I am a cop, Denise.”
The young woman kept her thoughts to herself on this assertion of Burl’s. She had only come along for the milkshake, knowing that Burl’s wife Constanzia was on duty at the fire station, the latter woman’s red hair a match for the color of those big, gleaming trucks.

The Unsung Heroes of the Plan

Merle and Keith, Priam Gunroot’s assistants, were paid well for their work, but received little public adulation. This didn’t bother Merle, but for Keith it was a source of dissatisfaction.
“Suamisoot’s a small island.” Keith prefaced his complaint. “You’d think people would point at me in the street and say, ‘Hey, there’s that guy that works for Gunroot.”
“It’s relatively small,” Merle agreed. “But it’s not two palm trees and a beach. I mean, we actually do have an opera house and an airport.” The two men were loading ephemera collected from around the island by Priam Gunroot into storage boxes and documenting the same on cards to be pasted onto the front of the latter.
“I wanted to be a rock star!” Keith’s eyes were wide with visions of unfulfilled desire. He stared at the side of Merle’s head for a moment then turned back to the box he was filling. “One sardine-flavored-licorice candy bag,” he iterated, “And one goddam book of matches from…” He glanced at the cover of the book of matches. “…Fasanenjägers.” He threw the matched into the box hatefully.
“You could have played there.” Merle nodded towards the box as he wrote down the items on the card.
“What?” Keith demanded.
“With your hot rock ’n’ roll combo.”
“Look, friend…” Keith stepped forward, brandishing a take-away menu from some place called Slackberries. His next words, which most likely would have been a threat, were pre-empted by the entry of Darlene Magool into the archive.
“Aren’t you guys finished yet?” She demanded.
“What’s your problem?” Keith’s anger was easily diverted to this new channel.
“That shipment of rockets is here and I’m not going to unload it by myself.” Darlene’s hands were on her hips and her look of insistence was not to be countered, not even by someone as disgruntled as Keith Rowohlt.

A Random Display of Cabbage

Darlene Magool was, in addition to being one of Priam Gunroot’s many employees, an amateur photographer. Walking home from work on Friday, she saw a half dozen or so cabbages bounce off the back of a truck. Her camera was out of her shoulder bag as soon as she took in the possibilities of the random arrangement.
“Stay back!” She ordered a group of children headed for the valuable vegetables. “You can have them when I’m done,” she added, moving in, snapping the tableau from various angles.
“Do you work for the government?” One of the children asked Darlene as she put away her camera.
Darlene laughed.
“No, I work for Priam Gunroot.” As expected, the child’s eyes grew wide with awe. But was there more than awe? Was there fear as well? Darlene smiled and dismissed the child from her mind. The weekend was here. She planned to enjoy it.
At her home on Scrubnut Street she hung up her coat in the hall and called out to her parents, “I’m home!”
Her mother and father each came into the entryhall to greet her, her mother from the kitchen, her father from the den.
“I’m glad you’re home, dear.” Darlene’s mother said.
“So am I.” The old man agreed, though his tone was peremptory. “I want to ask you what kind of man it is you work for.”
“Why do you ask that?” Darlene was confused. Her mother glanced anxiously at her husband.
“Are you unaware of what he’s doing?”
Darlene smiled, but her look remained one of confusion.
“And what is he doing?”
Her father pointed towards the TV set behind him.
“He’s threatening to burn ‘Wrinkly-Faced Chagrin,’ that painting by Birthright Molecules that he bought, unless he receives one billion dollars within thirty days!”
Darlene’s mother suggested they discuss it over supper.

Two of My Friends are Bridgekeepers

I was telling my imaginary friend Jerry the other day that I knew two of the guys that work on the bridge that connects (some would say separates) Suamisoot from the mainland. Jerry seemed intrigued by my announcement.
“Would you go so far as to call them friends?” He asked as he helped himself to another squirt of ethereal paste.
“I think so.” I mused. “I have shared a meal with each of them and exchanged birthday presents with them for a couple of years, though that last eventually petered out.” I concluded, not without regret.
“That’s interesting,” said Jerry, “Because you don’t claim many people as friends. You seem to have strict demarcations between who is and who isn’t a friend.”
“Well, I don’t throw the term friend, or any term for that matter, around loosely. I made the decision that they were my friends and, although I haven’t seen them in years, they still remain in that category.”
“Would you like to see them again?”
“Oh, hell no.” I shook my head. “I don’t want to stir all that up again.”
“All what up?”
“All those feelings, memories, attachments. All those obligations.”
“Are you afraid you’d have to start sending birthday presents again?”
“Jerry,” I smiled crookedly, “You know me too well. But no, it isn’t the fear of being put to any bother. It’s… it’s that I feel like I’m a different person to different people. I may not be able to be the same person that they remember.”
“You think you’ve changed since they knew you.”
“I don’t want to let anybody down. That’s one of my character failings, I know, but people have expectations of me.” I didn’t know if I had explained myself properly. I stared into the small fire we had started in Mr. Koomsom’s living room.
“Besides,” I added, “I’m not objectively successful yet.”

Portly Though the Almanac Foretold Her to Be

Don Molecules noted Halica Sturley’s ankles with a critical eye as she sat down on the sofa in his living room. They were, he admitted, slightly thicker than he would have preferred, but they were well proportioned, with the overall assembly of bone and muscle beneath the skin providing him with the proper ankle apprehension experience. She wore a long black skirt with gold paisleys and other exotic-looking doodads printed on it. As he handed Halica a cooling drink, Don pondered what the legs under that skirt would look like given the promise of those ankles.
“I’m surprised you don’t live more opulently.” Halica came straight to the point. She set her glass down on a coaster made of an obscure piece of railroad equipment and gestured about the room with her thick eyelashes.
“What do you mean?” Don was taken aback.
“I know what your father’s paintings sell for.” Halica leaned forward across the coffee table towards Don, who was sitting in a recliner that no longer reclined. Unfortunately she wasn’t wearing a low-cut shirt. Her breasts were not enormous, but Don had reached a level of maturity where that was no longer such a disappointment. “If it were me, I’d be traveling the world.”
“Oh, that.” Don sighed. “Well, the paintings you’re talking about, the ones that sell for big money, like ‘Wrinkly-Faced Chagrin’ and ‘Deep Water Mother,’ I don’t get a dime from their sale. I get a percentage of the sale of the paintings I inherited, ones that were left in my father’s studio at the time of his death. And they do sell for a good bit of money. Enough for me to live on. I just don’t see the need the live ‘opulently,’ as you put it.”
Halica took a sip of her drink.
“Do you ever think about painting yourself?” She asked.
“Halica, I’m a writer.” Don decided that Halica would not be a good mate. She seemed too concerned with luxury and indulgence.
“I know.” She hastened to assure him. “I just don’t know why you’re wasting your time trying to break into the writing game when you could be having a good time.”

Seven Tragic Investigators

It has been noted by more agile prose craftsmen than I that of the seven investigators sent by the International Committee for the Preservation of Antiquities to look into rescuing “Wrinkly-Faced Chagrin” from destruction, only Danny McCoy had any experience in such work. However, none of my literary fellows were privileged to interview Danny personally as I was. It is, therefore, with some justification that I have claimed to be the sole voice of legitimacy regarding the events of the month of artistic hijinks under review.
Danny McCoy remains a swashbuckling figure despite the loss of his legs. Some would say he is all the more dashing for his disability. Danny will have none of it, however: “Things were better when I could walk.” He says.
I asked him what he thought of the men on the committee who had sent him and his six colleagues into such peril.
“At least I’m still alive.” He replied, reaching for an already-opened can of diet soda. “Which is more than I can say of Edgar, Tommy, Boyd, Clarke, Nasper, and…” His memory faltered; no amount of finger snapping or stammering about evocative opening syllables would bring the name to mind.
I consulted my notes.
“Featherby?” I suggested.
“That’s it.” He gasped. “Featherby. Knew it would come to me somehow.” He looked at me with sly appreciation, as if I was an abhorrent assemblage of bandages and papaya that had suddenly displayed a photo of myself with that week’s most-lusted-over female.
“How close did you come to liberating the painting from Priam Gunroot?” I asked, hoping for a more detailed story than had yet appeared in the major news outlets.
“Closer than Featherby, that’s for sure.” Danny chuckled as he massaged the tender stumps where once mighty pinions of stance and locomotion had been attached to his body. His mind wandered off to scenes of agony and dismemberment as I watched thirstily.

No One Could Stop the Pen from Leaking

Following hard on the heels of my journalistic triumph came the usual black depression. Perhaps my system needs emotional balance, but this predictable reaction to any good feelings I have has become a tired routine. There has to be a way to feel good all the time. Or, if not good, at least firmly in the positive camp. And don’t tell me to try Jesus or Buddha. I’ve been to their feet and seen nothing by mismatched socks.
The consolation is that the bad time never lasts for very long. Twenty-four hours at the most. In fact, by the time my pen started to leak, I was already looking forward to a long period of elder statesmanship during which I would receive literary prizes and enjoy the friendship of many celebrities who would publicly state that their greatest regrets were not having met me earlier in their over-rated careers. I took out my pen and waggled it in the air, imaging that I was about to write a witty dedication for my good friend Slash or my good friend Zack. I had little hope that either would actually read the book I was now offering them, but then again, my own guitar stylings had been beyond them as well.
It was then that I noticed that my pen was leaking.
“Can’t anyone do anything?” I demanded.
“You’re a grown man,” sneered an anonymous hot dog vendor. “You know how to jump start a car; you ought to know how to stop a pen from leaking.”
Others joined in, some of them bystanders, some of them persons whose fates were intimately tied up with the ramifications of my pen and its leak. Nearly all were universal in their condemnation of my evident helplessness. Only one, a little girl holding a balloon, offered anything other than the most puerile abuse.
“Wrap it up.” I could hear her tiny voice among the host.
Acting swiftly, but with heartbreaking symbolism, I snatched her balloon away and popped it, using the pen as the instrument of violence. The bit of rag that remained was what I feebly attempted to hide my shame in.

Are You Enjoying Hilarious Pinko Murphy?

Merkin Yam shut his book and turned on the TV. He had been studying, but now he wanted entertainment. Naturally, he turned to an old movie.
“I’m going to be a historian.” He told himself. “It is fitting that I appreciate these forgotten actors. I get so much more out of them than the modern dudes.” He collapsed on the sofa and took in the spectacle of a man talking to a face painted on his hand. From behind a nearby tree the scheming Matta Friar, in her first big role as the elder sister of Liassa Tidbit, watched and maliciously, but silently, laughed.
“I wonder what I’m missing by avoiding current cinema.” Merkin Yam asked himself. He scratched his thighs and then his balls. This led inevitably to masturbation, lazily performed to the paused image of Matta Friar in the act of pulling a dagger from her garter.
Merkin fell asleep on the sofa. Pinko Murphy, once famous for his talking-to-his-hand routine (predating Señor Wencas by some dozen years), came to him in a dream.
“How did you pause the program?” Murphy asked. “It’s not a recording.”
“It’s a recording somewhere.” Merkin was cryptic. If only Benjamin Franklin were there, he could explain the workings of the microwave oven! But Pinko Murphy?
“The Library of Congress.” Murphy decided. He stared into the reflecting pool. The light of pride was in his eyes.
“Why did your career go into decline after the war?” Merkin asked as he slowly made his way to the wheelbarrow. Under the blanket there was bound to be a pickaxe or some sort of sharp mountain-climbing implement.
“Oh,” Murphy sighed. “If only you knew how things were back then. Suamisoot had just declared itself independent from the mainland.”
Merkin scrabbled under the blanket, his hand shying away from one slimy, disgusting object after another. As he hunted for a tool of death, his gaze turned from Pinko Murphy’s features to the treehouse in the distance.

Another Box of Popcorn for the Man in the Vest

The vest Vince Mixon was wearing was a gift from the natives of Suamisoot. Its variegated stripes were symbolic of friendship. Mixon had earned this friendship with his gutsy resistance activities on the island during the war. Now he wore the vest in the company of enemies as he marched into the Eagle Theater to watch the premiere showing of Voyage of the Infirm.
He took a seat from which he could watch Phil Caputno and his family. If the information given to Mixon by Nancy the maid was accurate, the stolen documents would be handed to Caputno some time during the film. Mixon planned to witness this procedure. He needed to learn how such things were done if he was to give the book he was writing the proper amount of verisimilitude.
The film began with a cartoon. Although Mixon had always tried to avoid animation, he had to admit that the travails of Monkey Magpie held a certain amount of fascination. It seemed that no matter how far he ran, he could not escape the bland attentions of Dolphin Dog. Mixon took this latter character to be symbolic of death and, so taken was he with this observation, that he spent a few minutes getting out a piece of paper and making a note of it. When he looked up from his work he realized that he hadn’t been keeping much of a watch on Caputno. Perhaps the transfer had already been made!
He decided to go to the lobby and see if any strange persons were heading for the exit. Once there it was only natural that he get another box of popcorn.
Returning to his seat, Mixon was in time to see the opening credits of Voyage of the Infirm. The director had made the unusual decision to present these as words written on balloons, each one released into the sky in succession. Mixon laughed along with all the stupid jerks in the audience when the last balloon, the one bearing the name of the director himself, appeared tied to a brick. It floated feebly for a second or two before dropping out of sight. Was it the same brick that killed young Billy Proctor in the opening scene?

Where That Dog Surprises

The Utility Freight Digest, referenced by the author of the present work in his interview with Elaine McGibbon, contains only a passing mention of the dog.
“Did it belong to Birthright Molecules?” Ms McGibbon asked me with an eagerness I found gouache.
“Please, Ms McGibbon—“
“Call me Elaine.”
I sighed.
“Elaine, not everything has to do with Birthright Molecules and the ongoing tribulations of his wretched painting.” I exhaled violently and looked off into the darkness surrounding this faux living room. I thought I spied a member of the television crew scrambling about, dangerous-looking cables in hand.
“Can you at least tell us the dog’s name?” Elaine McGibbon continued. I suppose it is her job to be persistent. Her incisive questioning of Dr. Seuss proved most effective in illuminating the homophobic subtext in Marvin K. Mooney, Will You Please Go Now?
“Well…” I sighed, beginning to regret my contrarian ways. “Alright.” I turned towards my host and put on a pleasant face.
“The dog’s name was Thunder.” I thought it sounded good, considering that I had only that moment invented it. I’m sure that given time I could have come up with something more aesthetically pleasing to me, but nothing that would have been as plausible to Ms McGibbon’s usual audience.
“Thunder.” She repeated, getting the name properly attached in her mind to the image of the dog she formulated thereby. “Sounds like a handsome, heroic animal.”
“Oh, he was.” I confirmed. “He once pulled a nude model out of an inflatable wading pool.”
“So he did belong to Birthright Molecules!”
I simpered and rolled my eyes towards the camera.
“You’ll have to check out page 81 of the Utility Freight Digest to find out.” So cute.

