What a Terrible Thing to Call a Horse!

The fifth eccentric novel By Heff Munson February 10, 2013 – October 14, 2013

Copyright 2013 Arthur Jeffrey Munson, as per usual CHAPTERS

1. Starting Off with a Bang 2. Now that We’ve Got That Out of the Way 3. An Actual Scene, Sort Of 4. One-Verse Wonders #1 5. Remedial Writting 6. How About Those Pancakes? 7. The Lucky Chapter 8. We Want The Six Pretty Girls Again 9. The Moral Dilemma 10. X 11. The Seeing Men and the Elephant 12. Aw, Man, You Ruined It! 13. The Unlucky Chapter 14. They Went Somewhere, Part 1 15. They Went Somewhere, Part 2 16. They Went Somewhere, Part 3 17. They Went Somewhere, Part 4 18. They Went Somewhere, Part 5 19. The Fictional Character 20. One-Verse Wonders #2 21. Letters 22. An Old-Fashioned Radio Bit 23. Mary Magic, part 1 24. Mary Magic, part 2 25. Mary Magic, part 3 26. Mary Magic, part 4 27. Mary Magic, part 5 28. Mary Magic, part 6 29. Mary Magic, part 7 30. Mary Magic, part 8 31. Mary Magic, part 9 32. Mary Magic, part 10 33. Huh? 34. On Composing and Stuff 35. The Sixteen Hundred 36. The State of Heads 37. The Old Man and the Little Girl 38. The Old Man and the Old Dog 39. The Old Man and the Other Old Man 40. The Old Man and the Dead Man 41. A Whole Room Full of Old Men 42. The Six Pretty Girls on a Merry-Go-Round 43. The Eleven Handsome Chorus Boys 44. Pretty Bitty So Far 45. The Title Without A Chapter 46. (the chapter without a title) 47. Dog 48. Wata Hati, International Spy 49. This Business of Having Actual Chapters 50. How to Not Write a Novel 51. Wondering 52. 47,000 Bags 53. Words of Wisdom 54. The Old Man and the Seat 55. An Embarrassment of Riches 56. The Poor Little Fifth Novel 57. Pancakes on Mars 58. Getting There is Half the Fun 59. Getting Back is No Fun at All 60. To Mars 61. On Mars 62. A Special Occasion 63. All Good things 64. The Swell Hotel 65. The Shameless Plug 66. The Bum Review 67. The Old Man Who Became A Little Girl 68. Sometimes 69. Greetings from Planet Dave 70. Slouch a Little, Darling, When You Walk with Me 71. Another Fake Fairy Tale, Part 1 72. Another Fake Fairy Tale, Part 2 73. Another Fake Fairy Tale, Part 3 74. Another Fake Fairy Tale, Part 4 75. Another Fake Fairy Tale, Part 5 76. The Screwball Comedy, Part 1 77. The Screwball Comedy, Part 2 78. The Screwball Comedy, Part 3 79. The Screwball Comedy, Part 4 80. The Screwball Comedy, Part 5 81. The Screwball Comedy, Part 6 82. The Screwball Comedy, Part 7 83. Is This Still The Screwball Comedy? 84. That Was A Pretty Short Chapter 85. Now Cut That Out 86. Back at the Fabulous Mansion, Like I Said 87. False Starts to a Finish 88. The Keys on a Piano 89. A Complete Departure 90. Irritating Subchapters 91. The Famous Artist 92. The Wheel 93. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 1 94. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 2 95. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 3 96. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 4 97. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 5 98. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 6 99. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 7 100.The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 8 1. Starting Off with a Bang

BANG! 2. Now that We’ve Got That Out of the Way

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, maybe we can start thinking about Content and Structure. Will this be a heavily self-referential, sketch-based yarn like the first book, or will it be more story-based, like the fourth book?

It’s hard to say right now, because we have jotted down a number of ideas that are more sketch-like, but on the other hand, the self-referential business can get really aggravating after awhile.

Maybe it would be enough for now to stop referring to ourselves in the plural as if we were some kind of Queen or a person afflicted with parasites. 3. An Actual Scene, Sort Of

“Well,” said Mac, “It looks like another book is starting.”

“Yeah,” said Eddie, “but maybe I won’t have to be in it.”

“I see the cover’s already done for this one,” said Mac. “It’s another blue cover.”

“That’s OK,” said Eddie. “All the covers are blue, and all the mucilage is glue, and…well, I forget the rest, but at any rate, I like it. It keeps things simple.”

The two men sat in Eddie’s timeworn office on West 333rd Street, or East 333rd Street, or somewhere like that. The office reeked with atmosphere, but both Mac and Eddie were used to it. It was kind of like home. Actually, for Eddie, it really was home. At least, that was where he slept when he wasn’t either sleeping somewhere else or lying unconscious after receiving a nasty blow on the head or being in a stupor for some vaguely literary reason.

Eddie sat in a sitting position, but Mac sat in a standing position. It was something that a certain breed of men do instinctively, and Mac was one of those men. He simply had a kind of formality that no situation could change. He could probably cover himself completely in pancake batter and retain his air of dignity, but Mac would never cover himself in pancake batter because he was one of a certain breed of men who never cover themselves in pancake batter. They just don’t.

Eddie spoke up.

“I’m hungry,” he said.

“Why don’t we go out for some pancakes?” suggested Mac.

“Pancakes?” said Eddie. “Why pancakes?”

“No reason,” replied Mac. 4. One-Verse Wonders #1

When the butter’s too hard And the bread is too soft I just holler while holding My sandwich aloft.

There’s no deadlier blow To the human soul Than attempting to spread And just tearing a hole

In the bread What dread! Just tearing a hole in the bread. 5. Remedial Writting

Suddenly the door burst open and a panting young man rushed in.

Oh, really?

I doubt it.

Let’s just say that the door was opened very quickly, and that the hinges and the doorknob and its related apparatus remained intact, with no splintering of wood, no harm to the jamb, no structural damage of any kind. That seems a little more reasonable, and a good deal more likely, albeit somewhat less dramatic.

The door opened suddenly and unexpectedly and a panting young man rushed in.

That’s more like it.

“I’ve got it!” the young man exclaimed.

“I’m so sorry for you,” said Mac.

“No,” said the young man, “I mean to say that I’ve got The Next Big Thing!”

“Oh,” said Mac. “I’m so sorry for you.”

“So what is it?” asked Eddie.

“The Next Big Thing in Publishing!” said the young man. “Remedial Writing for Remedial Readers! Just take a look at this!”

With a flourish, the young man placed a single sheet of paper in the center of Eddie’s desk, and Eddie read the following while Mac looked over his shoulder:

“Its like your reading this book just minding you’re own bisuness. When suddenly! And theres these thing’s goeing off allaround! These thing’s are so exitting! You get the idea! Like when your goeing to just hang out and rilax and just hang out. Right. And just wanted to hang out and rilax like with normel guy’s. So you wouldnt want it to be to fancy or any thing. Just some reguler guy’s hanging out. And not worry about “the kings Inglish’. And this would be that kind of storey. Only maybe scarry and exitting.”

“Oh, my,” said Mac.

“So what is it?” said Eddie.

“Remedial Writing for Remedial Readers!” said the young man.

There was a pause while Mac thought this over.

There was another pause while Eddie thought about thinking this over and decided not to bother.

Finally Mac spoke.

“Don’t you think that people would find it offensive?”

“Why?” asked the young man.

“Well,” said Mac, “it looks like you’re making fun of the way some people write when they haven’t had a complete education.”

“It only looks that way to you because you’ve already had a complete education,” said the young man. “To the ones who haven’t, it would just look about right.”

“But they wouldn’t learn good writing from reading this,” said Mac. “In fact, it would just reinforce a lot of bad habits they need to break.”

“That’s my point,” said the young man. “The people for whom this was written don’t want to be taught all the time. Sometimes they just want to be entertained without being reminded of all the finer points of things they don’t know or aren’t comfortable with. They just want a book that’s like a friend who talks to them on their own level.”

“So why did you bring it here?” asked Eddie.

“You’re Publishing Agents, aren’t you?” said the young man.

“No,” said Mac. “You want the next floor up.”

“Oh,” said the young man.

“Let’s go get those pancakes,” said Mac. 6. How About Those Pancakes?

Eddie and Mac entered the Pancake Palace and sat down.

“All right, you wise guys,” said Wendy the Waitress. “Get up off the floor and let me show you to a booth already.”

Wendy led Eddie and Mac to a nearby booth, and the two men sat down on the benches. Wendy handed them each a menu, which read as follows: PANCAKE PALACE Menu

Pancakes $2.00 Pancakes* $1.50 Pancakes $1.00 Pancakes $3.00 Pancakes $2.50 Butter 25 cents Syrup 25 cents Time Machine $3.00

Eddie puzzled over the menu for awhile while Wendy waited, tapping her foot.

Mac, ever the gentleman, apologized. “I think my friend needs a little more time to decide,” he said.

“That’s all right,” said Wendy, “I’ve got all day. I just like to tap my foot sometimes. Helps prevent varicose veins.”

“I don’t get it,” said Eddie. “What’s the difference between the two-dollar pancakes and the one-dollar pancakes?”

“With the two-dollar pancakes, you get four pancakes,” said Wendy. “With the one-dollar pancakes, you only get two pancakes.”

“Oh,” said Eddie. “So with the three-dollar pancakes, do you get six pancakes?”

“No,” said Wendy. “Ordering the three-dollar pancakes gets you four pancakes, but you get two servings of butter and syrup added.” “What about the two-and-a-half dollar pancakes?” asked Eddie.

“Four pancakes plus a single serving of butter and syrup,” said Wendy.

“What if you want more than four pancakes?” asked Eddie.

“You shouldn’t eat more than four pancakes,” said Wendy.

“OK,” said Eddie, “I guess I’ll get the buck-and-a-half pancakes. Can I get a drink with that?”

“Drinks are one dollar each at the Drink Duchy next door,” said Wendy, “but I can have someone bring one over.”

“How about some sausage?” asked Eddie.

“Those are one dollar per serving at the Sausage Serfdom across the street,” said Wendy, “but I can get them the same way I get drinks.”

“Well,” said Eddie, “just to keep things simple, I’ll go with just the buck-and-a half pancakes.”

“Good choice,” said Mac. “I’ll have the same thing, only can we also have a double-order of the Time Machine, one for each of us?”

“You know the Time Machine is Cash-In-Advance,” said Wendy.

“Sure do,” said Mac. He placed a ten-dollar bill into Wendy’s hand and said “Here’s payment up front for the whole order. Keep the change.”

“Thanks, Big Spender,” said Wendy as she pocketed the bill. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

Eddie looked quizzically at Mac, who just grinned and said “Come with me.”

Mac led Eddie to a smallish structure in the far corner. It looked like an oversized cabinet with a curtain on the side. Above the curtain was a chalkboard with the words “TIME MACHINE” scrawled on it.

The two men climbed through the curtain and entered the cabinet.

There was a flash of light, and then Mac led Eddie back out.

They returned to their booth to find their food waiting for them. There were two plates, each containing four large, fluffy pancakes with plenty of butter and maple syrup, and each plate was accompanied with side servings of sausage and biscuit, with containers of jelly and ketchup, as well as a cup of coffee, and small glass of orange juice, and a glass of milk. There was a sugar dispenser as well.

“I don’t get it,” said Eddie.

“That’s because you didn’t ask about the one-and-a-half-dollar pancakes with the asterisk,” said Mac. “It’s the Special, and it comes with all this stuff if you combine it with the Time Machine. Plus, with the Time Machine, your order is ready right away. No waiting.”

“So that’s why she called you ‘Big Spender’,” said Eddie. “We probably got more than ten bucks’ worth of food plus the six bucks for the time machine.”

“It’s something that only the Regulars know,” said Mac as they began their meal.

The food and drinks were delicious, and very satisfying. As the two men ate, a thin, disheveled young man suddenly stood up and began to recite:

“O, It’s time for a song About Arlington, Virginia And not just about the building that Mr. Custis built such a long time ago.

It’s a real impressive building And I mean no disrespect But there’s more than that In Arlington, Virginia What else would you expect?

O, There used to be A duckpin bowling alley And Hagan’s Farm That seemed to have About a million cats, But they knocked down The duckpin bowling alley And Hagan’s Farm got used For part of Interstate 66.

But they still have Lubber Run The park and the amphitheatre And a chunk of the W&OD Only now it’s not a railroad But it’s still a nifty bike trail And also the Custis Trail And some of the the Mount Vernon Trail.

Don’t pick on Martha Custis Her hair was not really Made of mashed potatoes The paintings just make it Kind of look that way.

And you can go to Ballston Common If you want to buy some shoes And there’s a local paper With quite a lot of Real Estate And a little bit of news.

And Cherrydale and Rosslyn Which is better than it used to be And Westover has Ayers Hardware If there’s something they don’t have You can get along without it.

O, Arlington, Virginia Still has some local charm Though I kind of miss That old duckpin bowling alley And Hagan’s Farm.”

There was no applause, just a nervous sort of rattling of silverware and dishes.

Then Mac recognized the young man, and waved him over.

“I remember you,” said Mac. “Weren’t you in our office earlier this morning?”

“Yes,” said the young man, “that was me.”

“So how did it go with the publishing agent?” asked Mac.

“No sale,” shrugged the young man, “so it’s back to the bars for me.” And with that, the young man walked quietly out the door.

Eddie and Mac finished their meal in thoughtful silence.

Before they went out the door, Eddie went over to the waitress, and pressed a five-dollar bill into her hand. “That’s for you,” he said.

“Thanks, Eddie,” said Wendy. “I’ll see you in your dreams.” 7. The Lucky Chapter

Eddie and Mac returned to Eddie’s office on West 333rd Street, or East 333rd Street, or whatever. After all, West 333rd Street was only one block away from East 333rd Street, and North 333rd Street was only one block away from South 333rd Street. The center of the city was the junction of the four numbered streets, and none of those streets extended more than a couple of blocks in any direction. There were a few other streets scattered around that nucleus, but they meandered around and ran into each other and there was no real sense of order. They had names like “Avenue Street Boulevard”, and “Help I’m A Signpost”, but the prestige addresses were all on the numbered streets, because it was the numbered street addresses that conveyed the impression of a huge bustling metropolis.

In fact, the city was very small, consisting largely of flats, facades, and cardboard. The main drag that seemed to stretch for miles and miles was, in fact, a portable matte painting which could be moved around depending on which direction you were looking. A close examination of the local Bird and Bee revealed a total of two birds and three bees, augmented by some strategically-placed mirrors. The Mayor of the city was, in fact, a life-sized marionette whose strings were pulled by certain local businessmen who may or may not have been marionettes themselves. The Mayor had been unopposed for the past several elections, and this was just as well, for there is nothing quite so sad as the sight of a marionette running.

Things got done once a week, generally on Monday, and could not be undone until the Monday after that.

There is nothing particularly lucky about this chapter. It happens to be chapter seven, and some people might think that this makes it lucky. Of course, some people think that a horseshoe is lucky, but most stories don’t have chapters with objects instead of numbers. For example, it could have been called “Chapter Spleen”, but some people would have insisted on referring to it as the seventh chapter anyway, and it must be admitted that “Chapter Spleen” would not only be an unusual thing to call a chapter, but a terrible thing to call a horse, but we are getting a little bit ahead of ourselves here, and this is really a remarkably long sentence, is it not?

“Chapter Spleen?” said Eddie.

There was a knock on the door, and Mac opened it.

There in the doorway stood a horse.

“I meant to warn you about that,” said Mac. 8. We Want The Six Pretty Girls Again

Oatius Mealius shifted nervously in his bowl.

“I don’t know about this next bit,” he said. “It’s hard enough to be convincing as a talking bowl of oatmeal without having this weird Greco-Roman thing added into the mix.”

“I dunno,” said his friend Mashius Potatum. “Maybe someone’ll fix it later on.”

Suddenly a bright blue dinner plate was placed next to them.

“Hey, how are my two big stars doin’ today?” said the plate. “You’re lookin’ great!”

“I dunno,” said Mashius. “Oaty’s kinda worried.”

“Never worry!” said the plate. “You’ll be a sensation!”

“What, like nausea?” said Oatius. “This dialogue you’ve given us is ‘way outa whack. Who’s gonna buy the idea that a bowl of oatmeal and a bowl of mashed potatoes can engage in philosophical discourses?”

“Only every student who gets it as required reading!” said the plate. “Lissen, it’s a cinch! I mean, you’ve already got the milk bath, just like Cleopatra, and nobody can tell that the bowls aren’t real China---“

“But Cleopatra and China have nothing to do with ancient Greek Philosophical discourses,” said Oatius. “You must know that.”

“But the public doesn’t know it,” reassured the plate. “The average Joe, the man on the street, the guy with the spoon, he doesn’t care about historical accuracy, or education of any kind. He just wants entertainment, something he can sink his teeth into. Besides, I got a great new talent to help out. Now let’s get going!”

And so the scene began.

OATIUS: I say there, Mashius, did you know that everyone already knows everything?

MASHIUS: I had no idea.

OATIUS: Yes you did. You just forgot.

MASHIUS: Nope…I’m pretty sure I didn’t.

OATIUS: Yeah, you really did. MASHIUS: I never have any ideas. That’s my thing, y’ know.

OATIUS: No, you really did know. You just need me here to remind you. I can prove it.

MASHIUS: Okay…let’s see.

OATIUS: Awright, ya see that ox over there?

MASHIUS: What ox? That looks like a horse.

OATIUS: No, it’s an ox for this scene. You just forgot.

MASHIUS: It still looks like a horse to me.

OATIUS: Come on, work with me here. I’ll call it over. Hey, Chapter Spleen!

HORSE: Are you talking to me?

MASHIUS: What a terrible thing to call a horse.

OATIUS: Yeah, you big ox, come over here.

HORSE: I can’t. I’m supposed to be pulling this cart.

OATIUS: See, I told you he was an ox. Otherwise he wouldn’t be pulling an ox-cart.

MASHIUS: It looks like a horse-cart to me.

OATIUS: Well, he wouldn’t answer when I called him a big ox, then.

MASHIUS: That’s a terrible thing---

OATIUS: Watch it! Don’t wear out the running gag.

MASHIUS: Well then, I think it was more a matter of context---

OATIUS: And try to stay in character. You’re supposed to be the dumb one, remember?

MASHIUS: Oh, yeah.

OATIUS: Hey, never mind about the cart! You can come over here while it’s being unloaded!

HORSE: Oh, all right. What happens now? OATIUS: Nothing. I’m just going to ask you a few questions.

HORSE: Can I rest while you ask me?

OATIUS: Sure, take a load off.

MASHIUS: That’s what the guys are doing with the horse-cart over there.

OATIUS: Ox-cart.

HORSE: You know, from over here it’s really hard to tell the difference.

OATIUS: Trust me, it’s an ox-cart. In this scene, you’re an ox.

HORSE: I didn’t know that.

OATIUS: Yeah, you did. You just needed me to remind you.

HORSE: If I agree to be an ox, do I get to keep resting?

OATIUS: Sure.

HORSE: Then I’m an ox.

OATIUS: That’s more like it. Now, do you see this line in the sand?

HORSE: Well…no, not actually.

ANCIENT GREEK MAN: Hey, that’s my horse you’ve got there.

OATIUS: What horse?

ANCIENT GREEK MAN: My horse. I need him to pull my horse-cart.

HORSE: You are mistaken. I’m an ox.

ANCIENT GREEK MAN: How can that be?

OATIUS: It’s very simple. You already knew that this was an ox, but you needed to be reminded.

ANCIENT GREEK MAN: So this is really an ox?

HORSE: Yup. I’m totally an ox, and I’m resting. ANCIENT GREEK MAN: Is that a fact?

MASHIUS: Straight from the horse’s mouth.

OATIUS: Shut up, Mashy.

ANCIENT GREEK MAN: I lose more horses that way.

OATIUS: Just try wandering off in a state of confusion. That always helps.

ANCIENT GREEK MAN: Okay…

HORSE: That went well.

OATIUS: Now, about this line in the sand.

HORSE: The one I can’t see?

OATIUS: Well, try imagining a line in the sand.

HORSE: Can I keep resting?

OATIUS: As long as you see the imaginary line in the sand.

HORSE: Oh, there it is.

OATIUS: Now, imagine that I’m drawing another line in the sand that comes out at an angle.

HORSE: What’s an angle?

OATIUS: It’s what the second line comes out of the first line at.

HORSE: While I’m still resting?

OATIUS: Yeah.

HORSE: Oh yeah, that angle.

OATIUS: Now, imagine a third line.

HORSE: Do I have to get up?

OATIUS: Nope. HORSE: Hey, look at the three lines.

OATIUS: And add one more line to make a square.

HORSE: What’s a square?

OATIUS: That thing you’re imagining while you’re resting and being an ox.

HORSE: I can totally do that.

MASHIUS: Philosophy is wonderful that way.

OATIUS: So suppose I double the area of the square.

HORSE: Go for it. As long as I don’t have to get up.

OATIUS: So how long would each of the sides of square have to be?

HORSE: If you doubled the area of the square, then it follows that the length of each side of the new square would be equal to the length of the diagonal of the original square, or something like that, which I already knew because I still get to sit down!

OATIUS: Well done!

HORSE: Plus, it was in the script.

ANCIENT GREEK MAN: All right, you idiots, give me back my horse.

OATIUS: Say, did you notice those Six Pretty Girls over there?

ANCIENT GREEK MAN: Where?

OATIUS: Just around the corner, behind that building.

ANCIENT GREEK MAN: I can’t see them from here.

OATIUS: Exactly. You have to go around the corner behind that building to see them.

ANCIENT GREEK MAN: Oh, okay.

MASHIUS: Another triumph of Philosophy.

OATIUS: There’s an apt pupil born every minute. HORSE: Hey, I’m getting hungry. Do you know where I can get any oats around here?

MASHIUS: Uh-oh…

OATIUS: Sure, I think that someone just put a load of oats into that horse-cart over there.

HORSE: Really? I can’t see any oats from here.

OATIUS: Exactly. You have to go over there to the horse-cart to see the oats.

HORSE: Oh, okay. Did I know that already?

OATIUS: Sure you did.

HORSE: I kind of thought so. ‘Bye.

MASHIUS: ‘Bye.

ANCIENT GREEK GUY: You jerks, there were no pretty girls over there at all, just some kind of weird matte painting.

OATIUS: Yeah, but at least we found your horse for you.

ANCIENT GREEK GUY: Really?

OATIUS: Sure, that’s him over there looking at the back of your cart.

ANCIENT GREEK GUY: So it is! I knew it as soon as you said it!

OATIUS: You mean you guess you really knew it all along?

ANCIENT GREEK GUY: Whatever you say, as long as I get my horse back. I guess I knew it all along.

MASHIUS: I guess that proves it: everybody already knows everything.

HORSE: Hey, there weren’t any oats in the back of that cart.

OATIUS: Go look again. The Ancient Greek Guy will find them for you if you pull the cart for him.

HORSE: Oh, okay. Thanks.

MASHIUS: That went well…there they go. OATIUS: Stupid horse.

“Cut! Beautiful!” said the plate. “Print that!”

“I dunno,” said Oatius. “I still have my doubts about how it’ll play, what with our having roman- sounding names in ancient Greece.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the plate. “The important thing is that you sound foreign! Once the audience accepts the idea that you’re foreign, they’ll go along with anything because they’ll assume that they don’t know about it!”

“Are you sure?” said Mashius.

“Sure,” said the plate. “Anything else I can fix later on. It’ll be a sensation!”

“There’s that word again,” said Oatius.

“Your triumphal return!” said the plate.

“Yeah,” said Mashius. “Our triumphal return to obscurity.” 9. The Moral Dilemma

“Should I just come out and say it?” said Mac.

“Say what?” asked Eddie.

“I said, should I just come out and say it?”

“Cut that out,” said Eddie. “This is Mac and Eddie dialogue, not Oaty & Mashy.”

“All right,” said Mac. “Should I just come out and say that the plate in that last chapter is actually called Plato, and that the whole scene is supposed to be a parody of the section of Plato’s Republic in which Socrates conducts a logical demonstration with one of Meno’s servants?”

“I wouldn’t,” said Eddie.

“Of course not,” said Mac. “Your character as a down-and-out detective doesn’t require you to display the knowledge associated with a classical education.”

“Well,” said Eddie, “I still think that you should let the readers pretend that they thought of some of the gags all by themselves.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Mac. “They’ll probably make up their own gags about this yarn whether they get intentionally planted or not.”

“Oh, all right,” said Eddie. “I guess you can go ahead and say it, as long as it isn’t in the same chapter as the parody itself.”

“You don’t think it would be too…on-the-nose?” said Mac.

“It can probably be worked into some kinda dialogue,” said Eddie.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Mac, “especially if we can use it to transition into another bit in which other names are used that end in the letter ‘O’.”

“This yarn is totally ‘Meta’,” said Eddie. “What do you think, Will Rogers?”

“It’s not my style,” said Will Rogers. “I never ‘Meta’. Man, I didn’t, like, ever do anything like that.”

“Careful, Will,” said Mac. “Somebody’s bound to quote you out of context.” “I don’t mind,” said Will Rogers. “They can put it on my gravestone for all I care. Why don’t you two get on with your bit about names ending with the letter ‘O’, so I can make a graceful exit?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Eddie.

And so Will Rogers made a graceful exit.

“So,” said Mac, “about those letter-O guys…”

“You’re on your own,” said Eddie.

“Really?” said Mac. “That’s disappointing. A bit like this calls for someone with misguided enthusiasm, and that’s not my style.”

“Not mine either,” said Eddie.

“I can do it!” called a voice.

“Then come right in,” replied Mac.

“What you need is someone who can relate to the concept!” said the voice.

“Fine,” said Mac. “The door’s open!”

“Someone whose name also features the letter ‘O’!” said the voice.

“Cut the dramatic buildup,” said Eddie, “and get in here!”

“How do you do?” said the voice as it entered the room. “My name is OddBoy, and you will observe that my name begins with the letter ‘O’, and I am therefore perfectly suited for this material, and that all the girls love me.”

“All the girls in this room do,” said Eddie.

“I don’t see any girls in here,” said OddBoy.

“Neither do I,” said Eddie.

OddBoy was undaunted. “Be that as it may,” he said, “I have this great idea for a new act: there will be these four brothers, see? And I shall play all four parts. The most prominent brother will specialize in abuse, albeit of a verbal nature. He will dispense verbal zingers with great alacrity, as well as painful puns, and his name shall be called…Oucho.”

“Oucho,” said Eddie. “That’s right,” said OddBoy.

“I wasn’t repeating,” said Eddie. “I was reacting.”

“The second-most prominent brother,” continued OddBoy, “will be the verbal opposite of the first. He will be completely silent, and he shall be called…Husho.”

“Completely silent…” muttered Eddie. “That’s the part I wish you played all the time.”

“The third-most prominent brother,” continued OddBoy, “will be like a maelstrom of malaprops. His speeches will consist of a lot of dialect humor and dim-witted puns too clumsy for the first brother, and he shall be called…Typo.”

“Typo,” mused Mac. “I kind of like that…on the one hand, it’s a play on the idea of ethnic character ‘types’, while also referring to typographical errors.”

“The last brother will be kind of like a scientific control group,” said OddBoy. “He will be conventional in comparison to the others, and only occasionally will he have any mildly amusing lines. He shall be called…Normalo.”

“Normalo?” said Eddie. “Sounds boring. He probably won’t last.”

“And that’s my grand idea!” said OddBoy. “A comedy team that will live forever, at least in show-business time…and that’s also the successful conclusion of my performance in what I’m going to call my famous ‘O’-Bit!”

“You know,” said Eddie, “I’ve always looked forward to seeing OddBoy’s Obit.” 10. X

“X,” said the Chapter Heading.

“Ecks,” said the Squeamish Chorus.

“Ex,” said Eddie, who had been divorced eleven times.

“Ax,” said Paul Bunyan.

“Eggs,” said Mashy.

“No, not ‘eggs’,” said Oaty. “That’s just taking things too far.”

“Ten,” said The Fellow Who Fancies Roman Numerals But Appears To Have No Other Function.

“Kiss,” said the Six Pretty Girls in perfect unison.

“Dig here,” said the Lame Time-Traveling Interstellar Space Pirates.

“A witnessed signature,” said the County Clerk of Illiterate Acres.

“Ox,” said the Horse, who fancied taking another rest.

“Another Chapter to cross off your list,” said the critic.

“The Little Lazy-T Ranch,” said the Cowboy.

“The Eye of the Dead Cyclops,” said the cartoonist.

“The Blind Men and the Elephant,” said The Guy Who Thought He Knew.

“The what?” said The Guy Who Knew He Didn’t Know.

“It’s like the story of the Six Blind Men and the Elephant,” said The Guy Who Thought He Knew. “Each one had a different interpretation of what an elephant must be like based on his own limited perception. One based his idea on feeling the trunk, another felt the tail, still another felt the leg, and so on.”

“It’s a good thing there wasn’t a Seventh Blind Man,” said The Guy Who Knew He Didn’t Know. “He might have felt something he shouldn’t have and gotten his head stomped on.” 11. The Seeing Men and the Elephant

There were six men with perfect sight, as clear as clear could be, Before them stood an elephant they all could plainly see, And it seems a simple story to such as you or me, But still it was that these six men could never quite agree.

Said one, “I run a carnival, as all of you must know, So I will take this elephant and put him in a show, And charge the folks admission to come and take a peek, And make myself a pile of money every single week!”

Another said “Oh no you don’t! This beast must be protected! And as a noble creature all his rights must be respected! You cannot just exploit him, I really must insist! This elephant belongs on the endangered species list!”

A third man then arose, and in a manner bold and loud, He said “This is an animal of which we should be proud! He’s going to be a symbol, a mascot if you will, For my band of politicians in their City on the Hill!”

A fourth man simply sneered and disregarded all the rest, He said, “To me this elephant is nothing but a pest! I’m going to do some hunting when the Summer turns to Fall, And then I’ll have this critter’s head displayed upon my wall!”

A fifth man then stood up and said “It’s time I take the floor, To point out to you fellows that this beast’s a metaphor, Your thinking is so literal you’ve lost your common sense, The thing to do is think of what this creature represents!”

The sixth man then arose and said “I think you’re all mistaken, It’s not an elephant at all, it’s just a horse that’s fakin’, This yarn don’t have the budget, it’s barely scraping by, I know ‘cause I’m not real myself, I’m just a CGI!”

The elephant just stood there and paid the men no heed, He didn’t move or make a sound, there wasn’t any need. He simply settled in, and then he made himself at home, But I can’t think of a punch-line with which to end this pome. 12. Aw, Man, You Ruined It!

I know, I know. 13. The Unlucky Chapter

What I don’t understand about Lingerie Is why the word is spelled that way.

Unlucky indeed is the chapter that begins with something like that.

Unluckier still is the chapter that is inhabited by Rich Dick.

Rich Dick said “Never go swimming on an empty bed.”

Eddie said “What?”

Rich Dick said “Questions are fifty cents apiece.”

Eddie said “Forget it.”

Rich Dick said “Early to bed and early to rise, the Six Pretty Girls are a treat for the eyes.”

Eddie said “I’m not gonna argue with that.”

Rich Dick said “Shucking peas and shelling corn gives you a pain in the back in the morn.”

Eddie said “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Rich Dick said “Every aphorism comes with my personal guarantee: if it doesn’t work for you, just come back and I’ll sell you another one.”

Eddie said “Whaddya mean, ‘sell’?”

Rich Dick said “Questions just went up to a buck and quarter.”

Eddie said “Since when?”

Rich Dick said “Just before you asked the last one. You’re running up quite a tab, there.”

Eddie said “Whaddya mean? I don’t owe you a dime.”

Rich Dick said “Sure you do. We have a contract.”

Eddie said “No we don’t. There’s no paper to prove it”

Rich Dick said “An oral contract is not worth writing down on paper.” Eddie said “Oh, be quiet.”

Rich Dick said “Silence is Golden, and priced accordingly.”

Rich Dick was either an extremely successful aphorist, or an unsuccessful aphorist who had nevertheless made a great deal of money while spouting unsuccessful aphorisms.

Eddie said “I’ll be quiet, then.”

Rich Dick said “Your Silence is My Silence.”

Eddie said “I’d rather listen to Poor Richard.”

Rich Dick said “Ha! How smart could he be with a name like that?”

Eddie said “That’s a buck and a quarter you owe me.”

Rich Dick said “Wrong again. It makes no difference who’s asking the question. I charge either way.”

Eddie said “There must be some way out of this.”

Rich Dick said “Buy my book.”

Eddie said “I couldn’t afford it.”

Rich Dick said “Subscribe to my newsletter.”

Eddie said nothing.

Rich Dick said “This is gonna cost you.”

Eddie did nothing.

Rich Dick said “You’ll hear from my lawyers.”

Eddie wasn’t even there.

Eddie was the first person ever to successfully escape from Rich Dick.

Eddie had gone to the next chapter. 14. They Went Somewhere, Part 1

Then they decided that it was time to go somewhere, so they went somewhere.

That was all right, for awhile. The place they went was pleasant, and they engaged in activities that they enjoyed, but then someone suggested that they really ought to go somewhere else to solve some sort of problem. Someone else said that they weren’t terribly sure as to whether or not the problem in question was actually that much of a problem, or at any rate, whether or not it was really up to them to solve this particular problem. There was always the possibility that the problem would eventually work itself out of its own accord, or that someone else, someone better qualified perhaps, would come along and solve the problem.

However, enough of them were convinced that this particular problem was in fact a problem that they themselves should attempt to solve, especially if the adventure were to prove profitable to them. This is the group whose opinion carried the day, and so they set out on their adventure to solve the problem.

On their way they met someone. The one they met had some very striking attributes, so striking that these attributes had become something of legend. Everyone agreed that, of all those who possessed these attributes in some measure, this particular one had the attributes in the greatest abundance ever seen.

Now the question arose as to how to deal with one so prodigiously endowed with such striking attributes. Should they attempt to enlist the aid of such an individual on their quest, or was this an adversary to be avoided or overcome? There was some debate as to the best approach to take, but it was ultimately decided that engaging the individual in some sort of contest was the most adventurely thing to do.

The individual with the striking attributes also had a history. After all, these attributes had proven to be advantageous in many previous situations, or possibly not, but the fact of the ongoing survival of the individual suggested that the attributes were at least viable. It was on this basis that the individual accepted the challenge, and the contest began.

For a time it was uncertain what the outcome of the contest would be. At certain times the individual seemed likely to prevail, while the others appeared to be plainly overmatched. At these times, the one who had been hesitant to undertake the adventure in the first place had fond thoughts of the relative comforts that would have been enjoyed had everyone simply remained where they were.

But then there was a turn of events, quite possibly brought about by a change of weather, or the passage of time, or the light conditions, and the individual with the striking attributes was compelled to surrender, or was rendered ineffectual in some other sense. 15. They Went Somewhere, Part 2

Then everyone celebrated what they had decided was a victory. Certainly they had won the contest with the one who had possessed the striking attributes. The reticent one suggested that everyone should now go back to rest at their place of relative comfort, but it was pointed out that vanquishing the one with the prodigious attributes was not the actual purpose of the adventure, but merely a sort of plot point in which the adventurers could demonstrate some measure of prowess.

Some of the members even used the occasion to point out the timidity of the reticent one, and to question the worthiness of such an individual. However, the one who had initiated the adventure decided that it was better to keep everyone together rather than risk ultimate failure due to gradual attrition within the group, and so everyone remained.

The next question was how to find something else interesting to do. Of course, this was disguised as an attempt to secure some kind of sustenance and shelter, and so there was no resistance to the idea.

Then the reticent one found something that was not apparent to the others. It wasn’t anything that seemed to translate directly into sustenance or shelter, so there seemed to be no point in disclosing the discovery. Indeed, there probably would have been little general interest in the found object, for its value would only be appreciated by one who possessed specialized knowledge. At any rate, the reticent one was feeling somewhat slighted, and felt that the others would be unappreciative of the discovery, so the found object remained a secret.

Meanwhile, other members of the adventure succeeded on locating an adequate shelter, and some marginally-acceptable sustenance was also found, so the group partook of their sustenance and sheltered and rested. 16. They Went Somewhere, Part 3

The following morning, there was some sort of weather, and it seemed to be an ill omen, a portent of some sort of unpleasantness to come. The adventurers hurried on, but they were now troubled by doubt and fear.

Presently they encountered some sort of difficulty in their navigation, and they lost some portion of their supplies.

Then there was some sort of additional unpleasantness which seemed to bear out the feeling of foreboding that the weather had brought about, and right on time, too.

Things were beginning to look quite grim, when suddenly they encountered a cheerful individual who banished their immediate difficulties and took them in.

There in the abode of the cheerful individual, the adventurers were treated to an enjoyable meal and some delightful entertainment by some of the other residents. The other residents told some entertaining tales, and made some amusing jokes, and some of them even sang a beautiful mysterious song in a language with which the adventurers were unfamiliar. It helped that the other residents were extremely attractive to look at and to listen to.

The song had a lot of “oro-oohrhoo” sounds in it, and a few “eths” and “oniels” as well, especially in the chorus, and none of the adventurers could make head or tail of it, but the music was enjoyable, and, as mentioned before, the performers were really, really, really, and, not to stretch the point too much, really pleasant to look at.

At some point during the festivities, probably after the singers had finally decided it was time to rest and gargle, the subject of the actual purpose of the adventure came up. The object was more-or-less disclosed, although it was expressed in the most altruistic-sounding terms possible, and the cheerful host agreed that it seemed to be a worthwhile undertaking despite the apparent danger. The adventurers, who had made a point of emphasizing the apparent danger while minimizing the possibility of self-enrichment, were therefore pleased, or at least satisfied, to accept some free tools and provisions from their hosts.

Naturally, the adventurers also accepted the hospitality of the house for the remainder of the night. 17. They Went Somewhere, Part 4

The following morning the moochers set out to continue their adventure.

Let’s try that again.

The following morning the adventurers set out to continue their quest.

Better?

Maybe not.

Oh well, either way.

At any rate, they went marching straight into a scary place and did something dumb. It didn’t really even seem like a good idea at the time. Everyone reading about it was saying to themselves, “No! Don’t do it!”, but they went ahead and did it anyway.

The next thing you know, everyone wound up in the B-plot, and there were all these other people to deal with, and a bunch of complications that seemed to have nothing to do with the original quest, and the best that could be said about the whole business was that at least it was still a sort of adventure, but anyway the thing that the reticent one had found turned out to be a part of the solution, and there was some sort of rudimentary cleverness involved so that the ones who were reading about it more-or-less put up with the segment anyway, even though, if you asked about it later, absolutely nobody said it was their favorite part.

Then they finally got to the place where the problem was supposed to be.

It wasn’t one of those obvious, easy-to-find problems, so they had to go looking for it.

Finally everyone decided that the reticent one had been proven worthy by the escape from the B-plot, and was now qualified to go find the problem during the most dangerous part, and the reticent one had similarly decided to go do it.

B-plots can have that effect on one’s judgement sometimes, so they should be regarded warily. 18. They Went Somewhere, Part 5

Now it was time for the climax, and it was also time to work in some of the characters from the B-plot, if only to take off some of the curse.

The climax was the most violent and frightening event of the adventure, and someone important finally died, but it wasn’t the reticent one. The original problem was more-or-less dealt with, but by then there were other issues as well, what with the B-plot and all, and the overall experience was bittersweet.

Then Wendy showed up and waved her magic wand, and there was a sound that was kind of like “sproing!”, and Eddie woke up groggy on the floor of his office, as per usual. 19. The Fictional Character

Once upon a time there was a Fictional Character.

“Oh, no,” said the Reader, “this isn’t going to be another one of those generic yarns, is it?”

“Don’t worry,” said Eddie. “I’ll stick around to make sure that at least one person in this chapter has a name.”

Now, said the Overly Busy Narrator, I’m going to continue with my story about the Fictional Character, and I’m not even going to bother with using quotation marks to show that it’s me telling it.

“Uh-oh,” said the Reader.

“I think we’d better be quiet until this thing blows over,” said Eddie.

“Good idea,” said Mac.

“I didn’t know you were here,” said Eddie.

“There are quite a lot of us here,” said The Six Pretty Girls in perfect unison.

“I thought I recognized you singing in that sequence at the House of the Cheerful Host,” said Eddie.

“We still manage to pick up the occasional scene here and there,” said The Six Pretty Girls.

Then the Overly Busy Narrator reminded them that whenever everyone’s quite finished catching up, there was this story in which once upon a time there was a Fictional Character.

He was a prickly sort of Fictional Character, and he was often impatient with the people around him, but he was almost always welcomed into everyone’s home because everyone assumed that he was a genius of some sort and his impatience was not a sign of rudeness but of merely being surrounded by a lot of people who were just incredibly dim by comparison.