Angelic Vision

Burl Moody endured another evening of his wife’s poetry by performing devious isometrics as he sat in the comfortable chair passed down to him by his father. Now and then he glanced at the photograph on the wall behind Constanzia, his wife. It showed his father in the uniform of a doorman at the Imperial Lodge, a position he did not in fact ever hold. When the others assembled in the Moody living room clapped, Burl clapped too.
“You present an angelic vision.” Count Ulmages praised Constanzia in his ridiculous accent.
“Thank you.” Constanzia’s brow was damp with the exertion of performing. She took a bite of well-earned cheese and looked up into the heavens; though the ceiling overhead was distressingly low, she could yet see starry vistas.
“You gettin’ any overtime?” Hump Dreckson asked Burl as they huddled in the kitchen.
“More than I want, really.” Burl slurped a healthy measure of the port he had learned to appreciate.
“You know, our ancestors used to bowl.” Tonky Wheelchest told his two friends. He stuffed the end of a sausage roll into his mouth and spoke around it. “They used to get together, small groups of men, and go bowling.”
“What’s that?” Hump asked, his forehead knitted up like the folds in a crocheted blanket flung carelessly over an already messy bed.
“I think my father bowled.” Pondered Burl. He stared into the dead left back eye on the stove.
Hump and Tonky glanced at each other.
“Who made these sausage rolls?” Hump asked quickly.
“Yeah, they’re good.” Tonky assisted.
Burl’s gaze shifted to the black glass fronting the oven door. Reflections of clean athletic shoes.
“Neighbor woman I think.” He said.
In the living room the count’s wife noted for the third time the strangely framed photograph of the elder Moody. This time she commented on it.
“Interesting portrait.”
Constanzia acknowledged the comment with a slow, short, regal nod.

The Formal Grandeur of Royalty

King Primo’s secretary, Miss Jordan, enjoyed the highest status within the royal household. She never abused her position, however, unlike some of the boys down in marketing, who had gone so far as to demand discounts when shopping for unique fonts. Miss Jordan wore earth tones each day and took her lunch in the commissary along with the various gardeners and pig farmers who together kept the palace and grounds looking sufficiently royal.
The king himself took little notice of Miss Jordan, other than to thank the gods with almost lachrymose relief that she wasn’t a complete screw-up like the young man his mother had forced on him early in his reign. What was him name? Primo’s lower lip pushed itself out as he searched his memory. Something that began with an ‘S.’ Samson? No, it wasn’t biblical. He knew that much. Oh well, it didn’t mater. The young man was long gone. In fact, he realized with that sudden apprehension of the passing of time that makes one gasp for breath, the former secretary was a young man no longer. Why, he was probably in his early forties by now.
Below the open window of the king’s office a couple of the pigs were being put through their exercise routine. Primo could hear their grunts and the sharp exhortations of their keeper. He glanced at the window and saw Mount Apedonkey in the distance. As a young man himself he had climbed its tree-covered heights. Part of his rather tepid and cursory military training. He had probably been as bad a soldier as… Sedgwick? Sillavengo? Sufferbus? Well, whatever his name was, he had probably been as bad a soldier as that young man had been a secretary.
The king frowned and looked back down to the stack of correspondence on his desk. This was essentially, when one boiled it all down, the core of his daily responsibilities. And yet he required a secretary to complete it. He pushed the button on the intercom.
“Miss Jordan?”
“Yes, your majesty?”
His majesty smiled at the sound of that voice. So prim and efficient. So… secretarial.

I Couldn’t Keep Up With the Nameworthy Nose

In the course of chronicling the plot to destroy “Wrinkly-Faced Chagrin,” it was my privilege to compete with another author/participant, whose own book on Priam Gunroot probably will never be published since I have destroyed the only manuscript and dumped animal waste on the man’s grave. But who knows? After the computerized world mind takes over, perhaps it will be able to reconstruct the lost book using the magic powers that Ray Kurzweil is so enamored of.
I destroyed my competitor’s book and planted the evidence that sent its author to the insane asylum because I couldn’t stomach another word from those idiots at NPR about how great he was. Even Susan Stamford lameted the inherent inability of radio to convey the full extent of the man’s good looks.
“However,” she trilled, “Perhaps you can get an idea from paying close attention to the sound of his voice. The way he intones each well-formulated phrase of imaginative liberal insight, the sexy gravitas of his pronouncements on the worth of obscure autobiographical documents by nameless functionaries in the service of supposedly greater men, and the warmth with which he pronounces my name.”
After I had angrily changed the station I found my own name pronounced only a millimeter to the left on the dial as the local crime reports were read out. Following my release from jail a month later I set out to confront my rival and see for myself what he was made of.
I bought a house across the street from his property and began a campaign of silent contempt. There were those among my friends who thought I had finally gone too far.
“He’s a nice guy.” They said. “You ought to get to know him.”
“I know him well enough as it is.” I growled. “You should have seen the way he spoke to me at the grocery store when we met in the coffee aisle. The look on his face when I told him I didn’t drink coffee.”
“What did he say?” Asked little Juan.
“He said he thought everybody drank coffee in AA.”

Commonplace Formula Embedded in Salt

The salt, apologized our guide, had little to do with either our literary pursuits or the financial machinations of those despicable persons that we wrote about. No, he smiled, displaying a mouth full of teeth all seemingly vying for the same position in his gums. No, the salt was merely a means of preserving the tiny orange fish which the men of the village pulled in such profusion from the lake.
Doctor Flushawoog turned to me with a gasp. He wiped his forehead and demanded, “When do we go back to the hotel?”
I was on the verge of snapping at him, berating his lack of manly fortitude, when I suddenly relented. I looked across the back of my eshwigi at Miss Carol.
“What do you say?” I asked her. “Shall we call it a day?”
Miss Carol, a fine-looking woman, whose beauty was only enhanced by the stainless steel prosthetic leg she wore, considered the question as she gazed at the red hills in the distance.
“Sure.” Her voice was clipped, her manner decisive. Her gaze, now focused on me, was, as I have already told the Committee in my report, that of some kind of carnivorous goat. She nodded just like a policeman I once knew and I nodded back.
“You get your wish, Flushawoog.” I informed the longsuffering doctor.
Our guide, hunched on his own eshwigi, flinched at the man’s name, which I was made to understand was nearly identical to the local word for vagina. I swept the man’s prudery aside and informed him that we had seen enough for the day.
On the way back to the hotel I regaled my companions with stories of musical instruments I had invented but yet not mastered.
“The fauxophone was a greased length of pipe inserted into another greased length of pipe with the idea of replicating the sound of a squawking, honking saxophone.”
“I believe there is already an instrument called by that name.” Dr. Flushawoog observed pedantically. His observation, while made with honorable intentions, I’m sure, is incorrect.

Flee the Amorous Hippoid

Having taken the placebo some thirty minutes before, I was just beginning to feel its soothing effects as Constanzia Moody placed the needle on the old Merle Haggard record. If she was trying to seduce me, I reflected later from the security of my fortified bungalow by the sea, she was doing a poor job of it.
“I feel that Merle has really captured the angst of the lonesome fugitive, don’t you?” She asked as she moored herself on the landscape of a large sofa.
I reflected on these words gravely, or rather, appeared to. For the bulk of my brainpower was actually hard at work on devising a polite way to disengage myself from this scene, to find some quiet place where I might watch my own body slowly fall under the influence of the placebo.
“I guess you don’t like country music.” Constanzia postulated apologetically.
“Madam, how can you say that? I am extremely partial to Jerry Reed! However,” I sighed, “Perhaps it would be best if you put on something more cerebral and mellow.”
“Are you starting to feel the effects of the placebo?”
“How do you know about that?” I was stunned. Only a handful of the members of the Presidium were aware of my recreational intentions for that weekend.
“Oh, a little bird told me.”
Little bird? I wiped my nose furiously. It felt like mites were assailing it. Which little bird could she have been talking to? I sat down on a nearby stack of books. Festus? Carter? No, it had to have been Janfifth. He had a soft beak. Never trust a bird with a soft beak. But wait; Janfifth wasn’t exactly a little bird. He was quite large, relative to his automobile and toiletries. Could Constanzia, from her bovine perspective, actually view Janfifth as little?
I decided not to ask her.
It was only later that I learned that that bastard bird had had liposuction. It was the first thing that he did with his lottery winnings.

Chance on Philosophy

Despite my misgivings, I acceded to my students’ requests and asked Priam Gunroot to be our guest lecturer. His area of expertise, blackmailing the world, wasn’t exactly of direct pertinence to the class’ subject matter, which was how to turn random doodles into blueprints for advanced machinery, but I am an indulgent instructor.
I was surprised to see how weatherbeaten Gunroot was. When he walked into the lecture hall I thought at first he was an old drunk looking for a handout. He later explained that cosmic rays, penetrating his poorly designed ship during his trip to Mars, had prematurely aged him.
“Oh, you’ve been to Mars?” I was immediately interested, having only been as far as the moon myself.
“Yes.” He nodded carefully. Despite his vast wealth he was dressed in the threadbare costume of a hotdog vendor. A half dozen students, invited to this post-lecture gathering, were crowded into the trunk of my mother’s car along with Gunroot and myself. As Ned, the tall one, leaned across me to take another cupcake I once again commended myself on taking the trouble to fill my mouth with strips of cloth soaked in soaked in odor-fighting chemicals.
“Was it as red as you thought it would be?” I asked.
“I really didn’t come all this way to talk about Mars.” Gunroot eyed me coldly.
I refused to appear nonplussed. “I meant to ask you about that.” I spoke as one camel to another. “Why would a man in your position agree to give a lecture to a group of misguided youth?”
It was his intention, he told me, to understand Reciprocal Procurement, the philosophy that I developed over the course of twenty years and spent another twenty putting into practice. I was flabbergasted, but even more so when tall Ned phoned me that night here at my studio to ask me why I had discouraged Gunroot’s interest.
“To proselytize would be Loath Procurement.” I explained before cutting the conversation off. I had to get back to my painting, which is the supreme discipline of my life.

Stagnation and Deflowering

“Until the titles become more evocative there’s nothing I can do to make the stories connected to them any better.” Thus read the diary entry for that Tuesday. This was later held against me when the shareholders filed their lawsuit the following May. At the time my new friend Priam Gunroot warned me against being too frank in my diary, but I still saw him as something of an immoral character despite our growing rapport and dismissed his advice.
“One of my abiding traits is honesty.” I told him.
He frowned reflectively, then changed the subject.
“So, what do you think of Suamisoot?” He asked.
“I like it.” I admitted, holding back a full analysis out of politeness. “I was expecting something like Guam.”
“Well, the original conception came from Guam.” Explained Gunroot. “But we’ve tried to make it more Mediterranean and less Polynesian.”
“Your family has ruled Suamisoot from the beginning?” I already knew the answer, having read the article in the encyclopedia earlier that day.
“Yes. As you know, the king is my cousin.”
“Yes. You’re what, third in line from the throne?”
“I think so.” He smiled. “I don’t really keep up with those things. I’m not interested in holding office, not even the throne. I have far more freedom where I am.”
“The freedom to extort money from the world community?” I asked, and believe me, I asked it in as friendly and as fun-loving a manner as I could.
Gunroot sighed.
“Toadsgoboad,” He said, “With the money I received for not destroying that painting, I have been able to materially benefit the people of Suamisoot in ways that would not have happened otherwise.”
“So you did it out of patriotism.”
He merely looked at me in reply.
“You know,” it was now my turn to change the subject, “I think it’s time that I saw this famous painting for myself.”
“You’ll have to go to the Museum of Eastern Modernism. It belongs to them now.”

Ten Papers of the Late Scroat Magland

“What are you going to do with these papers that have been bequeathed to you?” Priam Gunroot asked me as we sat in my study amid the statuary and relics of a hippie childhood untasted.
“I’m going to publish them.” I replied. “If nothing else, they will show to the world that Scroat Magland was not fully committed to his own philosophy.”
Gunroot shifted theatrically in the embrace of the Naugahyde.
“You have some objection to make regarding this plan?” I put it to him.
“Why malign the dead in this fashion?” He questioned.
“I did not know that you were such a moralist. Good friends with the late Scroat Magland, were you?”
“Threatening to destroy a painting that one has bought with one’s own money hardly rises to the same level.”
“As publishing the authentic writings of a philosopher, no matter if the contradict the more publicly-known body of his work?” I gaped in astonishment at the drivel I was hearing. I could think of no reason for Gunroot’s ill ease over my projected course of action.
“By the way,” I changed tack. “I went to the Museum of Eastern Modernism as you suggested.”
“And you saw the painting?” Gunroot’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Scorch marks and all.”
My friend scratched his chin and gazed upwards at the ceiling.
“It was a close call.” He admitted. The smiled of fond remembrance on his face faded, however, as he took in what had been put on the ceiling since last I had shown him this room.
“Where did you get that?” He gasped.
“I had it sprayed up there with a digital system invented by Scroat Magland’s father.”
“Everything comes together.” Gunroot recited as he gazed in a mixture of horror and fascination at the greatly enlarged copy of “Wrinkly-Faced Chagrin” that loomed over him and me and fifteen years’ worth of time and trouble manifested in the assembled trinkets and t-shirts and books of psychic lore.