The Fictional Character had some peculiar habits which would not be tolerated in ordinary people but were accepted as mere eccentricities when engaged in by the Fictional Character. Instead of criticizing the habits, those around him merely marveled at his physical ability to withstand such activities, and so they let him do whatever he pleased. After all, they reasoned, he was obviously a genius and capable of tackling any sort of problem. He even said so himself. “I am a genius,” he would say, “and capable of tackling any sort of problem.”

“Yeah, we get it already,” the people would say. The Fictional Character liked to periodically ingest certain chemicals, the possession of which was to be outlawed in later times, and which were considered to be somewhat questionable even among some of the contemporaries of the Fictional Character, but this behavior was tolerated, even admired, by those who wondered but chose not to partake themselves. The Fictional Character also engaged in certain mental processes which seemed incomprehensible to most of those around him, but which could be attributed either to sheer mental acuity or the presence of the aforementioned chemicals in the bloodstream.

The Fictional Character was also able to endure extraordinary physical hardships, and was once sentenced to a life of servitude under brutal conditions following a fortnight of daily decapitations, but he survived nevertheless, and returned from the ordeal standing about two inches taller and sporting a marvelous tan. No-one could understand it.

The Fictional Character also possessed a marvelous speaking voice and had a very successful career in radio, having invented it himself, and could also wrestle dinosaurs and tap-dance on the head of a pin. A soft-shoe dance proved impracticable because the pin could only contain a single grain of sand at a time, and the grain kept falling off. Stung by this single failure, the Fictional Character rebounded by being born in a log cabin which he built with his own two hands despite the handicap of not having any logs available.

The Fictional Character was nothing if not resourceful.

The Fictional Character had a real flair for autobiography. In fact, most of the aforegoing facts were obtained from one of the Fictional Character’s most famous autobiographies, entitled “I’m a Fictional Character, and Some Sort of Genius, and Capable of Tackling Any Problem”. It was one of several autobiographies written pseudononymously by the Fictional Character, including “I’m so Modest that I Write About Myself Pseudononymously”, and “You can Get Away with Just About Anything if You’re a Fictional Character”.

The Fictional Character had a Fictional Friend named Doctor Whatsup. Doctor Whatsup delighted in recounting the exploits and adventures of the Fictional Character despite lacking any real comprehension of what was actually going on at any time. “I don’t even know how he can manage to write a pseudononymous autobiography,” Doctor Whatsup would say, ”but I suppose it’s because he’s a genius, and capable of tackling any sort of problem. Also, I think the drugs probably help a little.”

And that is the story of the Fictional Character.

Or one of them, anyway. 20. One-Verse Wonders #2

Youth holds the promise of the future, And the older I get, the more of youth there is, It’s not my youth, of course, What a terrible thing to call a horse! But it is what it is what it is what it is what it is. 21. Letters

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to complain about the absence of published letters in the last couple of novels. I feel that it is my right as a reader who writes letters to be able to see my opinions in print whenever I choose to set them to paper. Besides, the published letter segments constitute a welcome change from the conventional narrative and a respite from all the self-referential business that seems to plague so many of these pages. Of course, I don’t expect that this letter will ever be included, since there is obviously a strong editorial bias against it. I dare you to prove me wrong.

Sincerely, A Reader Who Writes Letters

Dear Reader Who Writes Letters,

We have attempted in vain to refer your letter to your intended addressee, but, try as we might, we were unable to locate anyone who was in the least bit concerned about your foolish diatribe. However, we have decided to include your idiotic letter just to prove that we can do whatever we feel like.

Yours in Ridicule, The People Who Decide What to Include

Dear People Who Decide,

Please cancel my subscription.

With Unconcealed Contempt, The Reader Who Writes Letters

Dear Reader Who Writes Letters,

You know perfectly well, and we are perfectly aware, that you have no subscription to cancel. This isn’t that kind of rag. Why don’t you find someone else to annoy?

Get Lost, The People Who Decide Dear People Who Decide,

Oh, come on now, don’t be that way. I was only fooling. It’s just that I get so bored sometimes, and maybe a little lonesome. Have a little sympathy for one whose only pleasure in life is seeing their letters in print once in awhile.

Gosharoodle, The Reader Who Writes Letters

Dear Everybody,

I can write letters, too. Just the other day I wrote an “A”, and a “G”. Next week I’m going to get a new crayon, and then I’ll see if I can make a “W”. It’s going to be a challenge, what with all those long straight lines, but I’m going to keep at it. Just wait and see.

Enthusiastically, The Reader Who Isn’t Quite Up to Writing Names Yet

Dear Sirs,

Can anyone tell me how to get to Carnegie Hall?

Sincerely, Disoriented Performer

Dear Disoriented,

The postmark on your envelope indicates that you are already in Carnegie Hall. Boy, you weren’t kidding when you said you were disoriented.

Better Luck Next Time, Your Buddies in the Old Joke Department 22. An Old-Fashioned Radio Bit

ANNOUNCER: It’s a beautiful day for the race, not a cloud in the sky…LunchTime is three –to- one, Surface has just been scratched, and at twenty-to-one, FetalBalm---

ALERT LISTENER: FetalWHAT?

ANNOUNCER: FetalBalm…it’s a new Baby Lotion from John and John, a very old family company. We’re trying to integrate the adverts into the program.

ALERT LISTENER: Oh, very well, get on with it.

ANNOUNCER: Now the horses are approaching the starting gate, and THERE THEY GO! Hollow Leg is on the rail, followed by Chaser and Spittoon, next is Prequel and Sequel, then Half-a-Mo and Proletariat, Doctor Johnson-Elbow and Running Gag, and in last place by ten lengths, Chapter Spleen---

ALERT LISTENER: What a terrible thing to call a horse.

HORSES: Now that you mention it ---

ANNOUNCER: And all the horses have stopped!

MR. EXPOSITION: What? The horses have stopped?

ANNOUNCER: Thank you. Yes, all the horses have stopped.

CORNY JOKESLINGER: What fur?

ALERT LISTENER: Nobody said anything about fur.

CORNY JOKESLINGER: I did just now.

ANNOUNCER: One of the sponsors is having a sale on mink, see?

ALERT LISTENER: That doesn’t even register on radio. It just sounds like fake rustic dialogue.

GOLFER: Fore!

ALERT LISTENER: This is getting out of hand ---

CORNY JOKESLINGER: I didn’t hear anything.

ALERT LISTENER: A golfer just said “fore”. CORNY JOKESLINGER: What fore?

HORSES: We’ve decided to go on strike for better names.

CORNY JOKESLINGER: See that? A logical circle utilizing the old vaudeville tradition of jokes based on disabilities!

ALERT LISTENER: That’s terrible.

CORNY JOKELINGER: Nonsense! It’s a time-honored tradition going back to the time of Beethoven!

STRAIGHTMAN: Beethoven?

CORNY JOKESLINGER: “Hear today, Gone tomorrow!”

HORSES: After that, we’re also going on strike for better dialogue. 23. Mary Magic, Part 1

Mary Magic entered their lives riding a vacuum cleaner.

Little Piper and Little Peter had followed the usual protocol for Edwardian Nanny Recruitment. They had written a poem on a piece of plain paper, torn it up, thrown it into the fireplace, and then gone upstairs to bed. The fact that the year was 1964 was lost on them because they were so young and innocent and the term “clueless” had not yet entered the vernacular, so they simply followed a process and believed.

It was a very naïve household, after all. The man whom they called “Father” was a stuffy, standoffish prude who himself had no conception of the mechanics of human reproduction (and, hence, had no experience in conception himself). What the woman they called “Mother” knew was a matter of mystery, but the fact remained that the two moppets were technically entitled to use the terms “son”, “daughter” and “orphan” almost interchangeably, the sole restriction being that Peter didn’t use “daughter” and Piper didn’t use “son”. Not yet, anyway.

The family seemed to be similarly unaware of the concept of “school”, so the daily care of the children was left to whatever hired caretaker could be obtained. After all, “Father” was away all day doing nothing in particular, and “Mother” was similarly engaged in a variety of community activities which amounted to nothing in particular. The biological parentage of the two waifs was never discussed in polite society, but it seemed curious that an itinerant dustman/street musician/odd-jobs man always seemed to be around, and the fact that he could effortlessly recite the names of over a dozen lady friends suggested that Piper and Peter did not share a common genotype.

On this particular morning it was hiring day again, as the previous caretaker had yet again proven unequal to the task of child care. It was understandable, of course, since the previous caretaker had actually been a milkmaid by profession and had no experience dealing with anything that didn’t have four hoofed feet and an udder. Previous caretakers, who included plumbers, shepherds and bartenders, were similarly unsatisfactory, so the legal parents had placed advertisements for circus acrobats, just to be on the safe side.

None of the acrobats answering the advertisement had the faintest interest in the paltry wages being offered, so they all went tumbling and somersaulting off down the street.

And that was when Mary Magic came rolling up the street on her vacuum cleaner. 24. Mary Magic, Part 2

“How do you do?” said Mary Magic to the beleaguered man whom the children called “Father”. “I am Mary Magic, and I have come to look after the children.”

Naturally Mary Magic was hired on the spot. It must have seemed an impressive feat of beguilement and moxie to anyone observing the exchange for the first time, but the truth is that this was pretty much the same conversation that had taken place at the hiring of the milkmaid, the plumber, the shepherd, the cowboy, the zeppelin operator, the gondolier, the race-car driver, the fire-eater, the parachutist, the demon barber of Fleet Street, and the wide variety of bartenders who, for all their deficiencies at child care, had nonetheless demonstrated the most satisfactory skill in preparing a really excellent afternoon sherry.

“Good”, said the father, “and now I must be off to spend the remainder of my day doing nothing in particular.”

So Mary Magic hopped back onto her vacuum cleaner, set it on “deep carpet vibrate”, and hoovered her way up to the second floor where she met the children.

“How do you do?” said Mary Magic to the beleaguered moppets whom the father called “Children”. “I am Mary Magic, and I have come to look after you.”

“Gee,” said Little Piper, “What a long power cord you must have.”

“Nonsense,” said Mary Magic. “This is a Magic Vacuum Cleaner, and it does not require any external power source.”

“Oh, then,” lisped Little Peter, “is it battery-powered then?”

“Nothing of the sort,” sniffed Mary Magic. “As I said before, it is a Magic Vacuum Cleaner.”

“Really?” said Little Piper. “Are you sure it isn’t just a marvel of technology?”

“My dear child,” said Mary Magic, “Sufficiently Mundane Magic is Indistinguishable from Technology. Remember that.”

And both of the children remembered those very words all the rest of their lives, and they never, ever came in useful. 25. Mary Magic, Part 3

Mary Magic was stiff, stilted, and unconvincing in her manner. She had a kind of robotic quality that would have made most onlookers question her humanity had she not also been tall, blonde, and extremely attractive, at least among those who found tall, mannequin-like blondes to be extremely attractive.

At any rate, the children obeyed her as they had obeyed the milkmaid, the plumber, the shepherd, the cowboy, the zeppelin operator, the gondolier, the race-car driver, the fire-eater, the parachutist, the demon barber of Fleet Street, and the wide variety of bartenders who, for all their deficiencies at child care, had nonetheless demonstrated the most satisfactory skill in preparing a really excellent afternoon carbonated beverage, and Mary Magic seemed to be a considerable improvement as she seemed to offer little risk of inexplicable grasping and squeezing, soldering, pursuit by border collies, branding, hydrogen explosion, drowning, high- speed collision, immolation, falling, bad haircuts, and excess stomach gas.

When Mary Magic entered the Nursery she discovered it to be in considerable disarray.

“Are we going to play a game called ‘Let’s Tidy Up The Nursery’?” asked Little Piper.

“Oh, I think not,” replied Mary Magic, and then she switched on her Magic Vacuum Cleaner and sucked up all the misplaced toys and clothing.

“I’m sure your father will buy you some more,” said Mary Magic. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Aren’t we going to do some kind of production number?” asked Little Peter.

“Oh very well,” said Mary Magic, “if you insist:

Sufficiently mundane magic is indistinguishable from technology, That is my opinion, and I offer no apology, You can argue all about it in conversation collegey, But sufficiently mundane magic is indistinguishable from technology.”

“You’re right,” said Little Peter. “Let’s get out of here.” 26. Mary Magic, Part 4

And so they went to the park.

“Oh,” said everyone, “this won’t just be an ordinary trip to the park, not with Mary Magic leading the way.”

And, sure enough, it wasn’t. There on a park bench sat a curious-looking fellow wearing large, curious-looking spectacles and carrying a battered-looking sack. Mary Magic regarded him warily, for he seemed to be closely regarding her every move. Uncomfortable under such a steady gaze, Mary Magic located a rabbit-hole, and Mary Magic and the children went inside.

And there at the bottom of the rabbit-hole they didn’t find an amazing world of unexpected fantastic things. What they found, believe it or not, was a bunch of rabbits.

The rabbits were Eastern Cottontails, and some were fully-grown, and some were rather young, and some were little more than baby rabbits, although their eyes were open and they had their fur grown in. And none of the rabbits talked or sang songs or did dances or paraded around wearing waistcoats or carrying pocket-watches; they were ordinary wild rabbits.

That being said, the ordinary wild Eastern-Cottontail-type wild rabbits were extremely cute, and everyone agreed that the visit was quite worthwhile.

Then Mary Magic and Piper and Peter returned to the surface, but their emergence was observed from across the field by the same pair of curiously-bespectacled eyes that still watched their movements closely.

As Mary Magic and the children moved across the field, they failed to notice that they were now being followed at a distance by the tall figure with the spectacles. The grass was soft, and so nobody heard the footsteps drawing closer and closer. The sun was overhead, so nobody noticed the shadow of the figure drawing nearer and nearer.

Then Mary Magic and the children sat at a bench, and the figure approached them shyly.

Mary Magic looked up at the figure, and the figure seemed to freeze in his tracks.

“Yes? Well? Hello?” said Mary Magic to the bespectacled figure, but the figure just stood there as if transfixed.

“Well, now, really!” said Mary Magic, a bit put out.

Then another figure came along. It was either a feminine-looking young man or a young woman in men’s attire, and it greeted not Mary Magic or the children, but spoke instead to the tall frozen bespectacled figure. “Oh, there you are! It’s becoming quite a chore to look after you, always wandering off, lurking about.”

The bespectacled figure shrugged apologetically.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mary Magic to the rather ambiguous figure, “but is he yours?”

“Not really,” said the ambiguous figure, “but lately I seem to be in charge, as he’s becoming quite hopeless. I think he is smitten with you.”

The bespectacled figure shrugged helplessly.

“Smitten with me?” asked Mary Magic. “Whatever for?”

“It’s more than I can explain,” said the ambiguous figure. “His name is Hoffman, and he’s a fellow student of mine. He just got fitted with a new set of spectacles, and now he’s developed this curious fascination with puppets, mannequins, and human simulations of any other kind.”

“What other human simulations are there?”

“Well,” said the ambiguous figure, ”he also likes statues. He recently spent two hours standing in the rain gazing on a statue of the three muses before I dragged him indoors.”

“Do you think it’s safe for him to be around the children?” asked Mary Magic, who was after all mindful of her responsibilities.

“Oh, he’s quite harmless,” said the ambiguous figure. “I don’t think he even notices the children. I suspect that his fascination is with you. Something about your manner, I suppose.”

“I think he’s kind of creepy,” said Little Peter.

“Shall I take him away?” asked the ambiguous figure.

“Oh, no,” said Little Piper. “I think he’s kind of creepy, but also kind of interesting.”

“It might be kind of fun to keep him around for awhile,” agreed Little Peter.

“Well,” said the ambiguous figure, “just bring him back here when you’re done with him. I’m going to nip off for a pint right now, but I’ll come back a little later on.”

“Oh, well,” said Mary Magic, “at least he might frighten off all the other creepy people we may meet.” 27. Mary Magic, part 5

After a few minutes, Mary Magic decided to try to converse with her silent admirer.

“So your name is Hoffman,” she said with somewhat forced pleasantness. “My name is Mary Magic, and I’m looking after these two children, Piper and Peter.”

Hoffman just shuffled his feet awkwardly, and said nothing.

After a few more minutes, Mary Magic decided that it was time to go for a stroll through town.

“Well, we must be off now,” she said to the goggle-eyed Hoffman. “Come along, children.”

And off they went down the walkway toward the heart of town, with Mary Magic a little bit in front, holding Little Piper and Little Peter by the hands, but followed after a couple of yards by the shuffling figure of Hoffman.

They made quite a tour of the city. First there was the museum, with all its exhibits of ancient relics and lost civilizations, and even a genuine mummy-case, but Hoffman did not linger at the mummy-case as had been half-hoped, and he followed them right back outside again.

Then they visited the art gallery, with all its wonderful paintings and pottery and sculptures and statues, but Hoffman did not linger at the statues as had been more than half-hoped, and he followed them right back outside again.

“Perhaps we can find a nice sidewalk chalk drawing and ditch him there,” said Little Piper, who was beginning to catch on.

But there were no sidewalk chalk-drawings to be found on that spring day in 1964, so they wandered all over town until they came to the less-respectable section, and there in an alleyway Mary Magic spotted a particularly garish piece of graffiti on the wall. They paused there briefly, with Hoffman still approaching from behind.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose that this will have to do.”

“What does that word say?” asked Little Peter, who was a bright enough little fellow but whose vocabulary was limited to words he had seen in fairy tales.

“Never mind,” said Mary Magic. “Just take my hand, and walk with me into the writing.”

And that’s exactly what they did, and Mary Magic and the children were all transported. 28. Mary Magic, part 6

The light was a little bit dim, and the air was a little bit smoky, but everything soon resolved itself and they found that they were sitting in a kind of a grimy pub with a small sort of stage at one end.

The barkeep looked a little quizzically at the two moppets, but then he took a look at Mary Magic and said, “It’s a bit irregular to ‘ave the young ‘uns ‘ere, Miss, but I suppose it’ll be orright just for a bit this awfternoon.”

Just then a ragtag quartet of mop-topped fellows took the stage, picked up their electric guitars, and began to perform:

“We’re a pop-rock band, and we sing our songs… And they’re not that good, but they’re not that long… And we couldn’t say that it’s right or wrong… But we make a lot of money and we don’t help anyone.

We play all night and we sleep all day… Unless there’s a rehearsal or a matinee… And we have a good time with the stuff we play… And we make a lot of money and we don’t help anyone.

It’s not that we don’t care about the world outside our door, It’s just that when it comes to it, we love our music more.

The guitars are loud and the beat is strong… And the girls go crazy when we sing our songs… Or it may be they’ve been crazy all along… But we make a lot of money and we don’t help anyone, Yeah we make a lot of money and we don’t help anyone.”

The song came to a smart, polished ending and the band wandered off, having completed their sound check, totally indifferent to the scattered applause of the sparse audience. It was just another day at work.

“You might want to take the young ‘uns upstairs now, miss,” said the barkeep. “The regulars’ll be comin’ in soon, and they might kick up a bit of a fuss. Upstairs is more genteel-like.”

“Thank you,” said Mary Magic, and she led the children upstairs. 29. Mary Magic, part 7

The upstairs of the establishment had a small theater, with a few rows of proper seats facing a tiny stage. There on the stage was a slender, bespectacled man of middle age. He was playing a smallish grand piano and singing in a chirping sort of voice. His partner was heavier and bearded, seated in an easy chair nearby, and he sang in a deeper, somewhat richer voice. Both men were formally attired, and their clipped British accents assured an elegant entertainment:

“The things we never do, The things we never do, We take great satisfaction in The things we never do.”

“I found this lovely novel, ‘thought you’d like to take a look” “I’m sorry, my dear fellow, but I don’t have time for books! I’ve found that, when I’ve started one, I’ve never read it through, And that’s why reading stories is a thing I never do!”

“The things we never do, The things we never do, We’ve gained our main distinction by The things we never do.”

“I saw a documentary last night on BBC,” “Those vulgar television shows are much too crude for me! I’ve never even bought a set, for trifles I eschew! Such common entertainment is a thing I never do!”

“The things we never do, The things we never do, We stake our reputations on The things we never do.”

“Perhaps you’d like to tour the park, the weather is divine,” “All outdoor recreation is a foolish waste of time! I don’t much care for sunburn or the rain that soaks right through, So an out-of-doors excursion is a thing I never do!”

“The things we never do, The things we never do, our greatest claim to fame is The things we never do.”

“Perhaps you’d like a hobby like collecting coins or stamps-- “But handling such objects might make my fingers cramp! It isn’t worth the bother, the pleasures are too few, And that is why a hobby is a thing I never do!”

“The things we never do, The things we never do, We base our higher status on The things we never do.”

“There’s something on the Internet I think you might enjoy,” “Beg pardon, but this ‘Internet’ is just a silly toy! My time is too important to waste on something new, And that is why the internet’s a thing I never do!”

“The things we never do, The things we never do, our singular distinction is The things we never do.

We haven’t much to show For all our time on earth, it’s true, But we take great satisfaction in The things we never do!”

The performance was greeted with rich, warm, but nonetheless very well-mannered applause, as of course it should be.

However, the children had begun to look a little sleepy, so Mary Magic decided it was time to take them home. However, when she and the children returned downstairs, there was a tremendous row going on, and they were ushered out a side door whereupon they found themselves back at the park bench where Hoffman was sitting with his ambiguous friend.

“Oh, that’s right,” said Mary Magic, “I had promised to return Hoffman to you.”

“Near enough,” shrugged the ambiguous figure. 30. Mary Magic, part 8

Mary Magic arrived with the children at the same time as the father came striding up.

“Oh, father!” said Little Peter, “We’ve just had the most extraordinary outing in the bad part of town!”

“And back right on time,” said the father distractedly. “Well done!”

And that was all the father had to say about how the children had spent their day. 31. Mary Magic, part 9

The next day, Mary Magic decided to take the children shopping with her. The father having left the house several minutes earlier, Mary Magic and the children had no difficulty getting out the front door, but what they discovered outside startled them: it was Hoffman, standing quietly with his sack at a discreet distance beyond the front gate. However, as his general demeanor still seemed to be shy and not menacing, Mary Magic led the children out to the street.

“Why Mister Hoffman,” said Mary Magic, “What a surprise.” Hoffman just nodded dumbly.

“Where is your friend?” asked Mary Magic. Hoffman just shrugged.

“Well, we’re going shopping,” said Mary Magic, “for things that wouldn’t interest you.”

Hoffman shrugged again, and Mary Magic led the children away.

There was nothing special about the row of shops they visited. The bakery had bread, so they bought a loaf. The dairy store had milk and butter, so they bought some milk and butter. The sweet shop had penny candy, so they bought three pieces. The grocer had eggs and lettuce, so they bought some eggs and lettuce. They didn’t need tea, so they didn’t shop for any, and turned to go home.

It was then that they saw a curious thing.

Hoffman was standing by the curb before them with a piece of chalk in his hand. He had drawn a copy of the graffiti from the previous day on the sidewalk. Mary Magic thought this was rather rude, and she attempted to lead the children past Hoffman without a word, but when they stepped on the sidewalk graffiti they were suddenly transported back to the same pub where they had been the day before.

They scarcely had time to get their bearings when a group of four young men in colorful costumes took the stage and began to sing:

“We’ve become a Prog-Rock band, hear our mighty chords… We’ve increased our instrumentals, and cut back on the words… But it isn’t that our lyrics have met with some mishap… We’ll make up for the missing rhymes when we convert to rap.“

There was an extended instrumental that seemed to go on forever, and Mary Magic decided that she had heard enough, so she led the children out again as the song was winding down.

Just as before, they found themselves back in the park where Hoffman and his ambiguous companion seemed to be waiting for them. The ambiguous figure just waved, and Mary Magic just nodded, and in very little time Mary Magic and the children were back home where they were again met by the father, who was returning home at the same time.

As before, the father’s greeting was perfunctory. “Yes, well done,” he said as he disappeared into his study.

“Oh, you’ve done the shopping,” said the mother as she breezed past them in the hallway. “How nice.”

Mary Magic found the proper places to put the purchases, and then the children had supper while Mary Magic dined alone in her room. Then it was bedtime, and that was that. 32. Mary Magic, part 10

It was the third morning, and it was raining. It did that occasionally. Then it stopped raining, and the clouds passed, and the sun shone, and the walks dried, and the eensy-weensy spider pondered its Sisyphean Task.

Mary Magic had no interest in the agonies of arachnids, so she decided to take the children out again, although she had no clear purpose in mind. But when she opened the front door, she was greeted not only by Hoffman and the ambiguous figure, but the band of musicians as well.

The Cute Musician stepped forward and presented Mary Magic with a colorful handbill which she read aloud to the children: COME ONE, COME ALL! TO THE GALA BENEFIT CONCERT ON BEHALF OF A LOT OF PEOPLE WHO ARE LESS FORTUNATE THAN YOU (AND A LOT LESS FORTUNATE THAN US)

THIS SUNDAY IN THE PARK AT TWO O’CLOCK A FUNDRAISER IS GUARANTEED FOR ALL

Mary Magic was a bit taken aback.

“I thought you were the ones who make a lot of money and don’t help anyone,” she said.

The second Cute Musician stepped forward and explained: “That was back in the day, when we were just starting out. We’ve evolved, y’see, and now we’re using our fame to raise awareness---“

“And money,” added the third Cute Musician. They were all cute, actually.

“Oh yeh, and money,” said the second Cute Musician. “Anyway, there are all these people who don’t have much money, and then there’s you lot who have a bit more money, so we’re here to help you give them your money---“

“And awareness,” added the fourth Cute Musician. “But not too much awareness,” said Mary Magic.

“What d’you mean?” asked the second Cute Musician.

“You wouldn’t want them to be too aware of the fact that your group has the most money of all,” said Mary Magic.

“I’ll admit that we’re better off than most,” said the third Cute Musician, “but there are only the four of us, after all.”

“And yes,” said the second Cute Musician, “we’d rather the awareness be focused on the least- fortunate ones. Otherwise, it wouldn’t look as well.”

“You’ve gone through an awful lot of evolution in just three days,” said Mary Magic.

“The life of a Pop Group is short,” observed the first Cute Musician. “We won’t be cute forever, you know.”

“So what brought on this sudden change of heart?” asked Mary Magic.

“Why, Hoffman, of course,” said all the Cute Musicians together.

“You’re joking,” said Mary Magic.

“Not at all,” said the first Cute Musician. “You’ve got to get to know him, and most people never give him a second look.”

“That’s because he can’t seem to do anything without the help of some kind of ambiguous figure,” said Mary Magic.

“Oh, no,” said the Ambiguous Figure, “you’ve got it backwards. Sure, I generally do all the talking for Hoffman, and he’s shy about speaking for himself, but he’s actually a figure of action, while I’m just a figure of speech. Like the musician said, you’ve just got to give him a second look.”

“Very well,” said Mary Magic, “I’m looking, but all I see is a tall awkward figure with odd spectacles and a big sack.”

“But do you know what’s in the sack?” asked the Ambiguous Figure.

“Well, no,” admitted Mary Magic.

“It’s all the litter that people have dropped,” said the Ambiguous Figure. “He picks it all up, and he brings it back to the proper receptacles in the park.” “Aren’t there workers who are paid to do that anyway?” asked Mary Magic.

“Not as many as would be needed if it weren’t for Hoffman,” said the Ambiguous Figure.

“Then what about the spectacles?” asked Mary Magic.

“The spectacles are there to help other people see that magic that is around them, and the goodness and wonder that usually goes unnoticed,” said the Ambiguous Figure.

“Why, that’s ridiculous,” said Mary Magic, and she snatched the spectacles away from Hoffman’s face and put them on.

“I don’t see anything at all,” said Mary Magic, and indeed she didn’t. She didn’t see Hoffman, or the musicians, or the Ambiguous figure, or anyone else on the empty street.

Then she took out her pocket mirror to see if she could even see her own reflection through the glasses.

Then she saw herself, and she understood.

And the next sound she heard was the voice of Hoffman:

“You could call it Wonder, or say there’s no such thing Like Summertime in Winter, or Autumn in the Spring, It’s a certain way of seeing, a certain way to go, And it lives in Mary Magic, though she doesn’t even know.

And there’s goodness, truth and beauty that no-one else can see It isn’t what is here, but what can come to be.

The song that’s not yet written, the day that’s not begun, The flower that has yet to start its journey to the sun, The promise of the answer that is waiting everywhere, It lives in Mary Magic, though she doesn’t see it’s there.

And there’s goodness, truth and beauty everywhere you go, But you have to hold it in your heart before it starts to show.

And maybe you believe that there is nothing you can do, And there’s nothing I can show you that would prove it isn’t true, For I have no gift to give you, and there’s nothing I can say, But look to Mary Magic and you just might find your way.” By now Mary Magic had finished being Mary Magic. She was back at the after-party at the Blue Unicorn where everyone addressed her as Lady Artifice.

Little Piper and Little Peter had gone to school at Child Actor Central.

The mother was discussing her next role with her agent.

The father was off somewhere doing voice-over work.

The ambiguous figure was appearing in an economic forecast.

The barkeep was working with a dialogue coach.

Nobody cares what happened to the musicians.

Hoffman wandered off into oblivion. 33. Huh?

READER: So what was all that about?

AUTHOR: About ten chapters. 34. On Composing and Stuff

OATY: Hey, Mashy!

MASHY: What is it, Oaty?

OATY: Did you know that I’m a composer?

MASHY: No, I didn’t know anything…unless I did and I forgot.

OATY: Sure, I’m a composer, because I make things up!

MASHY: Oh, okay.

OATY: I’m like a jazz musician, see? They just make things up, and when they do, they call it composing!

MASHY: Oh, okay.

OATY: Sometimes they call it improvisation!

MASHY: Oh, okay…so is improvisation the same as composing?

OATY: Sure! And improvisation is the same as making things up!

MASHY: Gee…I always thought that composing kind of involved pulling things together like when someone says “compose yourself”…

OATY: Well…

MASHY: Or maybe the thoughtful assembly of ideas into an intelligent, coherent form…

OATY: Yeah, well, I’m an artist! Free-form! Uninhibited!

MASHY: Undisciplined?

OATY: Unencumbered! I make up my own forms, my own language!

MASHY: Unintelligible?

OATY: You just don’t understand my artistry.

MASHY: Yup. OATY: Every sound I make is composing.

MASHY: Oh, okay.

OATY: Every word I say is improvisation.

MASHY: How can you tell?

OATY: It’s like jazz…it’s never the same way twice.

MASHY: What?

OATY: It’s like jazz…it’s never the same way twice.

MASHY: Oh, okay…hey, Oaty?

OATY: What?

MASHY: Which one was the jazz again?

OATY: What?

MASHY: Well, first you said it’s never the same way twice, and then you said it again.

OATY: It’s all jazz! The repetition is part of my improvisation!

MASHY: Oh…

OATY: And my improvisation is also composition!

MASHY: And it’s all the same as just making things up?

OATY: Exactly!

MASHY: Oh, okay…it sure sounds like something you just made up. 35. The Sixteen Hundred

One man got a notion, And sixteen hundred came to be, He toyed with an idea To see what he could see He thought he was alone As he pondered in his chair And he never gave a thought To the sixteen hundred there.

“I need more information,” The man declared at last “I’ll check the works of others To make my process fast,” And sixteen hundred wondered As one man went his way For their fate might be determined By the things he found that day.

And one man soon returned He was feeling satisfied He’d gathered all his data For the theory to be tried And sixteen hundred trembled When the process was begun For there was no turning back Once the test began to run.

And then results came rolling in As on the process crept And sixteen hundred waited And sixteen hundred wept And soon the test was over And the time came to decide And it was judged successful But sixteen hundred died. In matters hypothetical The theorists relate And take the ones for granted Their hypotheses create And sixteen hundred victims Are just explained away For Imaginary Entities Are born and die each day. 36. The State of Heads

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ned, “I don’t suppose it makes any difference.”

“We might as well try it anyway,” said Ed. “You might be surprised.”

“I’ll play the anxious desperate part,” said Ned.

“All right,” said Ed, “and I’ll be coldly indifferent.”

“Now that we’ve settled that,” said Ned, “which head do you want to wear?”

“Let’s just pull some out at random,” said Ed, “and see how it turns out.”

*************************

The little girl wept bitterly. “Why won’t you help me?” she demanded.

The old man was unmoved. “Your problem is not my problem.”

“But what will become of me?” cried the little girl.

“It’s no concern of mine,” replied the old man as he walked away.

The giant brown rat scampered up. The little girl drew back.

“Please, have pity,” said the rat. “I am cold and hungry.”

“Go away,” cried the little girl. “You are scary and filthy, and I have nothing for you!”

“I only ask for the crumbs in your pocket,” said the rat, “and in return for your kindness I will be your friend and companion.”

“I don’t want a rat for a companion!” said the little girl, and she ran away down the alley.

The rat came upon a moth with a damaged wing. The moth could only flutter a few inches from the ground, and it tried to make its way toward the light of a street lamp.

The rat pulled the moth from the air with a swipe of its paw.

“Please,” said the moth, “let me live. I have done you no harm.”

“We all must live somehow,” said the rat, “and right now I need to eat.” And the rat gobbled up the moth.

Further down the street, the old man tripped over a piece of loose curbstone and he was struck a glancing blow by a passing carriage. His head hit the pavement and he lay dazed and bleeding in the street.

“Help, help,” he called. “I’ve been hurt.”

The little girl found him there, but she hung back. “You are a cruel old man,” she said, “and I cannot help the wicked.” And the little girl retreated back into the shadows.

But then a handsome young gentleman strode up and carried the old man to safety. “Rest here,” he said, “while I find a doctor.”

Just then the rat came scuffling up to the old man.

“Some crumbs, if you please,” said the rat. “I’ve had nothing to eat but a tiny moth, and I am still hungry.”

“Stay away, vermin!” cried the old man, and he tried without success to kick at the rat.

The rat began to dodge around the old man’s ankles.

The handsome gentleman returned, and he struck the rat dead with a single blow of his fine wooden cane. “I have found a doctor who can see you,” said the gentleman, “but have you any coin for his fee?”

“I have enough, I believe,” said the old man. “Please help me, and I shall reward you.”

“There is no need of that,” said the gentleman as he helped the old man along. “I have ample money at home.”

“I shall not forget your kindness,” said the old man as they reached the doctor’s office.

The doctor took the old man to his back room to mend him, and the young gentleman waited in the sitting room. Just then a pretty young lady came down the stairs.

“Why, Esmeralda!” gasped the young gentleman. “I never expected to find you here!”

“I never wanted you to find me,” replied the young lady. “That’s why I fled to my uncle’s office after I broke off our engagement. Please leave, and never return.”

“But I have brought a patient,” said the gentleman, “an unfortunate old man in need of help.” “My uncle will take care of him,” said the young lady, ”so now you can go. You are not wanted here.”

“I don’t understand,” said the gentleman.

“You never did, and you never shall,” said the young lady, and she went back up the stairs.

The gentleman stumbled back out into the night. He had not advanced more than a dozen steps before his top hat was knocked off by a rock.

He turned, and found himself looking at the little girl, who glared at him furiously from about ten paces away.

“Stay away from my sister,” she warned icily.

“Well,” said Ned, “I think that’s enough for now. What did we learn?”

“For one thing, I found that I could throw a rock with great accuracy when I was wearing the Little Girl Head,” said Ed.

“I would have liked to try that,” said Ned, “but I was acting desperate when I was wearing that head.”

“How about that Rat Head?” asked Ed.

“How about the Moth Head?” said Ned. “How about all of them? Almost everybody got to be desperate some times, and cold at other times.”

“I guess there are lots of different ways to behave,” said Ed, “but how it comes across often depends on which head you’re wearing.”

“The Gentleman wasn’t so bad,” said Ned.

“Except from the Rat’s point of view,” replied Ed.

“We didn’t get to see much of the kindly Doctor and the cold Esmeralda,” said Ned.

“It probably would have switched again,” said Ed.

“Probably so,” said Ned.

“I wouldn’t have thought that we’d be able to play so many parts,” said Ed. “I guess it’s mostly about having enough heads available.” Said Ned. 37. The Old Man and the Little Girl

Once upon a time there was an Old Man and a Little Girl.

Why?

For contrast, I suppose.

Also, it’s a good idea to have an Old Man in a story. It makes it sound like a parable or something. Maybe it’s the idea that if the man is old he must have had quite a number of things happen to him already.

Once upon a time there was a Young Man who sat around a lot, and nothing of consequence happened to him, and after a rather long while he became an Old Man, which was just as well as far as he was concerned, because sometimes when things of consequence happen to Young Men they don’t get the chance to become Old Men.

Of course, at a certain point he ceased being a Young Man and instead became a Man of Middle Age, but most of the people around him did not consider that to be a happening of consequence. Arguably it actually was a happening of consequence in that attaining Middle Age can be said to be a consequence of living for a sufficient time beyond the condition of being a Young Man, but most of the people around this particular Young/Middle-Aged/Old Man didn’t think that way. Most of them were also of the opinion that becoming an Old Man was not something that happened to Little Girls, but that was of course their opinion, and as to whether or not it occasionally did in fact happen that a Little Girl eventually became an Old Man by some sort of process I could not say for certain. I wouldn’t want to rule out the possibility.

It’s also a good idea to have a Little Girl in a story if you want to attract the attention of a certain type of audience. It might not work, of course. The audience might just take one look and say “Oh no you don’t, you’re just putting a Little Girl in with the aim of attracting our attention, but we won’t be taken in so easily.”

Then there’s the less-obvious question of the actual physical stature of the Old Man and the actual age of the Little Girl. The Old Man could be huge, or of a moderate stature, or he could be quite short, and the Little Girl could be rather mature but nonetheless petite. She might be small enough to use a dandelion for an umbrella for all I care. It’s not my problem. 38. The Old Man and the Old Dog

Once upon a time there was an Old Man and an Old dog.

“What happened to the Little Girl?” asked a certain type of audience.

There’s no Little Girl in this particular story.

“Then we have no interest,” said the certain type of audience as they left.

The Old Man turned to the Old Dog and grinned a toothless grin.

The Old Dog turned to the Old Man and barked a noiseless bark.

Note to Young Readers: Just you wait awhile, and see how you like it when it happens to you.

The Old Man spoke to the Old Dog, and said “How would you like to learn a trick?”

The Old Dog spoke to the Old Man and replied “I’ve heard it said that you can’t teach an Old Dog new tricks.”

The Old Man said “I am an Old Man, and I don’t know any new tricks.”

The Old Dog said “Well, then maybe you can teach me some old tricks like how to endorse and cash your pension checks.”

And so the Old Man taught the Old Dog his old trick of endorsing and cashing his pension checks.

And they both lived happily ever after on dog food.

It’s really quite nutritious, and you’d be surprised what you can get used to. 39. The Old Man and the Other Old Man

One upon a time there was an Old Man and another Old Man.

There wasn’t much contrast, for they were just about the same age.

They were also rather alike in other ways, but not enough so as to be twins.

That would have been too interesting.

However, they were sufficiently similar that they each became confused as to which one of them was the Old Man and which one of them was the Other Old Man.

Sometimes they would be talking to themselves and think that they were talking to each other.

Sometimes they would be talking to each other and think that they were talking to themselves.

Sometimes they would be talking among themselves and the room would seem to be full of people, and it was, only the room that was full of people was somewhere else.

Sometimes the room that was full of people would be right there, only the Old Man and the Other Old Man were somewhere else.

And it came to pass that it rained for forty days and forty nights but not consecutively. It was over the course of about six months or so.

Then one day a Little Girl wandered up to the story.

But it was too late. 40. The Old Man and the Dead Man

Once upon a time there was an Old Man.

“Hey,” said the Old Man, “it that all? Don’t I get anybody to interact with?”

The Old Man looked around him, but he couldn’t see anyone else.

Then the Old Man looked at the Chapter Heading and said “Well, I might as well start looking around for the Dead Man. It’s better than nothing.”

And so the Old Man looked around some more.

But there was no Dead Man there.

Then the Old Man looked behind something.

But there was no Dead Man there either.

Then the Old Man went to a room that was somewhere else and looked there.

The room was full of people, but all of the people in the room were alive, drinking, dancing, chatting gaily, singing songs, and generally having a wonderful time.

But by then the Old Man had become fixated upon the idea of finding the Dead Man, so he ignored the room full of people and just kept on looking.

“It’s the Dead Man, or nothing,” said the Old Man.

The Old Man looked in the closet, but there was no Dead Man there.

“Even a skeleton would be sufficient,” said the Old Man. “At least I could use the skull to perform a soliloquy or something.”

But no matter where the Old Man looked, he could not seem to find the Dead Man.

Then the Old Man got an idea.

“I’ll just sit right here, and wait for the Dead Man to show up,” he said.

After awhile, the Old Man began to feel faint and weary.

“I don’t like where this is going,” he said. 41. A Whole Room Full of Old Men

Nobody is interested in reading about a Whole Room Full of Old Men. 42. The Six Pretty Girls on a Merry-Go-Round

It was a splendid Saturday afternoon in the Spring, and the Six Pretty Girls decided to go to the park.