Unintentional Snake Feels Jaunty

Burl Moody and his friends called Totterly “Cobra” after his transformation into a snake, though in actuality he seemed to be one of the non-poisonous species.
“What kind of snake is he exactly, Doctor?” Burl’s friend Kiffer wondered.
“According to this book,” here the hoary physician hefted the profusely illustrated world snake guide, “He’s something like an eastern lemon pudding snake.”
“Lemon pudding?” Donald repeated in confusion. He was known in the local press as “the dumb one.”
“Many snakes are named for desserts.” Doctor Housecall explained. “It was a way for the early pioneers to maintain links with their sweet European homelands.”
“I feel so bad for him.” Burl admitted, coming closer to the examination table on which his friend lay. “Never get to drive a car again.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me.” Totterly told him with that brave spirit that had made him such a favorite among the fellows. “It’s you guys that I feel sorry for.”
“Why’s that?” Donald asked.
“You’ll never know the sensation of slithering through the tall grass on a hot summer day, hunting for some fat little rodent.” Totterly had not yet had this sensation himself, having been confined to the university’s research hospital since his transformation two days before, but his vivid imagination could already give him an idea of what it would be like.
“That’s the attitude to have.” The doctor encouraged him, his long white moustache puffing up with every word. “Never look back, never look down.”
“Doctor,” Burl drew the old man to one side, “Are you sure this thing isn’t reversible?”
“As I’ve explained, without the gypsy woman’s original back of magic powders, any attempt at rehumanization would be extremely dangerous.”
Burl glanced at Donald, who had shoved the gypsy woman into the furnace at the refinery in the first blind rush of his rage over her attack on their friend. If only Donald weren’t so stupid, rued Burl bitterly. But, since his own transformation three years ago, Donald was no longer a genius.

Can You Taste the Witness?

In the course of his long career as a prosecutor Damon Fidgers had gained a reputation for pulling outlandish stunts in the courtroom, many of which had surprisingly achieved his intended results, but nothing he had done in the past ever matched the moment during the trial of the State versus Wubberly when the great, pin-striped man interrupted the flow of his own caustic words, turned to the jury, and asked,
“Can you taste the witness?”
“I don’t know; can we?” The foreman of the jury returned, sarcasm spilling over the sides of his sentence like stray splashes of the Red Sea cooling the foreheads of hasty Hebrews.
“No, no,” Fidgers held up a fat, tanned hand, “I mean, can you taste him?” He smacked his lips together with his tongue much in evidence, a frown masking his usually jovial features. It was as if he were an anthropomorphic bird of the beakless variety that had just eaten a particularly unpleasant moth.
“Can you taste that infamous flavor of mendacity? Just let it wash over your teeth and gums, members of the jury.” The prosecutor continued, turning to the little man on the stand. “Doesn’t it make you want to reach for something to wash it out of your mouth just looking at him?”
“Your honor, I object,” drawled old Omar Dentury, rising to his feet. He later complained to a niece that this would be his last trial if someone didn’t start making comfortable shoes again. “If Mr. Fidgers has some substantive claim to make regarding the integrity of this witness let him make it plainly and stop this playacting.”
“Mr. Fidgers, I’m inclined to agree with the defense.” Judge Roper spoke up, though no one, least of all the representatives of the local media, failed to note that he poured himself a large glass of water from the pitcher on his combination of throne and desk.
“I think I’m going to be sick!” One woman on the jury suddenly cried out, clutching her stomach and bending over. Bailiffs rushed to her with wastebaskets, but it was too late: the documents that had mysteriously vanished from the evidence room the week before spilled onto the courtroom floor with a retch that the stenographer failed to transliterate accurately.

Revival of the Living Chair

“I thought you said this thing was alive.” Growled Brad Frosch, loyal king’s man and former drummer for the Prokofiev Blasphemy. “You promised me a living chair.”
“It is alive.” Dominicus Roberts hissed back. Brad was embarrassing him in front of his science friends. “After being sat on by a rhinoceros last year it went into a coma.”
Brad, chastened by the stares of the men in lab coats if not his companion’s words, mumbled his reply.
“I guess I’d be in a coma too if a rhinoceros sat on me.”
“Dominicus, this must be your friend.” Dr. Fungroid came forward on his thought-controlled mobile stand.
“Brad, this is Dr. Fungroid.” Dominicus introduced the eminent researcher. “He’s overseeing the revival process.”
“You’re…” Brad stammered. “You’re a… puppet?”
“Quite so.” Dr. Fungroid nodded. “The same procedure that renders me sentient and ambulatory was used on our friend the chair there.” He indicated the piece of furniture in question with his little wooden hand. The chair bobbed upside down in a transparent tank of green water, neither sinking to the bottom nor floating to the surface. For some reason this fact struck Brad as the most interesting of all the things he witnessed that day.
Later, after the revival had been declared a success and the chair’s family had been allowed to see it in a private room, Dr. Fungroid, Dominicus, Brad, and a few of the younger scientists gathered around a table in the small break room and shared a box of doughnuts. Dr. Fungroid, of course, being a puppet, did not eat any of the doughnuts, but contented himself with a series of specially manufactured bath beads, each containing nutritive gas. He laughed indulgently along with the others as Dominicus recounted some of the crazy mishaps he and Brad used to get involved with back in high school.
“Do you remember the time we got drunk and had sex with each other?” Dominicus asked, barely able to get the words out for his laughter.

False Engine Divine Road

Long before the events related in this book I found myself one weekend compelled by social obligations to visit a couple of friends who lived out on False Engine Diving Road. It wasn’t paved back then—just a dirt road through a dense pine forest, strewn with rocks once a year by county employees in an attempt to keep the dust down and erosion at bay.
“Tell me again why we’re going out here?” I asked my companion at the time, a female android from the Bureau of Departments named Avispa.
“Helen and Jasper are making pizza.” Came the reply from behind the controls of the vehicle, where Avispa was locked in place by the interlink mechanism developed by one of the many unnamed precursors to Dr. Fungroid.
“That’s hardly sufficient reason.” I complained.
“It’s some new frozen variety. Supposedly better than pizzeria pizza.”
“I judge that claim dubious.”
“Please withhold your judgment until after you’ve sampled it.” Avispa skillfully guided our vehicle around the fallen trunk of a forest giant that lay in our path.
“I wonder why they call this False Engine Divine Road.” I asked to kill time. I had filled my only index card with tiny drawings of men mounted on ibexes and had nothing else to do.
“I can find out for you if you like.” Offered my companionoid.
“If you like.” I returned, unwilling to be beholden to anyone made of vinyl and yarn.
Avispa blanked out for several seconds as she consulted the main computer in Brisbane via satellite.
“Apparently,” she began to answer as we turned into Helen and Jasper’s driveway, “Some marketing company decided it would attract a certain class of retirees to the area.”
The pizza was no better than any other frozen pizza I’ve had.

A Roaring Smile with Cleansing Bile

No one enjoyed the lyrics of the late Stern Softpalate more than the performer most associated with that celebrated lyricist, Miss Anne Tate. Therefore, when International Chopstick and Clubfoot asked me to make a short film about Softpalate’s life I naturally thought of Miss Tate and resolved to secure her withered image and any attendant comments on the subject at hand on the anachronistic celluloid.
Imagine then my dismay when the aging star refused to meet with me. I have asked Winky and Bob to imagine it and they have complied, so far as I have been able to determine. However, on reviewing essays they each wrote detailing their conceptions of my dismay, I find them either too vague or too shallow. Perhaps a hypnotist can tell me if they are lying. That in itself would make an excellent subject for a short film, perhaps even one of feature length, though I doubt if my current sponsor would be willing to finance the necessary trips of Europe and India that my vision seems to require. Also there are costumes, sets, and all manner of studio trickery involved. Not cheap. And don’t ask me to “foot the bill,” as we say in the shoe trade: all my money is tied up in trying to get this book published. You can’t imagine (although Winky and Bob can!) all the persons whose palms must be greased. I feel like a sample lotion dispenser on some cosmetics aisle in a provincial discount store.
All of this and more I tried to explain to Miss Tate through her intermediaries, but the louder I screamed into the phone the less the seemed to be willing to tolerate me. In desperation I turned to Sam Schilling, Stern Softpalate’s musical partner for nearly three decades.
“You know Anna Tate,” I said. “Why don’t you see if you can get her to appear on camera?”
“I haven’t spoken to that woman in over twenty years.” The elderly composer grumbled, only taking his cigar out of his mouth to show me the disgusting, ragged, wet end. “Now, if you need the name of a good hypnotist, I’m your man.”

The Days of Friendless Pony

Thankfully those days are forgotten by most people because if they were remembered, there would be periodic bouts of nostalgia for them and we would be inundated with merchandise and possibly a cinematic reinterpretation. Why don’t we keep the whole thing a secret among ourselves and continue to confuse everyone by dressing up like Friendless Pony and Molly Dodd without any word of explanation. Our appreciation is all the greater for coming from such a small group of enthusiasts.
Of course, I wasn’t in the scene when it was around, although I was alive then. I think that’s what makes me such a devotee: my sense of regret at having missed out. I was too busy stopping up my ears every time Boy George came on TV and trying to read all the Tarzan books to pay any attention to poor old Friendless Pony. But then, if I had tuned in to his adventures or bought the associated magazine, perhaps my influence might have led to lasting success for the character. My viewership might have been just the amount of eyeball needed to push him over the edge into wider public knowledge. Just look at what I did for Jörg Immendorff.
I actually met Ryder McCormick, who portrayed Friendless Pony in those thirteen largely unseen episodes. Even he had trouble recalling the role.
“It was just after I’d left The Reason for Everything and just before my sabbatical from acting.” McCormick explained after I had jogged his memory with a few illustrated pages from my self-published book, The Complete Guide to the World of Friendless Pony. He pounced eagerly on one page in particular, one showing him goofing around on set with his lovely co-star, Ignatia Ludwigo.
“I remember her!” He cried, upsetting his coffee. “I’d love to get a copy of this book. How much are they?”
Sadly I was unable to provide the actor with a book since I had only been able to afford to print up copies for you and me and my friend in New York. The real tragedy, however, is that one always thinks that some things will last forever.

Unshaven Pilot Rampant

“The difference between Albanian and Armenian is lost on those clowns.” Rhett Parsons growled. His growl was similar in tone and timbre to that of the propeller-driven fighter planes outside. Was he taking on some of the characteristics of the death machines that he and his fellow pilots were masters of?
“You mean those Hollywood writers?” The one they called Railhead Tom nodded towards the table in the corner where a group of sweater-wearing men and one plucky young girl in leather pants sat.
Parsons scowled in answer. His scowl was similar to the air intake scoop on the front of his own PH-95, a metal bird of destruction that few men could handle as he. Had Parsons ever looked in the mirror and seen himself scowl?
Railhead Tom shook his head and pushed away from table. “I don’t know what’s your problem today, but I’m going over and introduce myself.” He downed his hot coffee, so similar to the thick oil that lubricated their aircraft’s innards that, except for the former’s high caffeine content, one might mistake for one and the same thing, and loped in his inimitable manner of locomotion over to that crowded table in the corner.
Rhett Parsons did not turn his head to follow his colleague’s departure, but flashed his cynical brown eyes and then focused them on the poster of Greta Garbo across the mess hall now revealed by Railhead Tom’s absence. Parsons’ face betrayed no mellowing of mood at the sight of the beautiful actress though a brief fantasy of domestic life, perverted and striking in the precision of its details, blossomed like a mushroom cloud in his brain. Just as quickly, the vision was dispelled as the alarm sounded. Parsons threw down his coffee without the slightest deliberation and bolted outside.
“Get those planes in the air!” Roared a voice, possibly that of some unseen military authority, although later reflection posited that it was one of the film crew, maybe even the director himself. No one, least of all Rhett Parsons, who ran into a gaffer’s boom and knocked himself unconscious, seemed to be able to say for sure.

Buttons in the Mouth

When Tolhurst, one of the blockade runners from the chancellery, first heard that Strassman had “buttons in the mouth,” he assumed that the buttons in question were of the clothing fasteners variety. His own grandmother had often held buttons in her mouth to keep her hands free when sewing or mending the rabbit enclosure. It fell to me to explain to the man that the buttons in Strassman’s mouth were controls for data entry and tail movement.
“Strassman has a tail?” Tolhurst wondered. He looked like Ioan Gruffudd encountering buggering below-decks for the first time.
“Have you never seen Strassman?” I asked, dismissing the above image from my mind.
“No.”
“Not even his photo in the officer’s lounge?”
“I said no, Mr. Toadsgoboad.”
I sighed derisively.
“Yes, he has a tail. It stretches over the horizon. Should it interfere with shipping it has to be moved.”
“But why are the controls in his mouth?”
“To protect them when Strassman goes swimming. He often does, you know.”
“I must be thinking of a different Strassman.”
“Well, there’s only one.” I considered. Was I right about that? I had to admit I didn’t know the crew very well. I’m not much for socializing in the first place and as I wouldn’t be on the tiny planet long I had assumed there wasn’t any point in struggling against my nature during my stay.
“Tall, guy with short red hair?” Tolhurst asked. “Usually wears a bow tie?” He waggled his fists under his chin. I noticed the missing finger.
“No, no.” I shook my head. “Long, squat, lizard-like fellow. Has molded plastic seating for about a dozen passengers bolted to his back.” Now it was my turn to mime. I gestured vaguely over my shoulders.
Tolhurst stared at the deck in confusion. Odd that the Cure started to suck right after he was ousted.

On the Balcony with Brank and Zeep

“Wave to the crowd, Brank!” Zeep shouted. He smiled and waved, his hands in gloves as white as his teeth. Beside him on the balcony his partner Brank raised his own hand timidly at first. He was obviously overwhelmed by the size of the crowd below, its manifest delight at the appearance of the two men. Even as he began to wave and smile a smile somewhat less brilliant than that of the man beside him he realized that all this smiling and waving was really just to give them something to do while they were on display. After all, he thought as homemade banners bearing his and Zeep’s likenesses were unfurled below, you couldn’t just stand there like a potted plant.
Zeep’s thoughts were different.
“This is it.” He told himself. “This is the moment of absolute triumph. This is the culmination of over a year of hard work. No, more than that. It’s the vindication of a life—my life. Thirty two years of brutal degradation. How they tried to grind me down—no, no, keep smiling. No time for negativity now.” By the time he’d reached this point in his thoughts, however, his own joy at the honor being paid him was dulled.
Like Brank’s teeth, he thought. He had turned to his partner in the great undertaking of the past year to show the crowd a bit of interaction between them, to revive his own flagging happiness by pushing the crowd to even higher levels of jubilation. He extended his hand to Brank and smiled at him. They shook hands. My god, thought Zeep, you’d think he’d pay a little more attention to his appearance, considering the level of press coverage we’re going to receive.
As Brank shook Zeep’s hand his smile, arguably forced before, became genuine. He couldn’t have made it back here to this exuberant welcome if it hadn’t been for this man. As they had staggered within sight of the city that morning Brank had silently observed Zeep’s determined footsteps and thanked the Ministry of Science for teaming them together. Now he started to shout something spontaneous and heartfelt above the roar of that evening’s celebration, but was cut short. Zeep pulled him close with a snarl and threw him over the side of the balcony.