“Oh, goody!” said everyone. “A splendid Saturday afternoon in the Spring with the Six Pretty Girls going to the park! This is sure to be one of those festive fairy-tale sorts of chapters.”

We’ll see about that, said The Overly Busy Narrator.

The sun was shining, but not at all oppressively, and there were a number of light, fluffy clouds in the sky, and there was a light breeze that carried them gently by so that there were intermittent breaks in the sunshine, not enough to be threatening in any way, but just the right amount to obviate the need for protective sunscreen.

The Six Pretty Girls all wore festive spring hats, just to be on the safe side.

And they were all as lovely and enchanting as something out of a fairy-tale sort of chapter, and so far, so good.

When they reached the park, they saw all the nice people there, including the Ice-Cream- Sandwich Man who was selling his wares at two-for-a-penny, and the Popsicle Man who was selling his wares at a penny-for-two, as well as the Napkin Man who was charging five bucks apiece, but these were really superior washable cloth napkins of the finest quality so it didn’t seem all that unreasonable. Then there was a Balloon Man who wasn’t selling anything: he was actually made of balloons, so he was more of an exhibit than an attendee, but he was there, just the same.

And so the Six Pretty Girls all had one Ice-Cream-Sandwich apiece, then they each had a sip from the Free Public Water-Fountain, and they washed and wiped their hands clean on their handkerchiefs that they had all remembered to bring with them, and they marveled at the Balloon Man, and then they saw to their delight that someone had brought and placed into operation a Wonderful Merry-Go-Round.

The Wonderful Merry-Go-Round was mostly white, but it was extensively and intricately painted and decorated and gilded so that it seemed to fairly sparkle with enchantment, and the sign in front proclaimed that a ten-minute ride could be had for a penny apiece.

The afternoon’s festivities had been sponsored by the local chamber of commerce, and the prices had been set after a rumor circulated that the production of penny coins was soon to be discontinued, and so a group of coin-collectors decided that this would be the ideal time to gather up all the pennies they could as they would soon become a rarity and, therefore, highly collectible. The results of this gambit were mixed, for the various vendors had to give away about as many pennies in change as they collected in exact payments, but nevertheless it was such a Splendid Spring Day that everyone felt quite happy about the whole thing.

When the Six Pretty Girls arrived at the Merry-Go-Round they were delighted to discover that there were enough Merry-Go-Round Horses available for each Pretty Girl to have a Merry-Go- Round horse of her own and that they could all ride at the same time.

“What will you name your Merry-Go-Round Horse?” asked the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Gracious Pretty Girl paid her fare.

“Why, I’ll call him Sir Prancelot,” said the Gracious Pretty Girl.

“What a wonderful name for a Merry-Go-Round Horse,” said the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Gracious Pretty Girl climbed upon her steed.

“What will you name your Merry-Go-Round Horse?” asked the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Little Pretty Girl paid her fare.

“Why, I’ll call him Rainbow Racer,” said the Little Pretty Girl.

“What a wonderful name for a Merry-Go-Round Horse,” said the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Little Pretty Girl climbed upon her steed.

“What will you name your Merry-Go-Round Horse?” asked the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Gentle Pretty Girl paid her fare.

“Why, I’ll call him Dapple Dancer,” said the Gentle Pretty Girl.

“What a wonderful name for a Merry-Go-Round Horse,” said the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Gentle Pretty Girl climbed upon her steed.

“What will you name your Merry-Go-Round Horse?” asked the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Cheerful Pretty Girl paid her fare.

“Why, I’ll call him Jolly Jumper,” said the Cheerful Pretty Girl.

“What a wonderful name for a Merry-Go-Round Horse,” said the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Cheerful Pretty Girl climbed upon her steed.

“What will you name your Merry-Go-Round Horse?” asked the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Tall Pretty Girl paid her fare.

“Why, I’ll call him Leaping Lord,” said the Tall Pretty Girl. “What a wonderful name for a Merry-Go-Round Horse,” said the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Tall Pretty Girl climbed upon her steed.

“What will you name your Merry-Go-Round Horse?” asked the Cheery Machine-Operator as the Crazy Pretty Girl paid her fare.

“Why, I’ll call him Chapter Spleen,” said the Crazy Pretty Girl.

“What a Terrible Thing to Call a Merry-Go-Round Horse,” thought the Cheery Machine- Operator as the Crazy Pretty Girl climbed upon her steed, but he kept this to himself because he wasn’t really certain as to just how crazy the Crazy Pretty Girl actually was.

And then the music started, and the Merry-Go-Round started “going around” (like they do) and some intermittent parentheses popped up (sometimes it can’t be helped) and the Cheery Machine-Operator became enraptured by the sight of the Six Pretty Girls as they rode around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And pretty soon the Cheerful Machine-Operator became kind of nauseous and faint, and he became too weak to turn off the Merry-Go-Round, and the Six Pretty Girls kept going around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around And around But fortunately the Six Pretty Girls were all possessed of the Strongest Constitutions and could withstand all manner of Roller-Coasters, Tilt-A-Whirls, Ferris Wheels, Cyclones, Hurricanes, Earthquakes, and probably even the collision of the Earth into the Sun, so they suffered no ill effects whatsoever from their Merry-Go-Round Ride, and then the Wife of the Cheerful-But- Now-Rather-Queasy-Machine Operator came along and brought the Merry-Go-Round to a graceful, gentle halt.

“Thank you for a Wonderful Ride,” said the Six Pretty Girls as they left.

“Chapter Spleen,” murmured the Machine-Operator into his bucket.

“And it wasn’t even a dream,” said his wife. “It totally happened. Now you just rest here in the shade while I take over the Merry-Go-Round for awhile.”

“I suppose it’s my fault for watching the Six Pretty Girls too much,” mumbled the Machine- Operator.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said his wife. “I can’t really blame you. Pretty is Pretty. I’ve got eyes too, you know.” 43. The Eleven Handsome Chorus Boys

“It isn’t fair,” said someone. “The Six Pretty Girls have been exploited ever since Book One of this wretched series. Why should they appear in so many chapters? Individually or collectively, they have been in every single book. Why aren’t there chapters with Handsome Chorus Boys, for instance?”

The Six Pretty Girls make their first appearance in Book 1, Chapter 46. They are mentioned again in Book 1, chapters 52, 62, 84-I, 84-VII, 97-#9, 109, and 110. In Book 2, they are mentioned in chapters 1, 8, 10, 13, 14, 15, 16, 18, 19-1, 19-8, 19-9, 10-10, 19-11, 19-12, 21, 22- 2, 24, 27, 29, 30, 37, as well as individual appearances in the “Bedtime Story” chapters 42-50, then finally in chapter 52. In Book 3, they appear in chapters 3, 20, 21, 22, 25, 29, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 47, 49, 50-3, 50-5, and 50-8. In Book 4, they are mentioned in chapters 6, 8, 44, 45, 47, 49, 54-5, 65, and 66, with individual appearances as the “belle” sisters in chapters 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, and 53-4. That’s at least 73 chapters, and there are a few more in there somewhere.

The Handsome Chorus Boys actually appear before the Six Pretty Girls, but they have more disguises. They also receive the first individual mention, for their names are Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam. They first appear as Crackers in Book 1, chapter 3, and they return in various guises in chapters 8, 15, 17, 24, 25, 52, 62, 65, 75, 84-I, 84-II, 84-III, 84-V, 84-VI, 84-VII, 84-VIII, 84-X, 88, 97-#9, 99, and 107. In book 2, they are mentioned in chapters 9, 9.1, 9.4, 9.5, 18, 19-12, 30, 38, 42 (as the all-mouse glee club), and 43. In Book 3, they are fireflies in chapter 2, then return in chapters 33, 34, 49, and 50.6. In book 4, Ned appears in chapters 1, 2, then he and the others took various acting roles in chapters 3, 4, 5, 8, 10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 25, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38, 39, 40, 42, 43, 44, 46, 50.1, 54.4, 55, 60, 61, 64, 65, and 66.

Anyway, what with so many of the characters changing their appearance (and even their quantity, as when the Six Pretty Girls coalesced into a single Nerd, or when the Eleven Handsome Chorus Boys merged into a Single Hare), the balance is actually pretty good if you sort through all the clues.

“Okay,” said someone, “but what about the races and complexions and hair color and features of all the characters?”

The only character who is positively identified as having a definite feature of that nature is the yellow-haired robot commonly identified as “Lady Artifice”: she is, admittedly, a natural blonde robot inasmuch as such a thing is even possible. The Six Pretty Girls are merely identified as “pretty”, and their mother, Mamma Mee, is only described as “glamorous”. If readers find it helpful to imagine Eddie Gumshoe as resembling Humphrey Bogart in some scenes, or as Bob Hoskins in other scenes, or as Rex Harrison when he’s playing the part of Professor Plimsoll, then they are at liberty to do so, but if other people of various races also come to mind (such as Lennox Lewis or Keye Luke), then there’s no reason why those whimsies can’t also be indulged. Readers who perceive racial stereotypes in some of the dialects used would do well to consider their own biases. Dialects are a matter of speech, not of genetics.

“Nevertheless,” said someone, “I am positively determined to find something to complain about in these stories.”

That’s easy.

They aren’t very good.

“Hear, hear!” shouted the Eleven Handsome Chorus Boys in perfect unison. 44. Pretty Bitty So Far

Pretty Bitty Little Yarn, You’re so far down on the farm you’re still sitting in the barn, How about some long adventures, Like the kind that the classicists told while chewing on their dentures? Pretty Bitty Little Yarn, “Frankly,” said the bowdlerized version of Rhett Butler, “I don’t give a darn.” 45. The Title Without A Chapter 46. (the chapter without a title)

Once upon a time there was an organization of decidedly ordinary people.

They were so ordinary that they didn’t even notice how ordinary they were, and they had no idea just what they had even become an organization for.

Nevertheless, they were very good at holding meetings, and having raffles and door prizes and bake sales. They had a nice newsletter and a fully-functioning website and a regular meeting- place and, although they didn’t generate a great deal of money, everyone paid their dues promptly and the financial reports always indicated that things were modestly profitable.

Each year they encouraged the local politicians to officially designate a week in their honor, and the politicians were happy to do so because the organization also regularly took part in the charitable events held by other organizations, even though they never really distinguished themselves, but still they were steady, reliable participants, and the politicians liked to have their pictures appear in the local paper while saying something nice but noncontroversial about a group of people without having to commit to anything in particular.

“Isn’t it exciting?” said a new member of an average sized chapter.

“What?” said an older member. “Did something happen? I hope not!”

And after a few meetings, the new member got the idea of how things went, and realized that it was better when things were reliable and sometimes moderately interesting, and that excitement usually means that something might go wrong.

Periodically, the average sized chapter would hold discussions about deciding things, such as what color the membership cards should be, and what information should be contained on each card, and whether it would be advisable to omit certain identifying information from the cards lest a card should fall into the wrong hands, and whether or not the cards should be laminated, and whether or not the cards should include a punched hole in one of the corners to allow the card to be placed on a keychain, and, if so, whether the hole should be punched in the upper-left-corner, the upper-right corner, the lower-left corner, or the lower-right corner, and how frequently the cards should expire, and whether or not to differentiate the cards issued from one period to another, and, if so, in what manner.

Nothing much was ever decided, and few if any of the members could even recall exactly what their membership card even looked like, for there was never any requirement to display the card, even when attending meetings, because the attendance list had always been drawn up in advance with inexpensive printed name tags all set out at the greeting-table. One day, one of the members was musing aloud in the presence of five other members as they were all sitting at the nice round table nibbling at their customary pre-meeting lunch, and the audible musing ran somewhat along these lines:

“I was glancing at our official letterhead the other day, and it seemed to me that it was somehow lacking a certain something.”

“I’m so glad the baked potatoes were ready this time,” said another member.

“The salad is very good today,” said another.

“Was the traffic all right?”

“Actually, I tried an alternate route today, but there was no difference in the driving time, so I think I’ll go back to the old way.”

“Do you think it will rain during the return trip?”

“I remember that it did once.”

“When it comes to baked potatoes, I prefer butter to margarine.”

“I spotted two kinds of dessert: cake and pie.”

“Oh dear. That means I will have to choose, and whenever I choose, I invariably find myself noticing that, no matter how delicious the item I choose seems, the other item suddenly starts to look more attractive.”

“It’s a wonderful world.”

“Especially if you don’t have to get up too often.”

“I’m going to have both cake and pie.”

“I’d love to, but I’m watching my weight.”

“So am I, and it keeps going up, so I’ve decided that I might as well have something to eat while I’m watching.”

And nothing more was said that day about the letterhead.

The letterhead lacked many things: it had no logo, and it had no heading, and it had no footing, and it had no regular print of any kind. To all appearances it was plain paper, and close analysis would have revealed it to be exactly that, but it was inexpensive, and it allowed a wide range of possibilities for future embellishment, but since nobody had ever subjected it to close analysis its composition was never really considered.

The meeting went on amiably, and the attendees became drowsy after their lunch, and then some of them had coffee, and then there was the traditional raffle and door prize, and then the announcement of the date and time of the next meeting, and then everyone went back to wherever they had come from.

And whenever there was a chapter event like a meeting or a bake sale, the welcome signs just said “WELCOME” and nothing more, because, like all of the other chapters in the organization, this chapter had never decided on a title. 47. Dog

Once upon a time there was a dog called Dog.

The dog also had a dog, whom he also called Dog.

Sometimes the people would say “Isn’t that a bit confusing, that business of both of you being called ‘Dog’?” to which the dog would reply “Not in the slightest, for when I call Dog, he knows to answer, and when he calls me, I respond in kind. It is nonsense to suggest that either of us would ever call out for ourselves.”

And sometimes the people would say “Have you ever considered the fact that ‘dog’ spelled backwards is ‘god’?”, to which the dog would reply “No, I never have, and I never shall, and indeed I am not considering it now, for I prefer to ponder that fact that ‘pup’ spelled backwards is still ‘pup’, and that the reversal of spelling can be reiterated indefinitely without a single variance in the result, and I believe that such consistency and reliability is a far worthier thing upon which to fix one’s consideration.”

And sometimes, although not very often, someone would say “Have you ever considered calling your dog something else, such as perhaps ‘horse’?” to which the dog would reply “What a terrible thing to call a dog.”

More frequently, the people would say “Since you are both called ‘Dog’, how can you tell which one of you the people are calling?” to which the dog would reply “It doesn’t really matter, does it? Sometimes we both respond, and sometimes one or the other of us responds, and sometimes we both pretend that we don’t hear. The names don’t matter as much as whether or not the people are waving about a supper-dish, or a throwing-stick, or preparing a bath. Besides, people are awfully dim with their ideas about words and names.” “For example,” said the other dog, “Can you be absolutely certain which of us you are addressing right now?”

And the people would be quite flummoxed by this last, because even if they felt quite certain which of the dogs named Dog they were addressing, they could never articulate it in a manner that they themselves found satisfactory. 48. Wata Hati, International Spy

Somebody got the idea of trying out Lady Artifice with darker hair in the role of a famous dancer who was also an international spy.

Actually, it started out with her just being a famous dancer.

It progressed smoothly enough. First she was a dancer. Then people took notice of her and the famous part followed. Her name came about when certain onlookers would see her dancing, or even not dancing, or even see a picture of her and exclaim “What a hottie!”. History does not tell us whether or not the change in spelling was intentional or merely due to an agent who liked phonetic spelling. But then History does not really tell us anything. I don’t know where people get the idea that it does. I doubt that History even knows we’re here at the moment. Maybe History will notice us later.

Anyway, soon there were posters advertising “Wata Hati, the Famous Dancer”, and so she became even more famous. It got to the point where she didn’t even dance anymore. The posters made her so famous that there was no need.

A lot of eager gentlemen would take her out to dinner. Some of them weren’t technically gentlemen, and sometimes they went to lunch instead. On Sundays they sometimes went to brunch. The dish they called scrambled eggs was pretty interesting, whatever it was really made of. The waffles were probably actual waffles.

Over candlelight, the varying degrees of gentlemen felt compelled to unburden themselves of all their secrets. Don’t ask me why. Some people are just like that. Some of them brought their own candles. Some of them even brought very dark curtains to block out the daylight when they were coming to lunch. After awhile, the dancer known as Wata Hati had been told all manner of secrets by all sorts of people, and some of the secrets were secrets of a very secret kind, and then later on some of the secrets stopped being secrets and become somewhat known, and then some people started putting two and two together and deciding that Wata Hati must have known all sorts of former secrets told by all sorts of people from all sorts of organizations in all sorts of countries. It’s really amazing what some people can do. Whenever I try putting two and two together, I hardly ever come up with anything other than four.

And so somebody decided to stop having Lady Artifice with darker hair because there’s only so much you can do with a gag like “Wata Hati”. 49. This Business of Having Actual Chapters

This business of having actual chapters only started in the fourth novel. That is, there were chapters before, but they didn’t get listed in a table of contents, and the numbering was erratic, and some of the chapters had proper titles and some didn’t, and so it was harder to get an idea of just what you were getting into.

As for putting things into a table of contents, it comes in handy because that way I can sometimes have some idea of what the chapter might be about when I start to write it.

Some alert readers may point out that having a table of contents might also be said to increase the word-count of the overall book, but rest assured that each book contains over 50,000 words apart from the table of contents or the chapter headings, so you need not be concerned about the quantity of words.

The quality is something else entirely. 50. How to Not Write a Novel

Tonight on Literary Stuff, we examine various techniques of How to Not Write a Novel.

Bear in mind that this is not the same as “How Not to Write a Novel”, which is more concerned with ways to write novels that shouldn’t be written, or novels that are badly-written, or little anecdotes that aren’t novels, or short poems and limericks, or shopping lists, or graffiti, or checks that would overdraw your account, or any number of other things that aren’t novels.

Tonight, instead, we examine effective ways to avoid writing much of anything at all.

First, it’s a good idea to agonize over a title. Make sure you don’t do anything until you get it just right. There are a great number of subjects to choose from, and within those subjects, an even greater number of possible titles that can be extrapolated. Think and think and think, and then find reasons to reject, reject, reject. Then think of some more possibilities. It also helps to try out possible titles on friends, relatives, and total strangers. Even if the majority of them favor a particular title, there are plenty of reasons to disregard their opinion and start all over from scratch. You can even try mailing your title to yourself via certified mail. If your title still looks good to you when you open the letter, then you can reject that one as well.

Another good technique is to spend as much time as possible worrying about getting the exact right name for each and every possible character you might come up with. And remember all of the variations and nicknames: is it Edward, Eddie, Ed, Ned, Ted, Woody, Eduardo, Edwin, or something more adventurous like Wardhog or Winthia? What about a middle name? Should it be a family name, a hyphenate, or another given-type name? Perhaps it should just be an initial, or an acronym. Is there some kind of inside family joke associated with one or more of the names, or possibly the acronym of the full name’s initials? And just how normal or interesting should the family name be? Should it be of a particular ethnicity? Should it be familiar or exotic relative to the locale of the story? Should it be a common name or something totally unique? Make sure that you fuss over the name of each and every character. When you think you’re finished, then you can spend time worrying about all the names in aggregate: is it really believable that so many characters in a single story should have such a commonality of names, or, if not, such a variety of names? And once you get a comfortable cross-section or blend of the familiar and the exotic, you can still spend even more time worrying about which particular group of readers you might offend either through omission or unfavorable inclusion. Make sure you think of everything that might possibly go wrong or feel awkward before you try to actually write anything down.

The opening line of your story is another great place to get yourself stuck. Try convincing yourself that the first sentence should contain the key to the next 50,000 words, and that it should also be catchy and intriguing enough to make absolutely everyone want to read all of those 50,000 words right away. Also make sure that the opening sentence suggests a pleasing image that will convince everyone to want to see your story rendered on film. It’s a tricky business, because there is the ever-present danger that the wrong sort of person might read your first sentence and decide that it’s a better subject for a different medium like radio or a stage play or a direct-to-video release. You want your opening sentence to demand a feature- length theatrical release with an all-star cast and a record-breaking budget. Don’t start writing your story until you are sure your first sentence can do all these things while simultaneously whetting the public’s appetite for a sequel.

If you do think of an opening sentence, be sure to try it out on someone who doesn’t like it. That will shut things down in a hurry.

Before you start to write, remember that there are a great number of books available with advice and recommendations about how to write a novel. Read all of them.

Also, bear in mind that there have been many great, near-great, mediocre and lousy novels written already. Read all of them as well.

And finally, since you wouldn’t want to be accused of imitation, make sure you avoid subjects, plots, titles, names, words, or letters that have been used before.

With the diligent application of the suggestions I have listed above, you are sure to find yourself not writing in no time.

Or you can just put it off until later. 51. Wondering

Eddie woke up again on the floor of his office and as he looked at the ceiling, he wondered.

Somehow, something was wrong.

Was it his name? After all these years, did he really feel like an “Eddie”? Was he too old for what could be seen as a diminutive? On the other hand, could he possibly justify the use of the more formal “Edward” based on his financial condition? What about “Ted”? He thought about all the Teds he had met, but could only come up with one, and that was one of the Chorus Boys, but there was no point in confusing matters by doubling up on that name. That logic ruled out Ed, Ned, and Red as well, all Chorus Boys, all of those names already taken.

Oh, he had been listed as “Edward” in his obituary, but that was typical of obituaries, so very stiff and formal and not the sort of thing one could really walk around in.

Was it his office? Well, of course it was his office in the possessive sense, but was it the office that was wrong? But then again, if it really was his office, how could it be wrong? Maybe he should have been on the ceiling, looking at the floor, or on one of the walls, looking at the opposite wall.

That was foolish speculation.

But still Eddie wondered, and hoped that his better angels might guide him to wisdom.

Then the door opened and Mac walked in and stepped on him. Actually, Mac only partly stepped on him. Mac also partly tripped over him and partly kicked him, because Mac had perfected this particular move over years of practice.

“Hello, Eddie,” said Mac.

“Hello, Mac,” said Eddie. “Do you get the feeling that something’s wrong?”

“Of course,” said Mac. “Something’s always wrong. Get used to it.” 52. 47,000 Bags

I was trying to place a call On my brand-new phone that does it all But an unintended slip of the hand Threatened to ruin my lifetime plan When I accidentally placed an order For 47,000 bags.

It would make my life a terrible mess For the bags will have my name and address And with each bag sent to a different place To various members of the human race You can get too much attention From 47,000 bags.

And each bag will contain a number of offers That are sure to deplete my diminishing coffers And my frantic attempt to reverse the sale Resulted in an epic fail And placed an additional order For 47 million bags.

Each offer is “buy one, get one free” And the problem that is vexing me Is that I won’t know what they bought But it’s bound to be something I haven’t got And before I could send a free one At least I’d have to see one.

But in my time of doubt, I found a way to sort it out, I altered my 47 million, And changed it to 47 trillion Which created a chain reaction That cancelled the whole transaction For my credit wouldn’t clear And that’s the reason I’m still here Survivor of the Saga of 47,000 bags. 53. Words of Wisdom

Be careful what you wish for, Because you probably won’t get it, But it’s just as likely that some very big scary person Will come to your house and say “Who is the person who’s been wishing for all the stuff?”

Flattery is the least competent form of imitation.

A Joy of Beauty is a Thing forever.

If someone says it’s raining, And you look outside and it’s raining, It doesn’t mean they’re right, It just means that it’s raining.

If you’re wondering whether or not you’ve achieved your purpose in life, and you’re already dead, you might as well not bother.

There in only one thing worse than being talked about, And that is being written up.

Aphorism is just as good as none at all. 54. The Old Man and the Seat

Once upon a time there was an old man who walked a considerable distance and then sat down in a comfortable chair.

“Not bad,” he said. 55. An Embarrassment of Riches

“Hey, there, how do ya do? My name is Rich!”

“Well, whaddya know? My name’s Rich as well!”

“Well, how about that? Two Riches in the same class!”

“Three, you mean. My name’s also Rich!”

“Boy, we’re gonna drive the instructor crazy!”

“Hello, I’m new here. What was that about driving the instructor crazy?”

“Hi…lemme explain: All three of us here are called Rich!”

“Oh, my…I guess that makes four of us.”

“You’re kidding! You mean your name’s Rich as well?”

“”Fraid so! I can hardly wait until the roll-call!”

“Oh! Here he comes now!”

“Good day, gentlemen. Before we start, I’d like to make sure that everyone is present.”

“Wait for it!”

“Rich?”

“Here!”

“Rich?”

“Here!”

“Rich?”

“Here!”

“Rich?”

“Here!” “Rich?”

“Here!”

“What?! Five of us?”

“Rich?”

“Here!”

“Six!”

“Rich?”

“Here!”

“Seven! I can’t believe it!”

“Will the gentlemen whose names I have called please rise?

“Okay, here goes!”

“I’m afraid I must ask you all to leave.”

“What? How come?”

“This is an Art class. Now let us resume the roll-call: Art?”

“Here!”

“Art?”

“Here!”

“Art?”

“Here!”

“That’s more like it. Now we can begin the lesson…” 56. The Poor Little Fifth Novel

Once upon a time there was a poor little fifth novel that found itself some twenty-thousand words in with nothing to show for it but a lot of dumb sketches and no coherent storyline.

“Gee,” said Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam, “I guess that last chapter didn’t turn out so well.”

“I dunno,” said Eddie. “I thought that Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, and Dan did about as much as they could, considering they were all playing a bunch of guys named Rich.”

“And Tom, Jim, and Tim did just fine portraying the trio of guys named Art,” said Mac.

“And we must not overlook the valuable contribution of Sam in the role of the instructor,” added Lady Artifice.

“But even so,” lamented Ben, “here we are stuck in the middle of the poor little fifth novel.”

“I wouldn’t feel too bad about it,” said the Reader. “The first four novels were pretty poor as well.”

“Maybe an Eohippus will help,” said the Eohippus. “My story begins a long, long time ago, about fifty-five million years…maybe even sixty million…”

“The geologists have a habit of revising their dates from time to time,” said Mac.

“Quite true,” said the Eohippus, “and since I only have four toes on my front feet, it’s not that easy for me to keep count anyway.”

“I’m afraid I have interrupted your story,” said Mac. “Please, do go on.”

“Well,” said the Eohippus, “I was having a perfectly good time going about my business of nibbling on very low-hanging leaves and whatnot, but eventually --- and not terribly eventually, if you consider the span of geological time --- I died. I forget the details, and I must admit that my death was probably caused by a certain lapse of concentration on my part, but before too long I became a rotting carcass, probably sinking into the mud or getting covered up somehow with dirt or sand. And then the earth around me hardened to form a kind of cast, and then mineral material seeped into the space as my bones dissolved, and my skeleton became fossilized.”

“Tell me about it,” said the Trilobite sympathetically. “Then I suppose that millions of years went by,” continued the Eohippus. “I was in no condition to notice, so I can’t really argue the point. At any rate, the next thing I knew there was some chap digging up bits of my fossilized skeleton, which was described by a fellow named Richard Owen as being a small mutilated cranium about the size of that of a hare. And based on the fragments he found he gave me the name of Hyracotherium because he thought I must be some sort of prehistoric variant of the modern-day hyrax. But later on another man named Othniel Marsh found a complete skeleton and called it Eohippus, which is Greek for ‘dawn horse’. I liked that name better, because I have always self-identified as a horse, but there was a convention among scientists that the first name chosen should prevail, so some people would still refer to me as Hyracotherium, the hyrax-beast.”

“What a terrible thing to call a horse,” said the Trilobite sympathetically.

“Some people are still arguing about it,” said the Eohippus.

“Some people just like to argue,” offered Eddie.

Then everyone fell silent for awhile.

“I’m afraid my story hasn’t helped very much,” apologized the Eohippus. “It’s funny, but I had first imagined that a story encompassing some sixty million years would have a lot more substance to it, especially as an eyewitness account, but now I realize that both my eyes rotted away so early on that I really have very little to relate about most of the time that followed.”

“It’s a common problem among extinct creatures,” said the Trilobite.

“There seems to be one advantage that the living have,” said Lady Artifice. “The ability to take the events they experience and turn them into matters of great importance. After all, when one considers geological time, what living person can truly state that they did much more than merely living and dying when all is said and done?”

“Well, “said Mac, “that’s just it: when all is said and done, there’s nothing else to say or do, so the living like to take as much time as they possibly can with the saying and the doing. Now, who wants pancakes?” 57. Pancakes on Mars

“How can you think of pancakes at a time like this?” said The Fellow Who Asks Questions But Appears To Have No Other Function.

“I dunno,” said Eddie, “whenever somebody asks me if I want pancakes, I have trouble thinking of anything else.”

“Besides,” said Mac, “anyone who asks questions but appears to have no other function probably couldn’t eat the pancakes anyway because that would be another function.”

“Nice work,” said Eddie.

“However,” said Mac, “just to make things a little more interesting, I propose that we have our pancakes on the planet Mars.”

The proposal was universally accepted. Universally! Get it?

Just then Mac’s Uncle drove up in a dump truck. He opened the back of the truck, revealing stacks and stacks of books of all shapes and sizes. Actually, the books were seldom smaller than a pocket paperback or thinner than a pamphlet, and seldom larger than eighteen-by-twenty- four inches, and their shapes tended to favor the oblong, although there a few that had a circular shape, and these tended to have a picture of the moon or a vinyl record disk or an automobile tire, and one was in the shape of an apple with the stem broken off, but nevertheless it was quite an array of books.

“What’s all this?” asked Mac.

“I heard that you were going to have pancakes on Mars,” said the Uncle, “so I brought you some reading material.”

Mac and Eddie examined several of the books for several minutes.

“Hey,” said Eddie, “none of these books are about Mars.”

“No,” said Mac’s Uncle, “but some of them have covers with pictures of the moon.”

“I also notice that none of these books are about pancakes,” said Mac.

“But records are round, and tires are round,” said Mac’s Uncle, “and pancakes are also round.”

“What’s the apple book doing here?” asked Eddie. “I once made a pancake that was shaped kind of like an apple,” said Mac’s uncle. “It was the beginning of the batch, before the griddle was completely heated up.”

“What’s this?” said Eddie. “A book about whether or not Pluto is a planet?”

“It’s a planet,” said Mac’s Uncle, “and don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“But what does that have to do with pancakes on Mars?” asked Eddie.

“Same shape, out in space,” said Mac’s Uncle. “Practically the same thing.”

“Well, for one thing, Mars is spherical, and a pancake is flat,” said Mac, “and Pluto is much farther away than Mars.”

“All right, Mister Wise Guy,” retorted Mac’s Uncle, “maybe you need to read all these books before you start telling me what’s what and what’s not.”

“Have you read them?” asked Eddie in amazement.

“I’m not the one who wants to have pancakes on Mars,” said Mac’s Uncle, “so I’m not the one who needs to read. Besides, I’ve been too busy gathering these books to have time to read any of ‘em.”

“Actually,” said Mac, “that kind of demonstrates my point. There are so many books here that, by the time we’ve read them all, we’ll have starved to death.”

“So you won’t even try!” shouted Mac’s Uncle. “If that’s all the thanks I’m going to get, I’m going to dump all these books right here and go back home! I’m not going to waste any more time helping you!”

And then Mac’s Uncle climbed back into the cab of the dump truck, dumped out all the books, and drove off with a roar of the engine and a screech of the tires.

Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam stood by helplessly, embarrassed by the outburst.

“Well,” offered Lady Artifice, “at least now we can get back to the project at hand.”

“Say, Mac,” said Eddie.

“What is it?” asked Mac.

“Do you suppose, if we stacked all these books on top of each other, they might make a stairway that would reach all the way up to Mars?” “Could be,” said Mac.

Just then Mac’s Aunt came bustling up.

“I have to apologize for my husband,” she said. “He’s a brilliant man in many ways, but he’s not always practical. I mean, the very idea of leaving you with all these books, books he hasn’t even read himself, all about records and tires and Pluto and the moon and just about everything other than what you’re actually trying to do. But you have to understand, he comes from a generation where each man needs to be a hero and an expert on everything, so he buys all these books because they make him feel smarter. He figures that if he himself can’t come up with the answer, at least he can point to a book that will do it for him.“

“I know he means well,” said Mac.

“Yes,” said Mac’s Aunt, “but he doesn’t always think things through. I mean, what’s the use of a big pile of books?”

“I was just saying,” said Eddie, “that we could probably build a stairway out of ‘em.”

“Why, that’s it exactly!” said Mac’s Aunt. “Only a stairway made of stacked books would be far too dangerous to use! The books would slide around and somebody would be bound to fall and get hurt. That’s why I brought this!”

And Mac’s Aunt proudly held out a gallon-sized jar.

“What is it?” asked Mac.

“Peanut butter!”

“Peanut butter…” Mac said, while trying to sound noncommittal.

“Crunchy, of course!” said the Aunt. “The crunchy bits help the whole thing bind together.”

“What whole thing?” asked Eddie.

“Oh my dear boy,” said Mac’s Aunt, “you still don’t understand, do you? The peanut butter is to be used as mortar to hold the books together! That way the books will stick and form a sturdy dependable structure. Now let’s get to work!” and so Mac, Eddie, Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam all set to work building a stairway out of books and crunchy peanut butter while Lady Artifice held the jar and Mac’s aunt supervised.

“Sometimes I’m glad I’m an orphan,” said Eddie. “Sometimes I’m glad I’m extinct,” said the Eohippus.

“I’m always glad,” said the Trilobite, “especially at tax-time.”

After a few hours, they finally ran out of books. Unfortunately, although the stairway they built was fairly impressive, it was not nearly high enough for them to climb up to Mars.

“I think I see the problem,” said Mac’s Aunt. “Tear down the stairway.”

And so they tore down the stairway. It wasn’t that difficult. They tipped it over sideways, and it fell down and most of the books came apart.

“Now,” said Mac’s Aunt, “you start building a rocket-ship, and I’ll go get some vinegar and baking-soda.”

The Fellow Who Asks Questions But Appears To Have No Other Function didn’t say or do anything. He was pretty much done.

But before Mac’s Aunt returned, the scene was beset by twenty-two squirrels who gobbled up the peanut butter and nibbled away at the books, so the rocket-ship was never finished.

“Thanks,” said Eddie.

“Don’t mention it,” said Jennifer, who was making a return appearance in her portrayal of eleven squirrels. “Of course, I couldn’t have done it without the help of JLY.”

JLY was also making a return appearance, since JLY is short for “Just Like You”, and she was being just like Jennifer when Jennifer was portraying eleven squirrels, thus contributing to the total squirrel-count of twenty-two.

Just then the Total Squirrel Count strode up, looking quite dashing in his tweed suit. He removed his monocle and announced, “I am delighted to see so many of you gathered here on the occasion of my twenty-second birthday!”

And that just proves that the Total Squirrel Count was indeed twenty-two.

Then Mac’s aunt returned and shooed all the squirrels away, and said “I couldn’t find my vinegar and baking-soda, so I brought a red sweater instead.”

“What’s the use of a red sweater?” asked Eddie.

“Why, to keep warm,” said Mac’s Aunt. “Come to think of it, I feel a bit of chill coming on right now myself.” And so Mac’s Aunt put on the red sweater and waved them all goodbye.

“I’m going to leave you to get on with things,” she said. “Besides, my favorite programs are coming on now.”

And so Mac’s aunt left them all there, surrounded by a surprisingly smallish pile of gooey cardboard.

“Well,“ said Eddie, “I guess we’re gonna have to walk.”

It should be well-known by now that Lady Artifice was a very logical and sensible sort, being as she was a very advanced and possibly unique robot (providing that JLY wasn’t around to be just like her, and at this time, she wasn’t), but it must also be remembered that, in addition to her superb computer-based logical programming, Lady Artifice had also been given an encoded set of Romantic Values. Therefore Lady Artifice walked proudly beside her companions as they proceeded on their transparently futile quest to have pancakes on the planet Mars, because the sheer impossibility of the undertaking gave it a tragically romantic quality that she found irresistible. “Besides,” argued her logical circuits, “the longer they walk, the more likely they are to encounter someone who will persuade them to drop the whole project.”

After a few miles, they encountered Open Mike, who was walking alone.

“Hi, Open Mike,” said Mac, “We’re all going to walk to Mars to get some pancakes.”

“What an idiotic thing to do,” said Open Mike. “May I come along?”

“Sure,” said everyone. Well, not everyone. For example The Fellow Who Asks Questions But Appears To Have No Other Function didn’t say it, partly because he only asks questions, but also because he wasn’t there.

“For a moment there,” thought Lady Artifice, “it looked like Open Mike was going to be the one to dissuade everyone, but now it appears otherwise.”

They continued on, and soon they found themselves in an unpopulated area with no buildings in sight. The sun was getting hot, so they decided to rest for awhile. Then a very large truck came along, slowed down, and finally stopped alongside them. The driver leaned out the window and greeted them.

“Hey there, everybody!” he said. “Where are you all headed?”

“Mars,” said Mac.

“Mars?” said the driver. “You gotta be kiddin’me.” “It’s no joke,” said Eddie. “We’re really trying to get to Mars. You know, for pancakes.”

The driver just shook his head.

“I think you guys must have been out in the sun too long,” he said.

“Could be,” said Eddie. “That’s why we decided to rest here.”

“The Overly Busy Narrator said that the sun was getting hot,” explained Mac.

“Don’t believe everything that guy tells ya,” said the driver. “Take it from me: the sun isn’t getting hot.”

“It isn’t?” said Lady Artifice, who always felt a little bit cold anyway.

“Naw,” said the driver. “The sun has always been hot…for a few billion years at least. But that’s not the problem.”

“So what’s the problem?” asked Eddie.

“Trying to get to Mars,” said the driver.

“Yes,” said Mac, “that is exactly the problem we’re trying to solve. Can you give us a ride?”

“Sorry,” said the driver, “but it’s against regulations. Plus, I ain’t going that way, and that’s the other problem.”

“The other problem?” asked Open Mike.

“The other problem is, if you’re trying to get to Mars,” said the driver, “you’re going in the wrong direction.”

Everyone thanked the driver, and he drove off.

“Well, Open Mike,” said Mac, “you know these roads better than the rest of us. Are we really going in the wrong direction?”

“Sort of,” replied Open Mike, “but it’s probably not what you think. I’ve been for walks all around this area, but none of the places I’ve been to are Mars. The direction we’ve been travelling isn’t really all that bad, but it just isn’t the best direction.”

“You mean like ‘up’?” said Eddie.

“Yes…” said Open Mike, “the best direction would be ‘up’.” “Y’know,” said Eddie, “I kinda thought so all along, but I didn’t want to say anything.”

“So what have we been doing all this time?” asked Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam.

Having an adventure, stretching out the chapter, and eating up pages, said The Overly Busy Narrator.

“Sure,” said Mac, “what else?” 58. Getting There is Half the Fun

“Oh, well,” said Mac, “I guess that getting there is half the fun.”

“Yeah?” said Eddie. “So what’s the other half?”

“Waiting for the Ice-Cream Truck,” Mac replied.

And just then they heard the rumble of a motor, and the jingle of a bell, and they turned and saw the Ice-Cream truck coming up behind them, and who should be driving the truck but Corny Jokeslinger!

Actually, it would be better if almost anyone other than Corny Jokeslinger was driving the truck, but at least it wasn’t OddBoy.

“Hello, everyone,” said Corny as he brought the Ice-Cream truck to a stop. “Not only have I brought Ice-Cream, but I am also trying out a new persona.”

“Hello, Uncle,” said Lady Artifice.

“Hello, Ice-Cream,” said Eddie, Mac, Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam.

“I’m afraid that the heat of the day has adversely affected the manners of my companions,” said Open Mike. “Please allow me to pay for fifteen portions of Ice-Cream to ease your discomfiture and restore their sense of propriety.”

And so Open Mike paid Corny Jokeslinger handsomely for fifteen servings of Ice-Cream, and this was not out of character for Open Mike, for, although he himself wasn’t much to look at, most people found his money attractive. That’s the “handsomely” part.

Eddie had a vanilla Ice-Cream sandwich.

Ben had a vanilla cone.

Ned had a chocolate cone.

Ted had a coffee cone.

Ed had a strawberry cone.

Fred had a mint cone.

Red had a cherry cone. Dan had a lime cone.

Tom had a mocha cone.

Jim had a malt cone.

Tim had an orange cone.

Sam had a licorice cone.

Mac had a martini cone.

Open Mike had a cola drink in a cone.

Lady Artifice had a cup of WD-40 with a dash of coolant.

“That’s better,” said Eddie. “Now that I’m thinking straight, I got a question for Lady A.”

“Yes?” said Lady Artifice. “What is your question?”

“Well, “said Eddie, “no offense, but if you’re actually a robot, then how can Corny Jokeslinger be your uncle?”