Our Fiendish Bowl Laugh

I had been reluctant to take on a companion during my sojourn as a plumber in the land of Frizzanfritter. However, as I knew no one in that hostile land, I felt that the three weeks would pass more pleasantly with someone to share my adventure. I had been trying to avoid Jerry Lancaster because I felt that I had been spending too much time with him, but, as no one else was available, I summoned him forth.
“Why are you reluctant to take on a companion?” Was the first thing Jerry asked me once I had made all plain to him.
I considered my answer before replying.
“Primarily,” I said with my gaze fixed on the threadbare Persian rug beneath our feet, “Because my intention was to live the life of an itinerant plumber as realistically as possible. That means solitude.” This was honest, although not the whole story.
“Why don’t you make acquaintances of the people you will meet in this probably fictional land of Frizzanfritter?” Jerry probed further.
“Look, do you want to go with me or not?” I frowned, looking up. “As I will indicate in the essay I intend to write concerning this affair, the land of Frizzanfritter is a hostile one. I don’t think I’ll be able to find any bosom chums there.” I did not add that I had rarely been able to find such beings anywhere.
“OK, OK.” Jerry tried to calm me. He held up his palms placatingly. He even smiled. His beard was matted, the result of being in the cupboard of disused feelings for so long. I tasted a backwash of remorse.
“Alright.” I nodded. The matter was settled.
We began immediately with preparations for the journey. This meant teaching Jerry all that I already knew about plumbing. I asked him to follow me into the nearest restroom.
“This is a toilet.” I explained, pointing to the device.
“Yes, I know. I haven’t seen a pink one in years.”
I thought about it.
“I haven’t seen a pink one in years either.” I agreed. We fell to examining the toilet with many outbursts of mirth.

Linking Fingers to the Grapple

Linking fingers to the grapple have nothing to do with what follows. I suppose, with your surrealist methodology you could manufacture some sort of connection, but I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want there to be a connection. I don’t want to have to invent a story to go along with that ridiculous title.
My own methodology for writing in the past has been to write out all the titles of my one-page stories first and then write the stories, trying to link them together into a vaguely novelistic chain. However, as the titles in this particular notebook were hastily and rather thoughtlessly done, I’m sickened trying to write anything to go along with them. Besides, I think I should move on from the one-page story. The time is right.

My Favorite Cupcake

Mafran had always assumed that the feathers in the feather duster were from an ostrich. He believed that he had read this on the paper label attached to a new feather duster many years before. However, one day in the tumbling heat of early summer he learned that the feathers actually came from a turkey.
“Look at this!” He shouted to the tiny man currently sharing his rooms in Noctosa Square. “It says here in this trade journal that feather dusters are made from turkey feathers!”
“So!” Replied the tiny man, whose name was Norris. He was also reading a magazine, one called Halicarnassus Debutante.
“Well, it’s just…” Mafran paused as he contemplated the ramifications. “It’s just that if I’ve been wrong about that…” He took a brave step towards a new vision of reality. “I could be wrong about many things.”
Norris, although he desperately wanted to get back to his reading, decided to indulge Mafran. “Like what?” He asked with genuine curiosity.
“Like…” Mafran fumbled only for a moment. “Like the year that Shostokovich wrote his fifth symphony. I’ve always known it was 1932. But what if I’m wrong?” This last question was said in a voice of such theatrical terror that the tiny man was motivated to jump off his little ottoman and go to the extensive library of music albums on the far wall.
“1932, you said?” He glanced at Mafran for confirmation. The latter only nodded, his head tilted back and a hand over his eyes. Norris scanned the spines of the old LPs until he came to the Shostokovich section.
“Fifth symphony.” He announced, pulling out the record. He ran a finger down the notes on the back. “Nope, 1937.” He looked up at Mafran.
“That’s what I said.” The larger man insisted as he returned Norris’ look.

My Favorite Cupcake

Clark Seville, one of my operatives in the secret organization known as the Viral Sink, had developed an addiction to ramfos, a mildly psychoactive drug native to the islands of the Lower Clau. Although the drug did not impair his ability to perform his duties, Seville was compelled to consume it every four to five hours. He did this in the traditional manner of pushing a sliver of the ramfos, which comes from the bark of the jaboulor tree, under a fingernail. Within seconds of performing this procedure Seville felt the soothing effects of the drug.
“Everything is going to be alright.” He told himself. In fact, it had become his practice to declare, with the confidence of a rhinoceros holding a gun, that, “Something wonderful is going to happen.”
His current girlfriend, Jamie, heard him say this for what she calculated to be the twelfth time and confronted him about it.
“Do you realize,” she said with something of the old charm that she used to display so readily before laziness and indifference, and, yes, let’s face it: impatience came to be her dominant traits, “That your friend Toadsgoboad says the same thing?”
“How do you know Toadsgoboad?” Seville wondered. “I barely know him myself.”
This was something that I wondered about too. It so bothered me that, in my frantic search for the answer I was forced to confront my own laziness, indifference, and impatience. The time is not right, I told myself, to change your methodology for writing.
“Yes,” I nodded at my face in the mirror, “My favorite cupcake is the one that I make myself. It’s the one that I limit myself to. It’s the one that I draw a little face on with icing and name Darrick before I crush it in my fist.”

A Box Thought to Contain Plastic City Dwellers

Following my return to the land of fat people, I called Clark Seville and asked him to meet me at Slandum’s, a small gastropod and fungus emporium on the edge of town.
“Your message was a little cryptic.” Seville greeted me with what I considered exaggerated theatricality. “I hope I brought the right thing.” He passed me a small lacquered box with the numeral ‘6’ painted on its top.
“Yes, that is correct.” I confirmed and stood up from the table we shared. “Wait for me.” I instructed before heading for the restroom.
In the restroom I sat on the toilet and opened the box. Inside were not the plastic city dwellers figurines I had expected, but a hypodermic syringe and a small bottle of some thick, pale yellow fluid. I knew nothing about injecting myself or about the properties of this fluid, so I decided to make one last use of Clark Seville.
Back at the table Seville had ordered a small cup of mushroom tea and a sampler platter of slugs broiled in garlic butter. I sat down opposite him.
“Seville,” I began, “You’ve been a good operative.” I paused, glanced out the window. A camper drove by, headed for the distant, tree-covered mountains. “Have you ever thought about leaving the… what are we calling the service this week?”
“The Vigilant Collector.” The rather wooden man replied. His lips were greasy from his snack.
“Ah, yes. Well, have you?”
“I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I didn’t have the service to keep me occupied.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin imprinted with the image of a happy snail sitting atop a happy toadstool.
“And your commitment to duty is still just as strong as ever?”
“Indeed it is.”
“OK.” I sighed. “I want you to go into the restroom,” I passed him the box, “And inject yourself with this.”
He stared back at me. I thought he was going to tell me to go to hell, but he only finished off his tea. He stood. I wondered how I was going to force myself back on my diet.

Purple Doughnuts

It wasn’t the exciting, Saturday-morning-cartoon flavor of Neptuneberries that made the doughnuts purple. No, it was nearly a cup of Seltsameter Mayshawk’s blood added to the batter that gave them that color.
“Admiral Drythroat, what color would the doughnuts have been without the addition of Mr. Mayshawk’s blood?” A reporter, traditionally attired in a suit of red, asked the old navy man.
“It is my understanding that the doughnuts,” the admiral consulted his notes, “Would have been chemically neutral beige.”
“Chemically neutral beige?” Rex Mafeking, observing the press conference from the safety of his balloon’s gondola, wondered aloud to his pretty assistant, Roy. “What’s that?”
“Fancy word for doughnut-colored.” Answered Roy, though this was no more than sarcastic theorizing.
Rex Mafeking ran his fingers over his bruinaselary chin in an attitude of musing. His chin really was protruberant; he could not touch the tip of his nose to a tabletop, should he be required to do so. As Rex mused Roy wondered, not for the first time, what circumstances would require Rex to attempt touching a tabletop with the tip of his nose. Some sort of devotional practice? An attempt at licking up spilled doughnut crumbs? At no time did the thought of cocaine cross Roy’s mind: Rex just wasn’t the type to risk all that he had achieved in the field of ballooning for Lady Sniff.
Rex’s voice broke into Roy’s fruitless reverie.
“You, Admiral Drythroat!” He called down. “Look at me! I’m flying!”
The old navy man looked up with a frown.
“Admiral,” a reporter, similar in appearance to the first, addressed Drythroat, “Do you have any reaction to that man’s remarks?”
“The doughnuts will be distributed to the crew starting tonight.” The admiral continued reading from his notes.
“He’s afraid to say anything!” Rex Mafeking insisted. He beat his chest like a parody of Tarzan, prompting Drythroat to bellow out his opposition to all non-oceanic forms of travel.

Potted Plants

“We have decided to make potted plants the focus of today’s seminar in response to the bewilderment expressed by so many of you on this subject during the question-and-answer session with Dr. Brialdoswipz last night. Now, before we begin, is there anyone here who feels he already knows enough about potted plants and would rather be doing something else?” As young Oido scanned the room the assembled delegates looked about to see who among them would take this opportunity to leave. Only three men raised their hands.
“Isn’t that Stuskip Mower?” A man in gray and yellow stripes asked his neighbor.
“Who does he think he’s fooling? I know for a fact that he’s killed three cactuses from overwatering.”
“Cacti.”
“Smartass. Maybe you should raise your hand too.”
Indeed it was Stuskip Mower, as well as two other men named Dibble and Noop, indicating a lack of interest in the topic. Oido recognized them with a nod and told them there were flying crabs to watch out on the lawn for the duration. A buzz of grumbling ran through the room at this. Why hadn’t he mentioned that before? Any second thoughts, however, were tamped down like tobacco in a pipe as the three men left the room and the lights were dimmed for the presentation.
Outside in the corridor Dibble and Noop, chained together at the wrists with festive bonds of papier mache, approached Stuskip Mower and asked him if he really intended to go watch these so-called Flying Crabs.
“Of course.” Mower replied, barely repressing a smile.
“Come on, man.” Noop cajoled the tall, worldly fellow delegate. “What’re you going to do?”
“Well, the first thing I’m going to do is get a drink.”
Mower said seriously.
“Can we come too?” Dibble begged, knowing what a juvenile he appeared and not really caring.
“Sure, guys.” Mower smiled. Movie star teeth. Barnyard tongue. “Come on.”
Dibble and Noop trailed behind Mower to the convention center lobby where a great flowering aureus mentographytes in an antique terra cotta bucket struck savagely at them, leaving any further perambulation dubious.

His Mother’s Fantasy

Under pressure from the Epidiurnal Committee Saul was forced to reveal his mother’s fantasy. Of course the members of the committee, including Dr. Sternum, who had always hated Saul’s mother, swore that the disgusting and embarrassing details of the fantasy would be kept a secret, but the information was leaked to the press somehow (probably by Ted Shofticram, General Rabies’ sister’s son, acting as a page on the occasion of Saul’s testimony) and the old woman once again found herself the talk of the city.
“I haven’t been on the front page of a major newspaper since the premiere of Wild Fellow’s Field Dirge.” Anna Taboo croaked as she looked out on the parched lawn and reflected on her renewed celebrity.
“Oh, Mother,” protested plump Irene. “No one reads newspapers anymore. They waste trees and require physical interaction.”
“Well then, the electronic media. You know what I mean.” Anna Taboo turned from the window with a jab at the controls of her motorized wheelchair. It hadn’t been the amputation of her feet that had ended her film career; she appeared in three features subsequently, either as a powerful, disembodied brain entity or a beggar woman swaddled in army blankets. When she finally lost her looks, however, as evidenced by the burgeoning hate mail she received, a quiet retirement ceremony had been arranged between the studio and her agent. The latter now scolded Irene.
“Anna doesn’t need your contempt right now.” The fat man did not so much snap as bring his beak together with slow, powerful closure. For those of you in the journalistic cliché brigade, that’s not the kind of closure you’ve come to expect. “She needs sympathy and support.” He continued, rising from his perch near the gilded cuttlebone statuette Anna won for her performance in Distressing As This Must Sound to You.
“No, I’m alright.” Anna insisted. “I’m just worried about how Saul is taking all this.”
“Oh, Saul.” Irene growled. She took up a handful of jelly beans and maneuvered them into the mouth with her thumb one by one like a line of brightly colored parachutists, which was, had she but the wit to see it, strangely reminiscent of her mother’s long-hidden fantasy.

The Vigilant Trio

Inspired by the Tales of the Three Companions, which you yourself have perhaps read a few samples of some pages back, Schlichter, Fahb, and Bernd dressed themselves as smiling apples and descended upon the seaside resort of Crabsucker like a Fortean event. Schlichter, who prided himself on his self-appointed position of leadership, compared the little group to a rock ‘n’ roll band.
“I’m like Sting.” He concluded as he and his friends stood in the town square facing the ancient fountain.
“Well, what does that make us?” Fahb demanded, his white-gloved fists on the approximate location of his hips.
“You’re Geddy Lee.” Schlichter replied happily.
“Geddy Lee.” Repeated Fahb. His apple may have been smiling, but his face was fruity.
“And who am I?” Bernd wanted to know.
“Jack Bruce.” Fahb interjected before Schlichter could make his pronouncement.
“Well,” Schlichter nodded, “I was going to say Tom Araya, but Jack Bruce will do.”
“Slayer’s not a trio.” Fahb was as reproving as a narrative poet.
“No time to debate that now.” Schlichter told his friends. “Looks like adventure has made our acquaintance.” He referred to the approach of a group of a half dozen locals, each dressed in the traditional costume of a medieval merchant.
“Gentlemen,” hailed the foremost bearded among the newcomers, “Know you not that apples are out of season?”
“I take it you are the mayor.” Schlichter addressed the speaker.
A man to the left of the one called mayor whispered in the latter’s ear.
“How does he know that?” He wondered.
“Perhaps he has the Gift.” Another among the group proposed.
“No, no.” Schlichter insisted. “It’s just your general bearing, your—“
“Don’t listen to him.” Fahb interrupted. “He’s not the leader. We’re the Vigilant Trio and we’ve come for derring do and so forth.”
“Vigilant Trio?” Bernd repeated. “Where’d you get that? I thought we were the New Three Companions.”
“Perhaps I should call the Police.” The mayor suggested.