“He isn’t really,” said Lady Artifice. “I just call him uncle as an expression of affection. I’ll admit that it’s a little awkward, but it’s better than trying to pass him off as my father, or my mother, or my babysitter. I tried introducing him as my friend for awhile, but a lot of people got the wrong idea about that, and assumed that we were romantically involved. ‘Uncle’ seemed to be a nice, safe term that most people would simply accept.”

“That’s kind of like my situation,” said Mac. “My so-called Uncle and Aunt are really just a couple of long-time stockholders, but over the years they got the idea that they were more like family. To tell you the truth, I liked it better when they just thought they owned me.”

“Do they own you?” asked Open Mike.

“No,” said Mac, “I bought them out years ago, but it didn’t change their minds about anything. You know how family can be sometimes.”

“We sure do,” said Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam in perfect unison.

“Hey,” said Eddie, “I just noticed something strange. Corny’s different. He’s quieter, and he hasn’t made any wise-cracks.” “That is true,” said Corny. “It’s my new persona. I am now essaying the role of a bad dialect comedian whose pronunciation is technically correct and who always explains his stories so clearly that the jokes are not funny.”

Mac was intrigued. “Can you give us an example?”

“Certainly,” said Corny. “There was a certain branch of Psychology that encouraged students to adopt an experiential viewpoint when they expressed themselves. The idea was that the students should take personal responsibility for their thoughts and feelings. Instead of saying ‘it’s cold’, they were directed to say ‘I feel cold’, and instead of saying ‘you know how family can be’, they were encouraged to say ‘I have certain opinions about my family’. They were instructed to identify with their remarks.”

“That’s interesting,” said Mac, “and informative, but can you give us an example of what a joke would be?”

“Here is a translated version,” said Corny. “’When I cross the road while experiencing myself as a chicken, I sometimes wonder why.’”

“So what’s the punch-line?” asked Eddie.

“In this case,” replied Corny, “the other person in the story just says ‘Tell me more about how that makes you feel.’”

“Oh,” said Mac. “What about one-liners?”

“One-liners are similarly instructive,” said Corny. “’I dreamed last night that I ate a gigantic marshmallow, and when I woke up I wrote down the dream in my notebook, and I contemplated the significance of the imagery. Then I tried re-imagining the dream from the point of view of the marshmallow.’”

“Do you do any non-psychological jokes?” asked Open Mike.

“Yes,” said Corny. “Here is an example: ‘I would like you all to think about my wife, if the idea appeals to you.’”

“It certainly is a departure from your usual approach to humor,” said Mac. “How’s it going over?”

“I think that its popularity can be readily assessed by observing that I now make my living driving an Ice-Cream truck in an unpopulated area,” said Corny. Suddenly a head popped out of the back of the Ice-Cream truck. It was the head of Linda Contrived. Actually, it was the head of a puppet that was a facsimile of the head of Linda Contrived.

“Maybe a song will help,” said the puppet head of Linda Contrived.

Then the actual Linda Contrived emerged from the back of the Ice-Cream truck and said “It’s cold in there!”

“Linda has not adapted her mode of expression to correspond with my new characterization,” explained Corny.

“How cold is it, Linda?” asked the puppet head.

“Excessively cold,” said Linda, “and that reminds me of a song!”

“Actually,” said Corny, “Linda has been preparing a new song that she would like to perform for you now. She calls it ‘The Excess Song’.”

And then Linda Contrived sang The Excess Song:

There’s nothing wrong with much too much That a little bit more won’t cure, You might believe that attitude Is kind of immature, But I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor And this I know for sure: There’s nothing wrong with much too much That a little bit more won’t cure!

LINDA: I met a man the other day-- CORNY: I think this part is wrong, It’s just a bit of verbiage to help complete the song— LINDA: He said, you need some bigger jokes To help you get the laughs, And then I saw the audience was made up of giraffes!

There’s nothing wrong with much too much That a little bit more won’t cure, And when you’re doing comedy, It helps extend the tour, You need exaggeration To make the laughter sure: There’s nothing wrong with much too much That a little bit more won’t cure!

LINDA: I say, I say, I say! CORNY: Linda is now adopting a mode of speaking that was common in the old English Music hall. It served to provide a respite from the cycle of chorus-and-verse, but it also helped the lyricist who had a limited number of rhymes. This spoken recitative could be carried out for a certain amount of time, but if it went on for too long, it would begin to adversely affect the pacing of the overall presentation, and the audience would become impatient for the resumption of the actual song, so it was sometimes necessary for someone to--- LINDA: Corny? CORNY: Yes, my dear? LINDA: Don’t you think you’re overdoing the explanation? CORNY: Yes, I rather suppose that I am, but it is only intended to demonstrate the proposition that:

BOTH: There’s nothing wrong with much too much That a little bit more won’t cure, And a little bit more of something else Will fix you up for sure, And though the years will come and go This concept will endure: There’s nothing wrong with much too much That a little bit more won’t cure!

By now, everyone was clapping their hands and stamping their feet in time to the music which seemed to have come out of nowhere, and the music continued on as Corny and Linda took their bows and climbed back into the truck. This time Linda took a seat next to Corny, who started the engine, jingled the bell, and drove away as the music gradually died down and faded out.

“If I didn’t know any better,” said Open Mike, “I’d say that the Self-Preservation Jazz Band and Incidental Pick-up Combo was alive and well.”

“Say,” said Mac, “I didn’t know you were familiar with the Self-Preservation Jazz Band and Incidental Pick-up Combo.”

“I’m not,” said Open Mike. “In fact, I’ve never met them. It’s just that, when I go for long walks, I sometimes think I hear music, but when I turn around, there’s no-one there.”

“That’s the Self-Preservation part,” said Eddie, “especially when they perform with Corny Jokeslinger.” 59. Getting Back is No Fun at All

“So,” said Open Mike, “do you think we should be getting back?”

“Probably,” said Mac, “but I have no intention of doing it yet. You may have noticed from other stories that Getting There is Half the Fun, but Getting Back is No Fun at All.”

“So we’re still going to Mars?” asked said Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam.

Where there’s a word, there’s a way, said The Overly Busy Narrator.

“I think there’s been some kind of mistake,” said Mac. “I thought the old saying was ‘Where there’s a WILL, there’s a way’.”

I changed it, said The Overly Busy Narrator.

The Overly Busy Narrator had been changing things for years. That was how the male character known as Kinda Contrived was suddenly transformed into Corny Jokeslinger’s girlfriend, Linda Contrived. For The Overly Busy Narrator, it was just a matter of changing a word.

What a difference a word makes, said The Overly Busy Narrator.

It can change plagiarism into parody, or stealing into satire.

It can change the true picture into the big picture, which can conveniently leave out the little guy.

It can change the bottom rung into the bottom line.

It can change a contract into a contradiction, or an agreement into an argument.

It can change chicken salad into tuna salad, which might not be what some people were expecting the change to be, but that just goes to show what a difference a word makes.

Which word?

Which change?

Then Open Mike spoke up.

He said: “When I go for a walk, I get ideas, Like sleeping with dogs, And waking up with fleas.”

“Wait,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate. “Do you mean that sleeping with dogs is one of your ideas, and that waking up with fleas is a consequence of sleeping with dogs, or do you mean that the part about sleeping with dogs and the part about waking up with fleas are two separate ideas, or is the idea that, while you are sleeping, the dogs are actually turning into fleas?”

“Actually,” said Open Mike, “I was thinking that the walking part was analogous to the sleeping part, and that the ideas were analogous to the fleas.”

“Oh,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate. “In that case, I feel compelled to point out to you that your poem only works if you pronounce the word ‘fleas’ as ‘flee-ahs’ to make it rhyme with ‘idee-ahs’.”

“Oh, my,” said Open Mike. “I didn’t realize that, in addition to wanting explanations, you also insist on exact phonetic rhymes.”

“It’s one of my Numerous Other Functions,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate.

This could be a problem, said The Overly Busy Narrator. This new character seems to require the changing of a good many words, not just one. In addition to this, he seems to be quite overly busy himself.

“Yes,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate, “I am possessed of a large number of Other Functions, not the least of which is Self-Disclosure. I am very self-disclosive, I am much inclined to disclose things about myself, I often find multiple ways of saying the same thing more than once, and I have a tendency to repeat myself, not verbatim, but over a series of variations with which I reveal various aspects of my personality which I am fond of sharing, not to mention the fact, as may be observed at this time, that, during these passages of self-disclosure and the many iterations of concept, but not of form, I tend to become somewhat verbose.”

“That’s funny,” said Mac, “I’d never have guessed.”

“You are too modest,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate. “I am certain that, given sufficient time, you are quite capable of arriving at a reasonably accurate assessment of the qualities which I have adumbrated.” “Actually,” said Mac, “I wouldn’t have bothered.”

The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate strode up to Mac, removed his gloves, and struck Mac across the face.

“Sir,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate, “I demand Satisfaction.”

“Wait,” said Mac. “Are you proposing that we have a duel?”

“I am not certain,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate. “I want The Overly Busy Narrator to clarify the action he has just attributed to me: did I remove my gloves and strike Mac across the face with my bare hand, or did I curl up my fingers to form a fist with which I struck Mac across the face, or did I hold the empty gloves in my hand while using them in a whiplike fashion to strike Mac across the face?”

To clarify: The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate struck Mac across the face with his gloves.

“Thanks,” said Mac. “In that case, Ow.”

“I have a special function which involves using certain things in a whiplike fashion,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate.

“Come on,” said Eddie, “are you gonna have a duel or not?”

“No,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate. “We are not going to have a duel. Dueling is not among my Numerous Other Functions. If this fellow wishes to engage in some sort of duel, he will have to do so all by himself.”

“So what was that talk about satisfaction?” said Mac.

“I always demand satisfaction,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate, “but I seldom get it.”

“Really?” said Eddie. “That happens to me all the time.”

“Do you mean to say that you get satisfaction all the time, or that you fail all the time in your attempts to obtain satisfaction? If your intent was to convey the latter situation, then I must point out that my statement utilized the word ‘seldom’, which is a concept that is inconsistent with, of not plainly opposed to, an event that could be said to occur, or to not occur, ‘all the time’,” said The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate.

“Forget it,” said Eddie. “Nothing ever happens.”

And at that moment, The Overly Busy Narrator realized the true identity of The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate. He was, in fact, The Great Dilator, The Enemy of Plot Progression, the one who, through his incessant and frequently argumentative chatter, causes stories to become hopelessly bogged down.

He was, in short, the BoggyMan.

“Unless someone can get rid of this guy,” said Mac, “we’ll never get to Mars.”

It was then that The Overly Busy Narrator saved the day. He simply changed the word “Boggy” to “Boogie”.

Suddenly The Fellow Who Wants Explanations And Has Numerous Other Functions Which I Shudder To Contemplate began to leap about and gyrate to the beat of an apparently invisible drummer, and he began to edge away from the others.

“Well well well!” he said. “No more time for chat! Time’s a-wasting! I’m on my way! Must dash!”

And his parting words as he disappeared over the horizon were like sweet music:

“Gotta Boogie!”

“So,” said Open Mike, “how about if we get on with our quest for some more dogs and fleas?”

“If you mean let’s get back to walking,” said Eddie, “then I’m all for it…and if you don’t, let’s take a walk while we figure it out.”

And so they all began walking again. 60. To Mars

The sun was drifting downward toward the western horizon, and its rays would have started to irritate the eyes of the travelers had they been traveling in that direction.

Fortunately, the travelers were not traveling due west, so they could see what was before them in comfort.

“I wish I knew where we were going,” said Eddie. “The description by The Overly Busy Narrator is no help at all.”

“Don’t you remember?” said Mac. “We’re going to Mars for pancakes.”

“I remember that part,” said Eddie, “but I’d still kind of like to know what direction we’re facing right now.”

“North?” ventured Ben.

“South?” offered Ned.

“East?” suggested Fred.

“Are we in the Northern or Southern hemisphere?” asked Tim.

“What difference does that make?” asked Brian.

“Who’s Brian?” asked Jim.

“It’s me,” said Sam. “I was just checking to see if anyone was paying attention.”

“Where are we relative to the International Date Line?” asked Ted.

“Don’t you think of anything but girls?” asked Tom.

“Not if I can help it,” replied Ted. “It keeps me out of trouble.”

“How does always thinking about girls keep you out of trouble?” asked Ben.

“I have no idea,” said Ted. “I really haven’t considered that part.”

“Do you hear anything?” asked Tim.

“What?” said Jim. “I said, do you hear anything?” repeated Tim.

“Kindly dispense with the old Vaudeville-Style Hard-of-Hearing gags and get on with the expository dialogue,” said Mac.

“Can I do it in the negative?” asked Sam.

“You can do it in a bucket for all I care,” said Eddie. “Just do it.”

“Very well,” said Sam. “I am failing to pay any attention to low rumbling sound that seems to be growing louder.”

“I am! I am!” said Ed. “Pick me!”

“Settle down, Ed,” said Mac.

“I am also trying hard not to notice a steadily growing shadowy form silhouetted against the western sky,” said Sam.

“He has a real flair for this sort of exposition,” said Lady Artifice.

“The sound I’m not noticing is growing louder,” said Sam, “and louder still.”

“Don’t look directly at it!” warned Mac.

“But I feel that I must!” said Sam.

“No, don’t do it!” urged Mac.

“I can’t help it!” wailed Sam.

“Ow!”

“Well,” said Mac, “I warned you.”

“That western sunset is awfully bright,” said Sam.

“Oh,” said Eddie. “You noticed.”

And then the rumbling dark form pulled up alongside them, and they saw that it was the biggest black station wagon-type vehicle that they had ever seen. What is more, they could see that the rear compartment was filled with sixteen neatly-stacked caskets.

The driver of the vehicle turned off the engine, opened the door, climbed out and waved. “Howdy,” said the driver. “Remember me? I used to be the Strange Peddler.”

Some of the travelers remembered, and some couldn’t recall any direct experience, but everyone had at least heard of the Strange Peddler, and so they greeted him cheerfully.

“Were are you headed?” asked the Stranger Peddler. “Mars?”

“Why yes,” said Lady Artifice, “that’s it exactly!”

“How did you know?” asked Eddie.

“Oh, the usual business of reading the chapter heading while I was driving by,” said the Strange Peddler. “They don’t make roadside signs the way they used to, so I get pretty starved for diversion. Now, who wants a free ride to Mars?”

“I do!” said Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam.

“That would be wonderful,” said Mac.

“So kind of you to offer,” said Lady Artifice.

“Count me in,” said Eddie.

Open Mike just grinned and nodded. He was used to walking long distances all by himself and he was not concerned with getting in his bit of dialogue.

“That’s quite a big wagon you have there,” said Mac, “but are you sure there’s enough room?”

“Why sure,” said the Strange Peddler. “Each one of these caskets has a button I can push which makes the lower part slide out like a drawer. They’re nice and padded inside, and I can leave the drawer open a crack so everyone can breathe. The interior of the wagon itself is climate- controlled, so everyone can travel in comfort, as long as they don’t mind lying down during the trip.”

Red had a nervous thought.

“Are you already carrying any passengers?” he whispered.

“Not a soul,” laughed the Strange Peddler. Then he corrected himself, and added “And no bodies, either.”

“Are you sure you can get to Mars in this rig?” asked Eddie. “Without a doubt!” said the Strange Peddler. “This is a special wagon, engineered to travel great distances, and entirely capable of interplanetary travel. It’s sleek, fast, aerodynamic, and the black exterior helps absorb all available heat during the trip through space.”

“It’s definitely got style,” said Mac. “Just the sort of vehicle one should use to carry caskets through space.”

“That’s why it’s got a special name,” said the Peddler. “I call it ‘The Grim Leaper’.”

“What a terrible thing to call a hearse,” said Open Mike.

“I should have kept on not paying attention,” said Sam.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” asked Eddie. “Let’s go to Mars.”

And so the Strange Peddler opened the back of the Grim Leaper, and pushed the buttons on fifteen of the sixteen caskets, and everyone got in. That is, everyone got in except for the Strange Peddler, who explained that he still had to drive, so the sixteenth casket remained unopened in case anyone was counting. Some readers might look for great significance in the presence of an unoccupied sixteenth casket, and some editors and publishers might be critical of such a casket if there wasn’t some sort of dramatic payoff later on. However, these are often the same people who complain about a lack of realism in storytelling, so it’s time to point out some pertinent facts:

First, in a great big oversized black hearse capable of interplanetary travel, sixteen caskets stack nice and evenly, four caskets across and four caskets high. Fifteen caskets could stacked evenly with thee caskets across and five caskets high, but it would make for a tallish and less aerodynamic structure. Trying to stack fifteen caskets evenly with five caskets across and three caskets high would require narrower caskets, and most travelers would need to be folded over in a way that most readers prefer not to contemplate. Twelve caskets would not be enough for each of the travelers to have their own private casket, and the prospect of leaving somebody out or compelling somebody to share would probably result in hurt feelings.

Second, it is a fact that leftovers exist in real life. Even the guests of shoppers fortunate enough to find packages of hot dogs that contain the same quantity as the packages of hot dog buns sometimes fail to consume all of the prepared meal, and sometimes there is one in the gathering who prefers to consume their hot dog naked. For those readers entertaining visions of a barbecue in a nudist colony, the word “naked” can be replaced with the more technical term, “unbunned”. What a difference a word makes.

Finally, it isn’t easy being an Overly Busy Narrator, having to make all the decisions about how many caskets to include, and whether or not to even consider the possibility that identical quantities of hot dogs and hot dog buns can be acquired, and how many pertinent facts need to be trotted out to deflect the anticipated negative reaction to some aspect of the story without having to challenge the readers and editors and publishers by demanding to know just how many great big oversized black hearses capable of interplanetary travel they themselves have ever driven, not just for a test-drive, but for an actual trip to Mars. You just try it sometime.

It could be admitted that the aforegoing digression might have been better fitted in had the Stranger Peddler actually turned on the engine of the “Grim Leaper” and started on the journey before the digression began. The digression would have provided the illusion of passing the time required for the journey from Earth to Mars. Let us interrupt the digression long enough for that to occur.

The Strange Peddler closed the back of the hearse, climbed back into the driver’s seat, made sure that his posture was comfortable, checked his rear-view mirror, checked his side-mirrors, made sure that his seat-belt and shoulder-harness were securely fastened, turned on the engine, scanned the control panel carefully to make sure that there were no visible indicators of malfunction or a shortage of fuel, and wondered how he ever managed to actually go anywhere.

Then he drove to Mars.

So there. 61. On Mars

The Strange Peddler stopped the hearse, climbed out, and opened the back hatch.

Then he pressed the buttons on fifteen of the caskets, and they opened up, and the travelers got out.

“I would like to take this occasion to repeat a line from my childhood,” said Open Mike.

“Go ahead,” said Eddie.

“Are we there yet?” said Open Mike.

“Yes,” said the Strange Peddler, “we’re there.”

“Or here, anyway,” said Mac.

The travelers looked around them, and they saw that they were inside a very large rectangular room. The walls and ceiling were of a dark, reddish color. So was the floor. There was a tall white canvas in front of the hearse, and this was illuminated by the headlights which were turned on.

“Is this really Mars?” asked Eddie.

“Yes,” said the Strange Peddler. “We’re in a pressurized room just below the surface. The room also has oxygen and is heated and pressurized, and that’s why you can breathe.”

“It still feels a little strange,” said Open Mike.

“That’s because the climate control isn’t perfect,” said The Strange Peddler. “The heating is only good for about sixty degrees Fahrenheit, the gravity is only about thirty-eight percent of what you’re used to, and the atmosphere is about 80%. It’s cheaper at those levels while still being fairly comfortable.”

Eddie tried bouncing around a little, but he soon stopped.

“I get it,” he said, “the lighter gravity makes it easier to move, so I don’t need to breathe as much, but I still get tired after awhile. It kind of balances out.”

“Something like that,” said the Peddler. “Let’s eat.”

“Where can we get pancakes around here?” said Mac.

“What?” asked the Peddler. “Didn’t you bring the pancakes with you?” “I just remembered a saying from my childhood,” said Open Mike, “and it seems appropriate in our situation.”

“Go ahead,” said Mac.

“You should have thought of that before we left,” said Open Mike.

“Nuts,” said Eddie.

“Do you have any food in the hearse?” asked Mac.

“Not really,” said the Strange Peddler, “I brought a thermos of coffee and a sandwich for the drive, but I ate it on the way here. I have about half of a cheese Danish, but that’s for the return trip. I’m sorry, but since my passengers are almost always in caskets, I don’t figure on providing them with refreshments.”

“I guess it’s their funeral,” said Open Mike.

“Good one,” said Eddie.

“So what is there to do around here?” asked Mac.