Taco Lumbago

“I notice you’re walking funny, Herb.” Twisty Gomlum said to his friend as they walked down Cowfinger Street. “Something wrong?”
Herb turned his head slightly in the direction of the other man.
“I’ve got taco lumbago.” He announced almost apologetically.
“Taco lumbago? What the hell’s that?”
“Well, obviously, it’s a form of lumbago.” Herb growled as he headed for the vending machines.
“How’d you get it?” Twisty asked.
“Answering fool questions.” Herb pushed his coins into the slot on one of the machines. He imparted a spinning motion to the coins as he did so, pressing them hard on one side, to force them into the machine’s innards all the more rapidly, all the more violently. He had wanted to describe Twisty’s questions as “stupid,” but felt, even in his irritation, that that was going too far.
“I just want to know what’s going on.” Twisty was firm. “Lumbago’s an ailment you only hear about on old westerns.”
Herb removed his chosen purchase, a cubical piece of coffee cake in a package bearing the image of Mrs. Motherly, mascot of the Dactylosmoot Bakeries Consortium, and straightened up.
“It’s a swelling of the bemaceous glands along the backs of the legs.” He explained. “Taco lumbago is a particular form.”
“Wonder why they call it taco lumbago.” Twisty picked through a palmful of change.
“I would imagine it’s due to the peculiar shape the bemaceous glands assume in this variety of the disease.”
Twisty put money into the coffee machine and selected the exact type of coffee he wanted using the buttons on the machine.
“You like hazelnut?” Herb asked.
“What’s it to you?” Twisty returned.
Herb nodded to himself. He opened his coffee cake carefully along the seam of the package. Mrs. Motherly looked like an amalgam of Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies and Ladybird Johnson.
“So these glands are taco-shaped?” Twisty blew on the surface of his coffee.

Forgotten Phases of the Young Man’s Life

Without the blinding of the homemade stuffed panda there would have been no subsequent denasification of its brother, the store-bought Pooh. Mr. Panda’s eyes were soon sewn back on, but Pooh’s nose landed in the pancake syrup; there would be no reattachment there.
Flinkum, now employed at the shirtery, recalled those early days with the help of a therapist named Rohedra. Each Wednesday she carefully sealed Flinkum inside a stainless steel neuron accentuator and guided him through his brain, speaking to him via a garden hose long enough to enable her to go to the toilet during the session if necessary.
One Wednesday Flinkum arrived at Rohedra’s office on Cudfunger Street a little earlier than usual. There had been a fire at the shirtery the evening before. It had only damaged a supervisor’s observation platform, but all employees had been sent home early anyway. As Flinkum stepped away from his truck he saw Rohedra getting into her miniature wagon. Before she closed the door she saw Flinkum. She called to him.
“I’ve got to go. My mother has been attacked by some kind of animal.”
“I see.” Flinkum replied. He frowned thoughtfully, but was also taking in the many chewing gum wrappers littering the floorboard of the woman’s vehicle.
“But you’re still to have your session.” Rohedra added as she started the engine. “Plato will work with you today. Sorry about this, but I’ve got to go.”
“No problem.” Flinkum managed to say before the door was closed. He entered the therapist’s office warily. He had seen Plato once or twice before, but never spoken to him.
“Good morning.” The bearded, broken-nosed man greeted Flinkum from behind the desk.
“Good morning.” Flinkum returned. “Receptionist’s out too?” He bantered nervously.
“Yes.” Plato rose from his seat with both palms slapping the desk. “Seems there’s a plague of maternally-hostile beasts today. Shall we get started?”
“Sure.” Flinkum glanced at the door that led to the accentuator.
“Tell me,” said Plato, “Does Rohedra usually have you disrobe?”
Flinkum remembered something just then without any artificial aid.

The Promise of Neutral Diversion

“Is it really possible, Teacher?” Young Willingham asked from his place on the ancient rug. “Can we really have Neutral Diversion?”
Teacher Gomerablie allowed his bow tie to be adjusted by a member of the film crew before replying.
“Yes, Willingham. It is possible, with the secrets revealed in the new edition of Holzklotz’ Eye Scale Remover.” Gomerablie held the product proudly next to his head as he turned to face the camera.
It was only natural for many of those watching from their homes to wonder at the proximity of the two objects thus equated on their viewing screens. Could all the information in such a package be absorbed by a human brain? Could all of that same information have actually found its origin inside a human brain? These naturally wondered thoughts were followed by an equally natural conclusion: only an intelligence superhuman could have developed the system of thought contained in Holzklotz’ Eye Scale Remover.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking.” Teacher Gomerablie stated, putting the product carefully down and turning his gaze back to the acolyte seated on the rug.
“You do?” Willingham was in awe.
“You’re thinking that a bounty of such potential as Neutral Diversion could only have come from a god. That only a god could have the magnanimity to offer such a cosmic mystery to humanity.”
Willingham, whose actual thoughts were dominated by the pain in his legs, nodded in slack-mouthed amazement.
“Well, the truth is, Willingham, that while no one knows where or how the secrets of Neutral Diversion were developed, it was a man, Chainbar Master Holzklotz, who first collected this information in the Eye Scale Remover.” Once again Gomerablie held aloft the product for all to contemplate.
“But Teacher Gomerablie,” the other person on the ancient rug, a dark, cynical-looking young man in the fine garb of a city prince, now spoke. “What exactly is Neutral Diversion?”
“I wish you’d adopt a humbler tone, Lord Samsicus.” Gomerablie gently admonished. “And look to young Willingham there as to how a seeker after cosmic wisdom should properly sit.”

Monkey Lifestyle at the Circular Hotel

The circular hotel stood in the middle of the Old City, a couple of blocks of ancient temples and abandoned townhouses. Although the place was officially off-limits, having been put on the condemned list years before, Manfred and his cohorts had taken up residence there, dressed in their monkey costumes and dedicated to the monkey lifestyle as laid down in the sacred book.
Jared, Manfred’s right-hand monkey, could often be seen in the empty swimming pool, painting its sides with the tip of his long, prehensile tail. Today he was explaining to a visitor the mechanics of that tail while they examined his work.
“A very clever man in the village made it.” Jared gestured towards his backside. “It is connected directly to my brain.”
“Don’t you think a brush would be better suited to this work?” The visitor asked. “These brushstrokes here, for example.” He pointed at the face of a policeman on the walls of the pool. “Rather clumsy, truth be told.”
“Merely a question of refining the interface with the tail.” Jared argued. “Nothing wrong with the tail itself, I assure you. And nothing wrong with the painting, either, for that matter. Robert Hughes says—“
“Don’t talk to me about Robert Hughes.” The visitor snapped. “The man’s an idiot.”
Jared scratched his nose through the eyehole of his mask as he looked away in embarrassment.
“I don’t like using brushes.” He admitted in a low voice.
“They’re not mentioned in the sacred book.” Manfred explained. He stood, in all his simian glory, on the diving board.
“Manfred!” Jared cried by way of introduction.
“So this is Manfred.” The visitor looked up. “The man who became a monkey.”
“Are you a reputable art dealer?” Manfred demanded of the visitor.
“I am.”
“And how do you propose to market this pool? I doubt you can haul it down to your gallery.”
“Don’t queer this deal, Manfred!” Jared shouted and began flinging his feces about.

No Return until the Trivia is Complete

Thales, Scorbo, and Glint, the celebrated Three Companions, paused on the edge of the forbidding Alcance Forest. They had already passed over the Mountains of Raggelan and crossed the poisonous waters of Lake Postnomial, yet these were comparable to a long walk in the face of the footsteps they now must take. Even stout Thales felt trepidation and made no secret of it.
“I would rather sleep in a witch’s oven than enter this murderous wood.” He rued aloud.
“You see now the wisdom of not bringing horses.” Maintained Glint, not for the first time.
“Or motorcycles.” Scorbo added, knowing that this was in Glint’s mind as well.
“Or motorcycles.” Glint repeated readily. “We would never be able to ride through such close-grown trees.”
Thales, to whom this reminder was chiefly intended, having been keen on the bringing of horses or motorcycles or low velocity air jet cups, let Glint’s words drift away like feathers among the fish, unanswered and unanswerable. He crushed down a tangle of thorny bushes with his booted foot in order to look directly into the darkness within Alcance Forest.
“If only we can find some path made by woodland creatures.” He posited with the determination of hope.
Scorbo, whose strength was in the hope of determination, countered roughly that they would make it through no matter what.
“Yes,” Thales agreed, “But the existence of large beasts in these woods such as the brif and the soloudu, as reported in the pages of the Protoparaic Journal, means that there must be avenues through this dense undergrowth.”
“Brif and soloudu?” Glint interjected with alarm.
“Have no fear, Glint,” Scorbo laughed. “Such creatures will not trouble themselves over a little morsel like you.” Glint’s height was a source of brotherly amusement among the Three Companions, though none doubted his courage. “It is the schrels and recordersnakes you will have to worry about.”
Thales spared a glance at his companions, but smiled only with his eyes. His thoughts, though dominated by the passage ahead, were always centered around the completion of their court-ordered assignment.

I Have Touched on these Subjects Before

If you have read either my 1965 novel, Sufficient Swimming Skills, or my more recent essay, “Vengeance Antelope Twister,” published by Nancyphobia magazine, then you already know something about my thoughts on the subjects of absolute freedom of religious practice and endemic hegemony of platitude. For those of you, however, who are only marginally familiar with my work or, hard as it is to believe, completely ignorant of it, I will herein provide a summary of what I have come to think on these two subjects and hopefully thereby encourage readers everywhere to acknowledge the wisdom that I have so carefully husbanded through the years.
Firstly, absolute freedom of religious practice is an impossibility in a world crowded with individuals alienated from each other by their own self-awareness. If we are to be honest with each other, and I think we should, at least for the duration of this particular piece of writing, then we must admit that the roots of faith lie not in the objective analysis of sensory data, but in revelation. As revelation is a personal experience and cannot be conveyed to another individual directly, then the floodgates are open and anyone is free to concoct any crazy system of belief he desires. Always with the understanding, of course, that he has sincerely had a revelatory experience and can swear to that fact before his fellow men. This means, in essence, that if I say that my religion demands that I kill everybody who I feel like killing, then you have to accept that that is what my religion demands. But do you have to allow me to put my faith into action? The answer, obviously, is no. And this is the way things will have to remain until we are all nothing more than extensions of the great world-encompassing digital brain, each sharing each other’s perceptions and each experience the same eternal drool.
As for the second subject, endemic hegemony of platitude, I think the more insightful among you have already deduced, based on my treatment of religious freedom, what my feelings on it are. What a simpleton you must think I am! You actually think I concur with Badezimmer in his counterstructuralist approach to platitude and its hegemonic indemicity? Well, for your information, it is the ones out there who don’t know what the hell I’m talking about that got it right: endemic hegemony of platitude is a crock of shit.

Beehive Mystery

The bees in hive #17-6 (known by its inhabitants as Queenside Castle) were abuzz with worry. Who, they endlessly debated among themselves as they gathered around the proverbial water cooler (proverbial because there were no actual water coolers in the hive and because of the old proverb that says, “the cooler the water, the hotter the cooler”), who was leaving dead beetles here and there about the hive?
Inspector Beamish of the homicide department initially dismissed the whole thing as a prank, but when the lab report came back showing that the beetles had been killed with barbless stingers, she tasked a squad of bees with watching the entrances surreptitiously around the clock.
“Who knows, we may get lucky and catch the perpetrator.” Beamish mused aloud to her friend Beaverbrook, a rather dissipated drone with a taste for the macabre.
“Whoever did this is a damn sight cleverer than you give him credit for.” Beaverbrook drawled as he leaned against one of the filing cabinets in Beamish’s office and groomed his antennae.
“Did you say ‘he?’” Inspector Beamish demanded.
“I did.”
“But you know as well as I that drones can’t sting.”
“Curious, isn’t it?” Beaverbrook replied coyly. He may or may not have been prepared to elaborate on his untenable theory, but was not given the opportunity. For at that moment Sergeant Beethoven threw open the door to the inspector’s office.
“Inspector, another beetle’s been found! Only this one’s not quite dead!”
“Let’s go!” Beamish roared. “It may be able to tell us something!” She grabbed her hat and, with Beaverbrook bumbling close behind, dashed downstairs. The beetle, on its back and obviously nearing the end of its term of viability, was lying in the western entranceway. A crowd had gathered about.
“Stand aside!” Beamish ordered. “Make way!” The inspector leaned over the beetle’s head and spoke softly to the creature.
“Tell me who did this to you.” She begged.
The beetle only managed to whisper, “be-ware.”

Trial of the Trainlord

Fwa Magoma, one of the six tradtitional trainlords of the west, found himself on trial for conspiracy to manipulate ink indices. His attorney, the famed Boston Regardie, contended the charge.
“Your Honor, the charge doesn’t make sense. How can you have a conspiracy with only one defendant? Where are these mysterious others that are to have ‘conspired’ with my client?”
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor, Mars Poluchex, rose from his seat, “We have already explained that the names of Mr. Magoma’s fellow conspirators are a matter of national security. To reveal them would not only put the lives of our nation’s citizenry at risk, but the transportation system that Mr. Magoma has spent his life building up.”
The judge, a man only recently appointed to the bench by the last governor, was obviously torn. Should he risk letting the nation’s enemies know the names, or should he allow Fwa Magoma to be tried in ignorance of the full extent of the case against him?
“Gentlemen,” the judge began, “I’m going to declare a recess of one hour, during which time I will consider this matter.” He banged his gavel and stepped down from the bench.
Nancy Cobalt, a reporter from the National Radio Service assigned to cover the trial, leaned over to a fellow reporter and speculated as to how much consideration the judge would give to the bottle of scotch waiting for him in his chambers.
“You’re a cynic.” Turk Roundabout replied. For indeed it was he, Turk Roundabout, boy inventor, who sat next to the jaded Nancy in the guise of a journalist. He twisted a knob on his over-sized watch and suddenly Nancy, Boston Regardie, Mars Poluchex, Fwa Magoma, and everyone else within the stasis field was rendered paralyzed. Roundabout, immune to the effects of the field by the countering action of his specially knitted undergarments, moved freely about the courtroom, appropriating valuables and unbuttoning women’s shirts.
“This is so much more fun than exploring the moon.” The boy genius told himself. He was just about to take a shit on the bible and wipe his ass on the flag when the judge, himself a boy genius not too long ago, re-entered the courtroom liquored up and ready for a fight.

Speaking Through the Hose

Roy squatted in the bushes at the northwestern corner of the house and held the hose to his ear. He heard nothing.
“Repeat message.” He said into the hose. Again he held the hose to his ear. This time he heard the faint, indistinct tones of his sister’s voice.
“Turways asklammers his soon strisgoday.” Was what he heard.
“What are you saying?” Roy demanded. “Are you under attack?”
“Now spurs belated trafelerspace to gain thertymlin.” His sister was clearly making an effort to be understood, though her words were not clear at all.
“I don’t understand.” Roy enunciated furiously. This time he could make out the reply with ease.
“What?”
Roy sighed with disgust.
“This isn’t working.” He fairly shouted, nearly negating the whole point of the exercise, since a shout could be heard by the unaided ear on the other side of the house.
“Apple sea.” Came the reply, which Roy decoded as “I agree.”
“I’m going to assume the form of a redneck turtle and explore X quadrant.” He informed his sister, little caring at this point whether she received the message or not. He put down his end of the hose and crawled out into the light of the sun, his transformation into a redneck turtle being effected by willpower alone. As he made it past the Monument to Our Past Foolishness he thought he heard an explosion in the direction of the distant mountains, but put it down to the fall of an extra large pine cone.
In fact, the explosion was the sound of the Repartians’ space cruiser’s engine backfiring as it landed near the swing set. As Roy’s sister had correctly deduced, they had connected their own hose to the siblings’ somewhere between quadrants B and C.
“They probably know exactly when the banana bread will be ready!” Roy’s sister, who I may as well tell you before it’s too late was named Samantha, smacked her fist into her palm as she had seen someone do on the old-fashioned TV set in Grandma’s house.

A Waste of Good Hair

Carol kept trash bags full of hair clippings in a disused chicken house. When her collection had grown large enough to fill the bed of Stukes’ dump truck, she called him on the phone.
“Bring the truck, Stukes.” She said. “I’ve got a load.”
“Be there as soon as I finish dinner.” Stukes replied, stuffing a last piece of bread into his mouth.
Carol was reading a sixteen-year-old TV Guide when the familiar rumble of the truck filled the room. She threw down the magazine and walked out into the yard to meet Stukes.
“Hi, Carol!” Stukes greeted his friend as he lowered himself to the ground from the cab of the rusted old truck. He was missing several teeth and had a belly more appropriate to a hippopotamus than a human being. He wore an orange t-shirt with a picture of a race car on it.
“Hi, Stukes.” Carol returned the greeting. She looked exactly like a big yellow onion in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her shirt bore the image of a fluffy white cat at play among a basketful of balls of yarn. “Ready to work?”
“I’m never exactly ready to work.” Stukes joked in that fun-loving manner that we have all come to expect from characters like him.
Together the two middle-aged people loaded the dump truck, tossing the bags of hair up into the bed.
“Where do you get it all?” Stukes wondered breathlessly as they were grabbing the last couple of bags.
“All over the place.” Carol answered. “Truck stops, auction houses, barber shops too. The whole of northeast Georgia is my territory.”
“Well, that’s the last of it.” Stukes sounded relieved. “You going to ride with me to the dump?”
“Sure.” Carol agreed. “Let me get my coat.”
When Carol came back out the house, which she did not bother to lock, she had a fat Chihuahua under one arm and a bottle of Pepsi in her hand. With an effort that would have done credit to the space shuttle she managed to clamber into the cab of the truck. The dog, freed from his owner’s grasp, promptly sniffed at Stukes’ jeans. He could smell the dried blood.

The Parallelogram Story

In an attempt to rectify some of the misperceptions engendered by the earlier “Report from the Rally,” I here offer my recollections of the man of destiny, Zander Peru, as he appeared on his parallelogram of power before the fully assembled might of his followers. It is not the purpose of this piece to criticize the author of the earlier work, only to present a different version of the events of that day.
When Zander Peru’s lieutenant, Jabber McBrill, announced that the rally would take place the first Saturday in May there was some questioning among the followers. The annual rally was always in July. Why the change? No explanation ever came from the Office of Pronouncements, but word was informally leaked that Peru wanted no conflict with the upcoming political conventions. Maximum television coverage of the event must be allowed for. Although television had been dead for some years then, those who truly believed in Zander Peru accepted his reasoning implicitly. The rest, those who were only in the movement in a casual, what-the-hell way, were already committed to attending anyway by the terms of their indenture, so what did they care when it took place?
As a reporter for the Respiratory Statement that was all I knew about the rally itself before my blindfold and earplugs were removed on the observers’ platform high up in Ted Gibson Memorial Stadium along with my colleagues. The crowd mumbled ominously below us as they stood watching the great parallelogram that dominated one third of the stadium. Even our guards on the platform seemed both transfixed and agitated by it.
With no ceremony, no music, no change of lighting, the man who all these arrangements were centered around stepped into view. From some hidden receptacle he suddenly appeared in the rather small area atop the parallelogram. Zander Peru, dressed in the gray outfit that everyone knew, held up his hands in acknowledgement of the cheers now thundering up to him. Even I, jaded by years of comic book expos and interviews with members of Billy Grahams’s family, felt the titanic presence of the man. Without the aid of any apparent artificial amplification, Peru’s voice rose above the noise and commanded silence.
The words that followed, already recorded accurately in the aforementioned piece by Dr. Wamza, need not be repeated here.

Fifteen More Words in German

No one could have been more surprised than I when Dr. Grűnbein announced to the class that there were fifteen more words that we must learn in order to pass the course. As the only other members of the class were a married couple named Higgins my preeminence in the field of surprise was no grand achievement. Mr. Higgins looked over at me with a smile of wartime solidarity that veiled nothing of his smug contempt. I glanced at his wife. She simpered like a tiny dinosaur in the possession of a clutch of a larger dinosaur’s eggs. I looked back at Dr. Grűnbein, determined to master his damn vocabulary and walk out of that room a winner.
Grűnbein, with his cheek pouches full of the accumulated detritus of centuries, turned to the blackboard and began writing out the words. The back of his old tweed jacket was as moth-eaten and stained as the front. As I watched him write I saw his back shaking. At first I thought he was going into convulsions. I wondered if his death in the middle of class would count as a hardship and earn me an automatic passing grade. These convulsions, however, were nothing more than the sick, barely suppressed laughter of an evil old man. For, when Grűnbein had finished writing, there on the board were fifteen nonsensical groupings of letters. Some of these groupings even contained characters that I had never seen in any alphabet on this planet. The old man tossed his bit of chalk towards its resting place with the insouciance of a teen-aged surfer. He faced us and smiled, his head bobbing up and down in mirth.
Higgins the man stared slack-jawed and indignant at the final task.
“Are we to be given the definitions?” He demanded after a pause of worthy outrage.
Grűnbein chuckled. “Should be self-explanatory.”
Higgins the woman, having contented herself thus far with making a noise something like “guh,” now spoke up.
“Dr. Grűnbein, I can’t even pronounce those words!”
“Oh, pronunciation isn’t necessary.” He replied, giving me the clue I needed to triumph over him, the Higginses, the course, and those jerks in the parking lot who made fun of my shoes.
“It’s a joke!” I declared, rising from my seat. Just before I turned the corner outside the room I heard the Higgins woman say she didn’t get it.

Stasis of Unanimity

After drinking Master Magister’s concoction #16 the Carlas found themselves in a state of unanimity. Fortunately, the environment of the conference room provided by the League was comfortable and they were able to put their newly found sense of accord to good use. By the time Burt arrived with the crackers they had already written a new song.
“It’s called ‘Slather Uncle in Aunt.’” Carla B. told Burt.
“Great, great. Who wants a cracker?” Burt dumped the contents of the three boxes onto a plastic tray.
“Not all together!” Carla K. complained. “I don’t want my Chicken in a Biscuits dusted with seasoning from some other cracker!”
Carla 9, staring at a poster of one of the lesser-known works of Birthright Molecules, glanced at Carla K. and smiled. As she returned her gaze to the painting, which depicted two chimpanzees watching the Rolling Stones taking a shower together, she reflected on how many times as a child she had attended some family gathering and seen a box of Chicken in Biscuit brand crackers on the table. Of course, the packaging was totally different now. The box used to have the patented “flip-top” that opened like a jumbo box of crayons. And the chicken itself, rendered like a cartoon character from an abandoned Jay Ward project, had so much more charm than the chicken on the modern box. The new one, contaminated with the stink of political correctness and fear of the unexplained, looked like Beverly D’Angelo in a burqa.
As Carla 9 drifted further into reverie, accompanied by the chorus of “Slather Uncle in Aunt” now being sung with such gusto by all, including the once-reluctant Burt, she remembered her cousin Vance in his cowboy costume, picking messily at a slice of watermelon as two older cousins argued about which was the better film, Gator or The Longest Yard. Little Vance had piped up, “I like The Apple Dumpling Gang!” to which everyone had laughed.
“You weren’t in The Apple Dumpling Gang, were you, Burt?” Carla 9 suddenly asked the deliverer of crackers.
“No,” Burt replied as he sniffed the empty bottle of Master Magister’s concoction. “They cut my scene.”

I’ll Do What I Have to Do

When the Council put the question to me it was a relief to make my declaration public. Yes, I would do what I had to do.
“Even if that meant alienating the Dragons of Gmand, whose alliance you have so diligently cultivated throughout your career?” Old man Procto followed up.
With all the assembled listening devices of the world about me I repeated my answer.
“I’ll do what I have to do.” I said. “What the Dragons of Gmand or the Ultolords of Aspex do in response is beyond my control.”
There was some guffawing at this. I heard it. Nobody on the Council guffawed; they only smiled at most. But people sitting behind me guffawed. One lady even tittered. I suppose that’s all she could manage. Their thoughts were taken up by Crosby.
“But, Mr. Toadsgoboad,” he gently remonstrated, “Aren’t you responsible for the reactions of those who apprehend your actions?”
I considered this. I had already considered this. I moved resolutely forward.
“Not anymore.” I testified, interpret it as they would. “I’m shutting down these proceedings as of now. This council is defunct.” I turned away from the microphone and gestured at unseen representatives in my employ. I ignored the expostulations of denial now coming from the council members. As I stood up and faced the formerly guffawing throng, my servants, costumed and masked, poured into the chamber to take it apart and disperse its occupants to isolated outposts of my will.
Outside the standard, blank, utilitarian building the noise was minimal. In fact, all I could hear were distant, whispered conversations, some on front porches of summertime Americana, some over low, neat hedges, and some in black fields, conducted in the full light of day while standing up; two men, each all too aware of the passing of time, the wastage of time, yet as committed to the talking as if it kept all things in orbit.
I was one of those two men and I was the other. I no longer cared for the feedback of the world wide web.

Sick with the Dog Lumps

“What’s wrong?” Nancine asked Mr. Turniper as he exited the room.
“He says he’s got the dog lumps.” Mr. Turniper told her.
“Dog lumps? What’s that?” Nancine was totally baffled. She’d never heard of any such disease.
“I don’t know.” Turniper sounded tired. He’d never been seriously ill and dismissed all illness with a wave of his hand. “Something his grandmother had when he was a kid, I’m sure.” He started down the stairs. “Probably just a reaction to bad food.” He muttered, his voice trailing away.
“Can I go in?” Nancine asked as the old man disappeared into the darkness below, but got no answer. She glanced at the door to the sick man’s room. She ran her tongue over her teeth and flexed her fingers. She put her hand on the knob.
“Parker?” She called as she put her nose into the room.
“Nancine.” Came the croaking reply.
“How’re you feeling?” Nancine stepped inside.
“I’ve got the dog lumps.” Parker explained. He sounded no more sick than a man with hay fever. Nancine approached the bed.
“What—my god…” She stopped short. “What in the world…?”
Parker’s body, naked on the bed, was completely covered in baseball-sized lumps, each the shape of a dog’s head. Nancine could even make out ears, noses, and eyes. Dark eyes imbedded under the skin like those of an embryo. Parker’s own eyes, however, were alert. He smiled at Nancine.
“It doesn’t hurt.” He said. “Not much, anyway.” He shifted on the mattress and groaned, belying his own words. “Except when I mash on one of them.”
“How did you get this way?” Nancine demanded. She was clearly horrified.
“I don’t know. At first I thought it was from when I cleaned the gutters last week. But now I’m starting to think it might be something genetic.”
“Genetic?”
“I’ve seen it before.” Parker looked at the ceiling. “My grandmother.” He looked back at Nancine. “It’s OK, but eventually, they will start to bark.”

Another Stanley Impression

Dobbley slipped into his seat beside Zamwin.
“Sorry I’m late.” He whispered. “What’s on the agenda?”
“Another Stanley impression.” Zamwin replied with dread after a glance at his partner.
“Oh no.” Dobbley closed his eyes, but only briefly, for now stepping onto the stage was a tall man holding a puppet high over his head.
Zamwin and Dobbley looked at each other in surprise. This was something new.
The tall man, whose name on Zamwin’s clipboard was Nok Nieman, was of little interest to the two men in the audience, at least visually. The puppet, however, excited them greatly. It was a fully articulated facsimile (except for the legs, which were missing, of course) of Paul Stanley in his Starchild persona, guitar slung about its neck.
Nok Nieman looked expectantly at Dobbley and Zamwin.
“Shall I begin?” He stammered nervously.
“Please.” Zamwin ordered.
“Now I know everybody here likes to get horny!” The puppet sassed as it stared into the balcony. “And the other thing I heard about the people here in Greensville is that they like to drink a little…” the puppet paused and pantomimed pouring a glass down its throat. “…alcohol!”
“Cleverly done.” Zamwin thought.
“And when you’re horny and you’ve had a little to drink,” the puppet Paul Stanley continued, “There’s only one place you want to be!” It held up its hand to its ear as if eliciting the correct answer from thousands of screaming fans. “That’s right!” Shrieked the puppet. “On the Highway to Hell! Ooh baby! Ooh baby!” The puppet threw its hips about as Nok Nieman, elbows thrusting wildly outward, animated this action.
“OK! OK!” Zamwin shouted.
Nieman ceased performing and lowered the puppet to his side.
“Now, I like it.” Zamwin promised. “I like it a lot. I like the way you’ve got the puppet’s chest hair—what is that, yarn?—connected to its armpit hair. But the thing is—Kiss doesn’t sing ‘Highway to Hell.’”
“Ask him if he can do Prince.” Whispered Dobbley.

The Hallmark of the Deaf Guy

Miguel, known to most of the workers at the plant simply as “the deaf guy,” was an amiable goof. He did his job well enough and indulged everyone in their clumsy attempts to communicate with him. Although he was nearly inconspicuous in his silent world, he did have one unique attribute that kept him from being totally ignored. Miguel kept a miniature alligator in his pocket.
“I don’t think it’s an actual alligator.” Johnson opined to a select group of listeners.
“Yeah, well what is it?” Turnwheel demanded as he picked his teeth with a rasp.
“I think it’s some variety of gavial.”
“A gavial? What’s that?” One of the women asked.
“It’s a little alligator.” Joked Rick from under the table.
Amid everyone’s laughter Johnson’s voice could be heard insisting that it was a separate species.
“They’re both in the reptile family though.” He concluded.
Martha let her feelings be known.
“Well, I don’t care what it is; he shouldn’t be allowed to being that thing to work.”
“He can’t hear.” Rodney whined in apology. He was one of felt that saying the word “deaf” outright was tantamount to insulting the person so described.
“I don’t care.” Martha returned. “I’ve got diabetes. You don’t see me toting a possum in here every day.”
“OK, OK,” Supervisor McWasp intervened. “Let’s get back to work.”
Martha was on the verge of saying something to McWasp about Miguel’s pet, but thought better of it and walked back to the stereologizer unit without a word. Her complaint would have been unnecessary in any case, for management was already laying the groundwork for dealing with the matter.
The next week Miguel was summoned to the office where he found McWasp; Daniels, the regional comptroller; and a woman who knew sign waiting for him.
“Tell him we no longer employ the handicapped.” McWasp instructed.

Completion of Encoded Dispersal

A word man, devoted to literature and the furtherance of its application in the fields of dentistry, textiles, and long form diving equipment sales and maintenance, Yermach McGiggle both enjoyed the privileges of a chief executive at the glue factory and feared their corrupting influence on his ascetic lifestyle. It wasn’t the hat he wore that made his ears stick out, but rather his ears that made the hair appear disconcertingly small.
“I’ve for those reports.” Twee McBugger indicated as the lights on Ranulfsen’s desk flashed wildly.
“What about McGiggle?” Asked the cautious, arthropod-like entity in the shadows behind the filing cabinet.
“Literature is dead.” Ranulfsen pursed his lips and mimed the act of smoking, sending McBugger and all his relative incarnations down the stairs and into a pile of carnations earmarked for consumption by the beast.
“Was this the same beast that lurked in the shadows of Ranulfsen’s poorly lit office?” Amy asked later just after she had brushed her teeth, but immediately before she was scheduled to read another exciting installment of the encoded dispersal papers recently completed by a good friend of Yermach McGiggle.
The man himself, devoted to literature and the furtherance of its application in so many fields of marginal interest, watched silently from the shadows. He knew, as did I, that if the hat were not removed soon there could be lasting trauma to both the supporting ear structures and the corrupting influence they manifested among those schoolchildren who thought Spock was a doctor.
“You asked about those reports.” I stated in words to that effect upon entering the office.
“Tobacco is dead.”
“What do all those lights on your desk indicate?”
The encoded dispersal has been completed, but not before the teeth were brushed one final time.

Candid Camper

Among all the attractions the camp had to offer, Lewis liked the lake best.
“The water has that wonderful lake smell.” He told his parents in a letter home.
“Isn’t that cute?” Lewis’ mother, Mrs. Talon, asked her husband after reading aloud from the letter.
“Mmm.” Mr. Talon, enthroned on his La-Z-Boy, snorted reflectively, sparing his wife a glance before turning the page of his newspaper.
“I think I’m going to send this to that man that prints kids’ funny letters from camp.” Mrs. Talon decided with sudden inspiration.
Her husband, immediately appalled by the idea, demanded with clever evasion, “Who? Art Linkletter?”
“No, no.” Mrs. Talon shook her head. Such an antiquated reference put her in a foul mood. It made her think of her mother.
“Allan Sherman?” Suggested Mr. Talon.
“No, Charles.” Mrs. Talon covered her face with her son’s letter.
“Bill Adler?”
“Charles,” Mrs. Talon barked, staring hard at the man on the recliner, “All those people are dead.”
“Then who could you possibly send our son’s personal correspondence to?” Mr. Talon wondered, equally sarcastic and puzzled.
“Oh.” Mrs. Talon bobbed her chin up and down. “I see.” She rose from the large ottoman on which she had been arrayed and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll just write Lewis and get his permission to submit his letter for publication.”
“By whom, Irene?” Charles Talon shouted at his wife’s retreating form. “By whom?” After ten seconds of blank meditation, he collapsed the chair’s foot rest and stomped to the kitchen doorway.
“Irene, by the time Lewis gets that letter and you get his response, he’ll be home from camp!”
Mrs. Talon continued to write on her yellow stationery with the sunflowers on the border and thought of, but still could not put a name to, Mr. Bob Saget.

All for the Resolution

By the showing of hands it appeared that nearly everyone was in favor of the resolution. Brad dropped his gavel and rose from his chair. The other three members of the board also stood, gathering their papers and draining their coffee cups. Ellie Grant, only elected to the board a couple of days earlier, approached Brad and began to talk about certain ramifications of the resolution’s adoption, but was interrupted by old man Peachwilly.
“You know what this means, don’t you, Brad?” The stooped troublemaker demanded, not impolitely, just earnestly, as usual. “Schoolkids will be forced to venerate a villain! Forced to fawn over his picture in a textbook!”
“Peachwilly, it’s just a resolution.” Brad wearily explained. “It doesn’t have the force of law. No action will be compelled as a result of its passage.”
“But it’s the first step! Public acceptance!” The old man was guided away from board’s bench by a servitor.
“I get so tired of him.” Brad shook his head as he snapped his briefcase shut.
“Well,” Ellie rolled her eyes. “I was going to make a point rather similar myself.”
“What?” Brad stared at the new board member. “Ellie, if you had any objections or qualms, why didn’t you bring them up before the vote?”
“Everyone seemed to be in such a mood of celebration—I just didn’t want to spoil it.”
“You’re a member of the colony’s board now, Ellie, not a furnace attendant. You have an obligation to speak your mind. And vote your conscience!”
Outside, in the main corridor, old man Peachwilly had attracted a small audience.
“Palmer Noodle was the worst thing that ever happened to this colony!” He declared. “We’re lucky he didn’t turn us into a dictatorship! And now these idiots pass a resolution declaring him a hero and a symbol of our national spirit!”
Roger Boogerby picked his nose indifferently as he listened.

I Must Know His Name

The identity of the man in the poncho is unknown. I have admired not only his poncho, but his hat as well for some time. The boots I don’t think I could manage. It is not that I want to copy his look in every detail; I merely want to appropriate certain elements of it for use in one of my public images. I have several.
The poncho looks soft, like alpaca. In order to know where to obtain one like it I need to know the name of the man that wears it. Then I could look up his address and confront him.
“Hello, sir,” I’d say. “You don’t know me, but I’ve lone been an admirer of your poncho and, yes, possibly, your hat as well. I was wondering if you could tell me where you purchased them. I see. Well, thank you very much.” And that would be the end of the confrontation. Most likely. I’ve heard that he carries a gun beneath that soft, geometrically patterned poncho. And then, there also exists the possibility that he didn’t buy the poncho at any reasonably accessible modern retail establishment at all, but bartered for it in some South American village. Oh, perhaps the hat came from a dry goods store in the middle of a ghost town just off the scenic route, but that poncho speaks of native craft.
My wife, who thinks my current image of an early 1960’s advertising executive is just fine, finds my obsession with the poncho-wearing man dubious at best. She has even suggested that the poncho is a Mexican one.
“And that’s in North America,” she reminded me. “Not South America.”
I thought about this while she continued pouring scorn on my vision.
“And besides,” she continued. “I thought you wanted to look like an early 1970’s rock star.”
“Mexico, eh?” I mused aloud, scratching my nose and looked up at the photograph of Lyndon Johnson on the opposite wall.
“I wish you’d make up your mind.” Sighed my wife as she continued to mend the tears in the old coat that was part of my hobo costume.
“You don’t understand.” I said. “You can wear a poncho with anything.”
“And the hat?”
I nodded. I knew what she meant. A hat is like a pair of boots for you head.

Try to Be Brave

“It won’t be easy finding the place.” I warned Carlsen. “Satellite imagery is voided over that entire district.”
“A building one hundred feet tall in the middle of a red-dirt-and-blackberry-thicket wasteland? I don’t think it’ll be too hard.” Carlsen shrugged off my doubts as he cinched his adventurer’s belt around his waist.
“I just want you to take care.” I softened my warning. There was more to worry about than Carlsen’s not finding the repository, things like feral dogs, hostile locals, and the repository’s security team, but I said nothing of them. Carlsen had been thoroughly prepared. 65FP and DB-00K and I followed him outside to the van.
“Good luck.” I told him through the open window.
“Don’t worry, old man.” Carlsen gripped the wheel and smiled. His beard was thick. His sunglasses reflected my own cleanshaven visage. “I’ll bring back the film.” He started the van and drove away into the dusty, hot summer morning.
A string of bubbling infantile electronic noises issued from 65FP.
“He’s wondering about the unusual design on the sides of the van.” DB-00K translated for my benefit.
“It’s old wallpaper.” I explained. “Fulfillment of the prophecy demanded that that exact arrangement of tiny sunflowers adorn a strip down the sides of the van.”
“I see.” DB-00K, nervous even at the best of times, sounded doubtful.
“Don’t worry.” I said as I stared at the dust cloud slowly obscuring the shrinking van. “He’s the right man for the job. He’s got the right look. The van is exactly as described in the prophecy. He can’t fail.” I turned to walk back into our makeshift base.
“Sir,” DB-00K began hesitantly, “If I might enquire—have you ever seen the film?”
“Once.” I answered. I sat down in an old recliner we had salvaged from an abandoned trailer. “I was only a child, maybe three years old at most. But I remember the music. At least, I remember how it made me feel.”

Salivation and Cursus

“I hear you’re interested in salivation and cursus.” The fat man’s voice was low. He looked about in an almost comedic display of caution.
“Salivation certainly.” I replied, keeping my voice low also out of common decency. “But I’m a little unsure of cursus.”
“You do know what it means, don’t you?”
“Well, it’s an adjunct of salivation and its related-”
“No, no.” The fat man shook his head. “Although you cannot have salivation without cursus; you can have cursus without salivation. Cursus…” An arrow through his neck ended any further explanation. I ducked below the bar.
“Curses!” I growled. The fat man, gurgling and bleeding in his last struggling moments of life, fell on top of me.
“It looks like you could use some help.” Came the voice of Christopher Walken.
On being pulled from under the body, however, I found myself unsure as to the identity of the man before me.
“Are you Christopher Walken?” I asked.
The man and his companions, three burly men in brightly colored jackets, laughed at this.
“Let’s not worry ourselves too much about who exactly I am.” The man urged.
“Very well.” I saw the prudence of this.
“Now, tell me: why are you so interested in salivation and cursus?” The man tried to put his arm around me in a display of mock affection intended to be threatening, but I threw it off as insight came to me.
“It’s a band!” I shouted. Until now no once in the room had taken note of the events of the past two minutes, but my shout made everyone look up from their activities. “Or an act of some kind, at any rate.” I added reflectively.
“Have you ever seen a bar full of people reading and playing chess?” The Walken-like man asked as he looked around. His failure to deny my statement lent credence to my theory that this was nothing but a dream.

Organization of the Liner Continues

Until the moment when Mr. Longpillow stepped on board I hadn’t really felt that I was on a ship. After all, the Goddamn Monkey Movie looked more like a giant floating length of jump rope entwined about a hand saw stuffed into the end of a megaphone than any ship I’d ever seen.
“Mr. Longpillow does embody an unmistakable nauticality, doesn’t he?” Vivian asked, reading my thoughts as I jotted them down beside her.
I frowned, regarded the woman with doubt, then opened up to her as I had not done to any stranger since I was a boy pretending to be the Green Lantern at Macy’s.
“He’s a well-known sailor.” I admitted.
“If he weren’t so ugly he’d be sexy.” Vivian looked me in the eye as she spoke, making my next words all the more painful to speak.
“I prefer the usage, ‘If he wasn’t so ugly…’” I said as gently as possible.
“Why?” The woman wrinkled her forehead. “‘If he wasn’t’ Doesn’t sound right. ‘If he wasn’t.’”
“Well, consider, what you would say if you didn’t put ‘if’ in front of the sentence. You’d say ‘he wasn’t.’ You wouldn’t say ‘he weren’t.’ Why does making the sentence conditional change the tense? It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“It might not make sense to you, but I’m sure it’s correct.” She wandered away, repeating to herself, “If he wasn’t… if he weren’t…”
“I see you’ve alienated yet another young lady.” Mr. Longpillow enunciated clearly.
“I can’t help it, Longpillow. I’ve got to be true to myself.”
“Nobly spoken.” The grand old fellow of the waves replied. “Very close to my own philosophy of, ‘Never step into a puddle without first visualizing your shoes as little boats for your feet.’”
I considered this as the Goddamn Monkey Movie pulled away from the dock.
“You’re not helping to sail the boat?” I asked Longpillow as we turned away from the railing.
“No.” He answered. “I’m merely a passenger. The sea no longer holds any fascination for me. It is to the trees that now I look.”

Top of the Mourning

I don’t attend funerals unless I’m forced to by overwhelming familiar pressure. I never understood my parents’ feeling obligated to go to the funerals of minor or peripheral figures in their lives. Many times I would see them putting on their Sunday best (in this case it’s not a cliché: it’s literally true) outside of normal church hours and wonder where they were going.
“A funeral.” One would explain.
“Whose?”
“Charlie Kellaway’s mother.”
“Who is Charlie Kellaway?”
“He used to work with me at the Flagler Street Building.”
In other words this meant that it was someone they hadn’t seen in over ten years. And the dead mother (or cousin or sister or husband) would be someone they had never met at all. Before I was old enough to be left home alone and big enough to assert my right not to accompany them, my parents were constantly dragging me to funerals.
When I do go to a funeral it always infuriates me that the preacher conducting the service sees the occasion as a wonderful opportunity to make his pitch for joining his organization. After all, here are a number of people who don’t normally set foot in a church, and there is a very graphic reminder of the Universal Truth lying in the box in front of them. What better time to put the fear of God into them?
I usually sit there and doodle inconspicuously on a small piece of paper.
I think the last funeral I went to was that of my mother’s brother. I misunderstood my mother’s instructions and went to the funeral home instead of meeting everyone at her house. There was no one there except the white-faced employees. I walked up to the coffin and looked down at the body. They had shaved his moustache off. The illness of his last couple of weeks had left my uncle’s face thin. I really couldn’t recognize him. But it wasn’t just that that left me unmoved. It was my own natural indifference, my lack of feeling. Maybe one day grief will paralyze me, but not yet.

Poosak Wears a Hooked Chemise

Poosak, a wandering shaman loosely connected with the village, found the chemise in a trunk washed up on the banks of the river. Normally a chemise of this type is not fastened with a hook, but rather tied together with a thin silk ribbon or cord. The one Poosak now wore, however, was of the hooked variety and this fact interested the local anthropologist so much that he called me in to observe and advise.
As I was scheduled to begin a round of in-store appearances to promote my new book of cat photographs, there was no time to hike through the jungle to the village. Instead, I was flown in by airplane, landing in a clearing about a day’s journey away.
“Good luck.” The pilot, a caveman extra from an episode of the original Star Trek, saluted me manfully before leaving me with my adventurer’s bag and ceremonial monocle. I waited as instructed for the anthropologist, Dr. Fangspot, and his native assistants to come for me. It was night before I saw the illumination from their miners’ helmets.
“Have you been scared?” Fangspot asked.
“Many times.” I replied. “However, I have not come halfway around the planet to detail my emotions. Let’s investigate this strangely clad shaman of your forthwith!” I stood and hefted my monocle higher on my shoulder.
The natives looked at one another wide-eyed and muttered among themselves.
“They say you are bulusaam.” Dr. Fangspot explained. “Impetuous, rash.”
“Do they indeed?” I laughed.
“It was only with the most forceful cajoling that I got them to agree to continue past sunset. The tagru traditionally do not travel after dark.”
“What are you saying? We’re staying here until morning?”
“That’s the idea.” Fangspot outstretched his arms, indicating that the clearing would be our camp.
“Do they know anything about building a shelter?” I asked.
It was Fangspot’s turn to laugh, only his was the laugh of experience at the words of a fool, whereas mine had been more theatrically indulgent.

The Lion Sash

I was first presented with the Lion Sash in what I took to be an ironic gesture on the part of the university. After all, my own academic career had been mediocre at best and it was only my recent ascension to political mastery of the city that now compelled them to award me thusly. I remember my assistant Miss Waterwasp asking me exactly what the Lion Sash signified.
“The Lion Sash,” I lectured, “Is an ancient order of merit on a par with the Fractal Frump or the Green Arschloch. Those who receive it are judged to be exceptionally gifted in the verbal arts.”
“Has anyone famous ever received it?” Miss Waterwasp, her hair a single ringlet of glory whipped into orbit with an entire can of fixative, further probed the matter.
“I believe Andy Summers has got one.” I struggled to recall. “But outside of him I can’t think of anyone you’d know.”
“You think because I’m so young that I don’t know any of the old stars.”
“That’s not true.” I tried to offer consolation, but was only left wondering just how young she was as we stepped into the waiting car sent to take me to the investiture. The driver, a horned turtle, kept glancing back at the two of us, his tiny mind conjuring up visions of impropriety. As we pulled into the shadow of the obelisk I informed him that one didn’t get the Lion Sash draped about one’s torso by fooling around with one’s assistant.
The university president greeted me warmly.
“May I kiss you?” He begged. “Just once, like a tiny bird, on the side of your head?”
“I suppose.” I giggled, maintaining that it was best not to disappoint a man who still had it within his power to deny me that length of red and gold silk.
“It is made of silk, isn’t it?” I wondered aloud as the man pulled away, satisfied with himself and the smell of my hair.
“Only the finest.” Came the reassuring words.

Noteworthy Endugians

Among the many Endugians who have come to live among us in the past sixty years or so there are a few who have distinguished themselves, becoming, dare I suggest, worthy of taking note of. So get out your index cards.
The first Endugian that comes to mind is obviously the most famous one, Phazer McCracker. He established the Endugian Society for Integration into American Life, the organization that has been at the forefront of Endugian immigrant issues since its founding. McCracker died in 1969, but his legacy lives on, most recently by inspiring a new breakfast cereal, Photo Feed, whose cartoon mascot, Fizzer, is a crude caricature of him.
The next most famous resident Endugian is debatable. Some might say Rayf Gibbleassum, lead singer for the band Pinched Open. Others might nominate the president of Back Filler Motors, Muhl Huppingrave. However, I’m going to be controversial here and go with Shalievoral Mraaahngo. Many of you may not have heard of him, but he’s quite well-known in the snake community, I assure you. Actually, I’m probably biased since I know Mraaangho personally. We attended a backgammon convention together a few years ago. We met over the raw mushrooms on the buffet in the hospitality suite and got to talking about the films of Mickey Rourke, each trying to eat more mushrooms than the other.
Now that I’ve gotten this far I’m finding it hard to think of any more Endugians that really fit the criteria for noteworthiness. Oh, there are many honorable Endugians living on these shores, going to work each day and not littering the streets with waste products, but are they exceptional enough for me to set their names down? Certainly I don’t know any of their names, except one: he’s a neighbor of mine here on the island. His name is Weeg Maneeg. Like most Endugians he is about four feet tall and covered in leathery orange circle. As his throat is not designed for human speech he uses a translator mask. This makes him sound fey and wistful, but at least he can tell the lawn maintenance crew what to look out for. However, there the similarities with the rest of his kind cease, for Maneeg, unlike his fellow Endugians, is a Christian and an alcoholic. He is also a sculptor, but his work is mediocre and derivative.

Shoes on the Cat

When the shoes were first put on the cat everybody said, oh how cute, but then in the next breath all agreed it was totally impractical and would not work. The cat, however, seemed delighted by the shoes and even resisted having them removed. He scratched Rusty’s hairy forearms in the struggle. By the time they had one of them off the rains had begun and it seemed stupid to continue. So they allowed the cat to step back into the shoe and then laced it back up for him.
“We’d better get all the windows rolled up.” Old Doc Wormshit advised.
As the designated crews moved through the parking lot rolling up all the windows the cat, momentarily forgotten, edged into the darkness beneath the Rolling Stones’ tour bus and worked his way into the cape and mask that Sarah Jane had made for him. As he looked at his reflection in a puddle of oil he thought, “Now I have the identity I’ve so long needed. And with that identity comes power.”
The rains pounded down heavier than ever. As everyone gathered on the porch and prepared to enter the corporate sleeping well, someone noted the absence of the cat.
“The cat! The cat! Where’s the cat?”
But no one knew and there was no time to go looking, no opportunity to do so, no safety in dodging and dashing out among those heavy raindrops. A few children wept as they were shut away in their cubicles, but most fell quickly asleep under the well’s hypnotic pulse. The Fanning woman, who had already lost two children to Hollywood, looked across the well at the old doctor and wordlessly shook her head.
“Poor woman.” Doc Wormshit thought. “She doesn’t know that I probably won’t be here when she awakes. This is my last season.”
Out on the highway the cat, having ingested nearly a half a pint of his special cream-and-rocket-fuel solution, hitched a ride in a Buick.
“I like your shoes.” Said the woman at the wheel.
“Thanks.” Replied the cat. “This plastic thumb they sewed on the side of this one sure came in handy.”

Steadfast in Breakfast

I have become remorseless in my consumption of breakfast, obsessive in my observation of its rituals. Although a vegetarian, I feel the need to see the traditional meats on the table, and so make use of clever substitutes manufactured by the Soybean Processors Association. There must be pancakes and packaged cereals and grits. I must have toast and tea and eggs, the last in at least one of their many cooked forms.
The trappings of breakfast are important too. I’ve started taking a daily metropolitan newspaper and shaving each morning. In fact, I just shaved now and the tingle of rubbing alcohol is still on my cheeks. I have picked up the newspaper and turned to the celebrity news.
“What’s this?” I say. “Joe Pesci doesn’t understand what grits are?”
“I think that was in that movie, My Cousin Vinnie.” My wife responds. She is eating ramen noodle soup with mushrooms.
“‘Famed actor Joes Pesci asks, “What is a grit?”” I read aloud. I snort contemptuously. “Don’t these sophisticates understand that ‘grit’ is a semantic corruption of the word, ‘grist,’ indicating the food’s origin as coarsely ground corn flour?” I demand.
“How can you expect him to understand anything,” my wife asks, “Running around with Mel Gibson all the time?”
“Isn’t it funny,” I change topic slightly. “That Marisa Tomei won an Oscar for that movie and she hasn’t been heard of since?”
“She was on Seinfeld.” My wife reminds me, but I ignore her.
“Just like Mira Sorvino.” I add. “She won the Oscar when she clearly did not deserve it, and she disappeared like…” I struggle to think of a clever and original simile.
“While you’re struggling to think of a clever and original simile,” my wife moves forward, “Tell me if you want a cinnamon roll. They’re coming out of the oven now.”
Oh, the cinnamon rolls! I had forgotten about breakfast sweets! Dessert at breakfast, you might say. Yes, that’s it.
“Like dessert at breakfast!” I conclude triumphantly.
My wife doesn’t understand me.

A Comprehensive Study of Soup

Yerkins’ comprehensive study of soup has come to the attention of the modern thinking man and leaves him wondering, “Just how much more comprehensive could such a thing as this be?” I never regretted being known as the modern thinking man before, but now, after carrying around this seven-pound volume with me all week, I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t take one a new title. Perhaps the present day man of repose would suffice.
It was after making such an observation that a few of the young men in my employ asked me why I didn’t opt for the digitized version of Yerkins’ study. I untied my bib and laid it aside, preparatory to lashing out at them is dismay.
“You can’t digitize soup!” I howled. “You young men don’t realize that there are limits to digitization, that there is a tactile pleasure in holding a lovingly crafted study, bound in its pale blue cardboard binder. Would you deny yourselves the satisfaction of a steaming bowl of chowder just because a drop or two fell onto your tie?”
Of course they snickered at that. Tie! Who would wear a tie when the graphic art display area on a t-shirt was so much larger?
“Sir, we just want to spare your back.” One of the young men said amiably.
“You mentioned chowder.” Another began. “What does Yerkins have to say about that particular kind of soup?”
“Well, let’s see.” I mumbled as I thumbed through the pages of the study. “I believe it’s somewhere in the first third.”
“Found it.” Came the crowing song from the group gathered before the computer monitor. “You see how much faster and easier this is?” They all turned and looked at me in smiling expectation. What would the old thinking man say to this?
I closed Yerkins’ study with a toss of my hand and stalked towards them. Their beards and t-shirts reminded me of the gaggle of hippies that crafted the first Star Wars film. They made way for me as I approached the computer. I reached out and grasped the handle. The bell rang sharply as I opened the door. Steam and a wonderful aroma poured forth. I sampled the broth with a spoon provided for that purpose and made my pronouncement:
“I prefer stovetop.”

Mr. Jameson’s Plot Unraveled

The unraveling of Mr. Jameson’s plot wasn’t just my doing. Credit must be shared with the many people on the international task force of which I was merely the figurehead. As a matter of fact, I was sleeping at the time when the actual unraveling took place. I remember it was the very audible “snap” of the plot as it finally came unraveled that woke me up.
“Oh, dammit, what time is it?” I groaned.
“Don’t look at the clock, sir, or you’ll never get back to sleep.” One of the members of the task force advised. But, it was too late. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t, lying there in my little cot in the task force coordinators’ mobile HQ, blaming everybody but myself for the situation, even going so far in the insanity of the moment to begin wondering how Mr. Jameson’s plot had been raveled up in the first place. I must have spoken these last thoughts aloud, for the task force member tasked with watching over me asked me exactly what I meant.
“Well,” I replied, hoisting myself into an upright position. “As the plot has become unraveled, it only makes sense that at one time it was raveled. I’m just wondering how that happened.”
“Perhaps if we knew more about the unraveling we could figure it out. Obviously, the initial process must be the reverse.”
“That makes sense.” I agreed. “Let’s go find out.” I arose and donned the official robes of the task force figurehead and stepped outside into the fierce Utah sunshine.
A crowd of task force members, each wearing his official task force member headgear, milled about the old parking lot, in the center of which stood Mr. Jameson’s plot, all unraveled. I walked towards it on unsteady feet. After all, I’d been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours.
“How did it happen?” I asked someone close to the pieces of unraveled plot.
“Don’t really know, sir. It just sort of happened.”
“I was just wondering if we could work our way backwards and see how it was raveled in the first place.”
“If you ask me, I don’t think it ever really was raveled.”