“Not much,” said the Peddler. “It’s more like an indoor picnic than an amusement park.”

“So why do you come here?” asked Eddie.

“To make money,” said the Peddler.

“But how can you make money on a place with no food and nothing to do?” asked Mac.

“Well,” said the Peddler, “do you remember that I said that the ride to Mars was free?”

“Yes,” said Mac.

“Well,” said the Peddler, “the trip back is usually kind of expensive.”

“Do you mean to say that you extort money from travelers?” asked Lady Artifice.

“Of course not!” said the Strange Peddler. “They just take a second look at all the caskets, and then they get real generous. I’ve never even had to present anyone with a bill.”

Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam exchanged nervous glances. “We’re just a bunch of handsome chorus boys,” they said. “We don’t carry a lot of money.”

“That’s all right,” said the Peddler, “I’ll settle for twenty-five percent of whatever you’re carrying. And, by the way, I thought that Ned’s nervous glance was the best.”

“Twenty-five percent?” said Mac. “I guess I can live with that.”

“That’s what they usually say,” said the Peddler. “Now, who wants to eat?”

“I thought you said there was no food here,” said Eddie.

“There isn’t,” said the Peddler, “but Mac knows a place that delivers.”

“I can’t reach them from here,” said Mac.

“I can,” said the Peddler. “Do you want me to place the order under your name?”

“Well,” said Mac, “I invited everyone to pancakes on Mars, so I guess I’d better follow through. Go ahead.”

The Peddler reached into the cab of the hearse and drew out an oddly-shaped microphone on a curled cord. Speaking into the mic, he ordered seventeen servings of the special, including an appetite.

The white canvas began glowing blue.

Soon the entire room was bathed in a bright blue light.

Then the blue light faded again, and Wendy emerged from behind the canvas, wheeling a very large tray containing pancakes, butter, syrup, and several different kinds of drinks. There was also a stack of plates and plenty of silverware.

“Be careful,” said Wendy, “we don’t have extra napkins.”

And so Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam all sat down on the dark red floor, and they were joined by Eddie, Mac, Open Mike, Lady Artifice and the Strange Peddler.

“That makes sixteen of us,” said Mac. “Why is there a seventeenth serving?”

“It must be for Wendy,” said Eddie.

“That’s right,” said Wendy. “I’m the Appetite. Making a delivery from Earth to Mars works up a pretty good hunger.” 62. A Special Occasion

They were really enjoying their meal.

“This is great,” said Eddie. “Say, Lady A, I didn’t know you ate pancakes.”

“I do,” said Lady Artifice, “but only on special occasions.”

“So what’s the special occasion?” asked Eddie.

“Me,” said Lady Artifice, “eating pancakes.” 63. All Good Things

The pancake meal was finished, and Wendy cleared the dishes away and disappeared behind the white canvas which glowed blue again, and then faded back to white.

“We’d better be getting back,” said the Strange Peddler, “before the next group arrives.”

“The next group?” asked Mac. “Who would that be?”

“It’s a wild bunch from various planets,” said the Peddler, “all devotees of Sirius, the Dog Star. I call them ‘The Mongrel Horde’.”

“What a terrible thing to call a horde,” said Open Mike.

“They pretty much deserve it,” said the Peddler. “They’re loud, they chase each other around, and someone always has to clean up after them.”

“Then I guess it really is time to leave,” said Mac. “Can you take us back to East 333rd Street?”

“Sure,” said the Peddler, and so everyone got back inside The Grim Leaper and returned to Earth.

“Just like that?” said someone.

Just like that, said The Overly Busy Narrator.

“Didn’t everyone age considerably over the course of the long trip?” asked someone.

Nope, said The Overly Busy Narrator, it was just like that.

“What about all the science and technology required?” insisted someone.

The Grim Leaper was a special kind of hearse, ideally suited to such a journey.

“What was it made of?” asked someone.

All Good Things, said The Overly Busy Narrator. 64. The Swell Hotel

“So, this is 333rd Street,” said Open Mike. “Is it West, East, North, or South?”

“Actually,” said Mac, “we’re at the intersection, so it’s all four.”

“Wow!” said Open Mike. “It’s just like in the old song!”

“What?” said Eddie. “I don’t remember a song about 333rd Street.”

“It might have been before your time,” said Open Mike, “back when I was just a kid.”

“I’ll bite,” said Mac. “How does it go?”

“It’s kind of like Talking Blues,” said Open Mike, “only without the Blues:

There’s a place in town I know quite well It’s my favorite spot: The Swell Hotel.

To register, Just ring the bell, Or give them a call from your phone or cell.

Their flowers give off A pleasant smell, And the concierge’s Name is Nell.

The house detective’s name is Mel, (if you misbehave, he’ll never tell).

The chairs are soft, And the beds are swell, So just relax, And rest a spell. It’s a pleasant place In which to dwell, But if you hate rhymes, It’s just like Hell.”

“That song doesn’t even mention 333rd Street,” said Ed.

“It could be anywhere,” said Ted.

“It could even be in a different town,” said Fred.

“Or in a different state,” said Tim.

“Or in a different country,” said Jim.

“On a different planet,” added Sam.

“They used to give away postcards with their name and address,” said Open Mike. “In fact, I’ve got one right here.”

Open Mike handed to postcard to Eddie, who turned a little pale.

“Oh yeah,” said Eddie, “I remember that place.”

“Yep,” said Mac, “it used to be right here.”

“What happened to it?” asked Open Mike.

Eddie, Mac, Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam exchanged glances.

“From what I understand,” said Lady Artifice, “it burned to the ground.” 65. The Shameless Plug

“That’s curious,” said Open Mike. “Did anyone suspect foul play?”

“From what I read in the papers, some chickens were rehearsing a skit in the lounge,” said Mac, “but it was never actually performed, so they were released.”

“Any other leads?”

“Not really,” said Mac. “There was a cartoon horse who had star aspirations, but he was actually only a bit player.”

Eddie spoke up. “I think that they botched the investigation.”

“Really?” said Open Mike. “Who was in charge?”

“The Spleen Police,” said Eddie.

“What a terrible thing to call a force,” said Open Mike.

“That wasn’t their original name,” said Mac, “but some guy wrote a book about the event and that’s the name he gave them.”

A man in a loud plaid suit walked up, and said “Aren’t you going to mention the name of the book?”

“Let’s see,” said Mac. “You know, I don’t actually recall the title.”

“I think it was ‘The Rhyme Cryme’,” said Ben.

“No, it was ‘The Spleen Police’,” said the man in the plaid suit.

“Are you sure?” asked Ed. “I thought it was ‘Edifice Wrecks’.”

“No, it was ‘The Spleen Police’,” said the man in the plaid suit.

“I thought I saw a paperback edition with a different title,” said Tim. “It suggested that the fire was caused by a cleaning woman.”

“What happened?” asked Ned.

“She was supposedly smoking a cigar while refinishing the woodwork,” said Tim, “and the ash fell off and started a fire. I think the title was ‘The Lady Varnishes’.” “That was just a dramatization,” said the man in the plaid suit. “I’m telling you, the real book was ‘The Spleen Police’.”

“Wasn’t there a movie about it?” asked Sam. “I remember a scene about a guy collecting the insurance money and retiring to his own private island. It was called ‘Infernal Revenue’, or something like that.”

“That’s an old one,” said Tom.

“Come to think of it,” said Sam, “I do believe that it was a silent picture, or maybe even a daguerrotype.”

“The. Spleen. Police.” said the man in the plaid suit icily.

“I always thought the whole thing was a publicity stunt,” said Mac.

“What do you mean by that?” demanded the man in the plaid suit.

“It’s just a hunch,” said Mac, “but suppose some frustrated author was trying to publish a lousy crime novel that nobody wanted. Suppose he got so desperate that he decided to stage a real- life disaster to get attention. Suppose he also owned a piece of a cheap hotel that was losing money. Suppose that he decided to insure the joint for three times its value. Suppose the scheme pays off so well that he not only collects the insurance, but also cleans up on book revenues and movie rights. But between the actual fire and the publication of the book, the guy gets nervous, so he does a rewrite blaming everything on the local police.”

“That’s a lot of supposing,” said Eddie.

“Some people will do anything to get into print,” said Mac.

“Hey,” said Sam, “what happened to the guy in the plaid suit?”

Everyone looked around.

The man in the plaid suit was nowhere to be seen.

It seemed like everyone was just wandering around, but they didn’t really wander around.

It was the chapter that was just wandering around with a lot of dialogue and gags that didn’t really pay off. That happens sometimes. Sometimes things just don’t quite coalesce.

Ironically, it was true that the police had botched the investigation, and the fire had nothing to do with arson or flammable liquids or publicity. The real cause was a cheap electric toaster that had poor wiring and a defective wall connection. 66. The Bum Review

“That’s all very interesting,” said Mac, even though it wasn’t, “but now I’m in the mood for some entertainment.”

“Say,” said Open Mike, “I heard about a musical play that’s opening tonight at the Off-Limits Theatre.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” said Eddie.

“I’m not surprised,” said Open Mike. “It’s a strictly amateur venue located in some guy’s basement, and I hear that if you don’t behave, they put you in the cast.”

“It sounds pretty small-time,” said Mac.

“That’s for sure,” said Open Mike. “It’s so small-time that an audience of 6 has to be standing- room only.”

“But that means there won’t be room for us,” said Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam.

“Don’t worry,” said Open Mike, “they’ll just put you in the chorus.”

“I dunno,” said Eddie. “Maybe we could go bowling instead.”

“What a great idea!” said Ben. “I’ll play the part of the headpin!”

“Then I’ll be the two-pin,” said Ned. “I’ll stand just behind Ben, and a little bit to his left.”

“Well, I’m the three-pin,” said Ted, not to be outdone, although he kind of was. “I’ll stand on the other side from Ned, behind Ben, and a little bit to the right.”

“Whoa,” said Ed, “then I’d better hurry up and be the four-pin. I’ll stand behind Ned, only a little bit to his left, so that Ben, Ned, and I make a nice little row.”

“Five-pin for me,” said Fred. “I’ll just hide directly behind Ben.”

“Then I’m the six-pin,” said Red. “I’ll stand opposite Ed, forming a row spanning rightwards consisting of Ben, Ted, and me.”

“What’s left?” said Dan. “Oh, I guess I’ll be the seven-pin. That’s as far left as you can get, anyway.”

“I’ll be the eight-pin,” said Tom. “I’ll hide behind Ned.” “Then I’m the nine-pin,” said Jim. “I’ll hide behind Ted.”

“I’m the ten pin!” said Tim in a hurry. “I’ll be in back, all the way to the right!”

“What now?” asked Mac, a little wearily.

“I guess Eddie’s going to be the bowler,” said Open Mike. “Can I be the opponent?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Mac. “What about Lady Artifice?”

“I think it’s fairly obvious,” said the robot. “After all, somebody has to play the part of the automatic pinsetter.”

“Boy, I sure am glad I got my vote in time to be the ten-pin,” said Tim. “I just feel sorry for poor old Sam, who has nothing left to do.”

“Not likely,” said Sam with a grin. “I’m the ball.”

“Uh-oh,” said Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, and Tim. “Maybe we should go see that musical play after all.”

“Oh, all right,” said Eddie. “I don’t really care.”

So they all went to the Off-Limits Theater.

“Tickets, please,” said the Man Out Front, who was probably just Some Guy.

“What?” said Eddie. “We don’t have any tickets.”

“Oh, never mind,” said the Man Out Front. “I just like to say that. It makes me feel like I’m in the Big Time.”

“How much is admission?” asked Mac.

“Well,” said the Man Out Front, “I can give you the group rate. How many?”

“Let’s see,” said Mac, “there’s me, Eddie, Open Mike, the lady here, and eleven others…that’s fifteen in all.”

“Okay,” said the Man Out Front, “I can let the four of you in for a buck and a quarter each, but there isn’t enough room for the rest of you bums to be in the audience.”

“What?” said Mac. “Only four seats?” “Sorry,” said the Man Out Front. “Six people is normally standing-room-only, but tonight we’ve got a big-time critic sitting in. The other space is for his ego.”

“So what about my other friends here?” said Mac.

“Those bums will have to be in the chorus,” said the Man Out Front.

“That suits us fine!” said Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam.

“See?” said the Man Out Front. “It all works out.”

So Mac paid the five dollar admission, and they all went into the Off-Limits Theatre.

“What a nice, homey lobby you have,” said Lady Artifice.

“It’s my living room,” said the Man Out Front, who was leading the way, and was, therefore, still entitled to be referred to as the Man Out Front. “The actual theater is downstairs.”

So they all went downstairs. Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam got up on the small stage and stood at the back. Then Eddie, Mac, Open Mike and Lady Artifice all stood in the audience section behind the two empty chairs reserved for the Big-Time Critic and His Ego. Finally, the Man Out Front climbed up on the stage and addressed the audience.

“Thank you for attending our show,” he said. “It’s a musical called ‘Five and Ten’, and I’m the star. It’s the story of a guy whose only problem is that he’s five feet, ten inches tall. It’s kind of hard to get a two-hour show out of a problem like that, so I’ll need a little help from the audience. I’ll also need some help from the chorus. I’ll especially need all the help I can get from the critics, because there just isn’t a whole lot of drama in this story, you know? Anyway, this guy is trying to find true love on the internet. He’s an honest guy, so he says right up front that he’s only five-foot ten, but that’s not enough to make him a hero or anything. Anyway, let’s see what we can do with it. The first scene takes place in the guy’s basement.”

There was a slight rustling noise from the entrance, and the Big-Time Critic walked in. He sat in the chair reserved for him and propped up his feet in the chair reserved for His Ego.

The Man Out Front walked over to the left side of the stage, and dragged out a wooden chair with a scraping noise. Then he walked over to the right side of the stage, and carried on a small laptop computer which didn’t make any noise at all. Then he sat in the chair facing the audience, put the laptop in his lap, and said:

“From now on I will be playing the character known as Five-and-Ten.”

Behind him, the chorus suddenly began to sing: “He’s playing a guy called Five-and Ten, Don’t call him ‘Man Out Front’ again, You’re going to watch him in his chair, ‘cause he’s up here and you’re out there.”

“Yes,” said Five-and Ten, “the people call me Five-and-Ten. That’s my nickname and my curse. But it wasn’t always that way. At least, it didn’t seem that way to me…

When I was a baby, I was my proper size, But then the world began to shrink Right before my eyes, I ate my fruits and vegetables, And all that other stuff, And the world just kept on shrinking, But it didn’t shrink enough.

Some people might say that the world wasn’t shrinking; it was actually me growing. Some other people might say that the world really was shrinking around me…but those other people are idiots. Of course I was growing! Forget all that philosophical stuff, I was growing! No, really! My earliest memories have me being about two feet tall or something, and toddling around and playing with things, and then I’d have dinner, and they’d tell me to eat something so I would grow. Believe me, I knew about growing from a very early age. By the time I was five, I had a pretty good handle on it: I remember telling my friends how it works: you eat, you wait awhile, and you get bigger. That’s the way it works! When I said earlier that when I was a baby I was my proper size, I meant that I was the proper size for a baby! It’s not like I was going to stay at baby-size for my while life or anything! I mean, get real!

Sorry, I get a little excited sometimes.

It just bugs me, that’s all.

Anyway, over the years, I got bigger. It wasn’t just me. All the other kids were doing it. I know that’s no justification, and I’m not saying that they talked me into it. It just happened that way.”

Then the chorus broke in:

“This would be a good time To sing another song It seems to us this monologue Is going on too long.” Five-and Ten was silent for a moment, as he seemed to be trying to master himself. Then he sang:

“Hey, I’m Five-Foot-Ten, Don’t make me say it again,

I’m no six-footer But I’m still a straight-shooter And I sit real tall When I’m at my computer Far into the night, And Five-and-Ten’s my nickname ‘cause Five-Foot-Ten’s my height.”

Then an older man walked onto the stage.

“What are you still doing down here?” he yelled.

“Jeez, Dad,” said Five-and-Ten. “Don’t holler. I’m going to go on the Internet to find True Love.”

“So what are you doing sitting here in the basement?” said his father. “Get going already! When I was your age, I had to walk everywhere. They didn’t have the subway or the bus service, so I walked! Yes, walked! I walked to school, I walked home, I walked to the store, I walked back home again, I walked upstairs, I walked downstairs, I walked to the dinner-table, I walked to bed, and sometimes I walked in my sleep!”

“The Internet doesn’t work that way,” said Five-and-Ten.

“Oh, here we go again,” said his father. “You know there’s no such thing!”

“Sure there is,” protested Five-and-Ten. “Just take a look at this screen---“

“You and your pictures in a box!” said the father. “I told you before: you’ll never get anywhere just sitting in the basement playing goofy games! Walking, that’s the only way to get around in the world. That’s what your mother would tell you if she were here--”

“Do you have to keep bringing her into things?” said Five-and-Ten.

“There’s nothing wrong with that!” insisted the father. “Every boy has a mother, or something like that. I forget the exact saying, but if she were here—“

“Don’t make me come down there,” called a female voice from offstage.

Both men were quiet for a moment, and then the argument resumed in whispers. “Sitting indoors all the time! You’ll stunt your growth!”

“Dad, I’m twenty-two already! I got no more growth to stunt!”

“That’s quitter-talk! You just aren’t trying!”

“So what happened to you, Mister Five-Foot-Nine-and-a Half?”

“Stop talking nonsense! You know perfectly well that I’m a full three cubits, and proud of it!”

“Counting by whose cubits?”

“Your mother’s cubits, I’ll have you know! The night we met, she told me she always wanted a man three cubits tall, and if I hadn’t measured up, you wouldn’t even be here!”

And the father launched into a song of his own:

“Cubits and spans, cubits and spans, If you want to build you must follow the plans, Life is a treasure, but take it in measure, Cubits and spans for me.”

“But that old stuff is out of style,” protested Five-and-Ten. “Everyone’s using feet and inches now—“

“Feet and inches, he says!” said the father. “Feet and inches! Listen, Smart Guy, inches are for worms and feet are for walking. That’s why you got heels instead of wheels!”

“You never did learn to drive…” muttered Five-and-Ten.

“Heels instead of wheels, I say!” said the older man as he stormed off.

“Now,” said Five-and Ten, “where was I?”

And so Five-and-Ten began typing away at his laptop, and then he poked at it, and then he typed some more. Out in the audience, Eddie looked at Mac, and Mac looked at Eddie, and Open Mike looked at Lady Artifice, and Lady Artifice kept looking attentively at the stage, then Open Mike looked at Mac, and Mac looked at Eddie, and Eddie looked at Mac, and then Eddie just kind of shrugged, and Five-and-Ten just kept right on typing.

Finally, Five-and-Ten stopped typing, and his eyes widened.

The chorus chimed in: “He’s got a response! He’s got a response! It could be from England, Or maybe from Fronce! Or maybe from Denmark Or Norway or Greece, But it seems to be coming From overseece!”

“Overseece?” whispered Eddie to Mac.

“They mean ‘overseas’,” whispered Mac back to Eddie.

“Yeah,” whispered Eddie. “I know. But, seriously, ‘overseece?’”

“I guess that must be where Fronce is,” whispered Open Mike.

Lady Artifice said nothing, but continued to look attentively at the stage.

“Gee,” said Five-and-Ten, “it’s a response from a lady overseas.”

“We just said that,” said the chorus in unison.

“She says that she doesn’t mind that I’m only five-foot-ten.”

“What a nice lady,” said the chorus.

“She says she doesn’t know how tall five-foot-ten is.”

“What a dumb lady,” said the chorus.

“She says she uses the metric system.”

“Oh,” said the chorus.

Then the chorus suddenly sprang into action and tried to close the first half of the show with a big production number called “Centimeters”.

There were some problems.

First, the tune sounded suspiciously like the 1943 song “Oklahoma”. Second, when they tried to do a big dance sequence while scooting around seated in swivel chairs, they ran out of room on the tiny stage, and several of them fell off, crashing into each other, swivel chairs and all, and ending up with cuts and bruises on the concrete floor.

Then Five-and-Ten looked up and said “Intermission.”

Out in the audience, Eddie looked at Mac, and Mac looked at Eddie, and Open Mike looked at Lady Artifice, and Lady Artifice kept looking attentively at the stage, then Open Mike looked at Mac, and Mac looked at Eddie, and Eddie looked at Mac, and then Eddie said “Let’s get outta here.”

“Wait,” said Five-and-Ten, “There’s more. Act 2 opens with a pleasant-sounding number called ‘Slouch a Little, Darling, When You Walk with Me’, and then there’s a complication when I send out for pizza and it arrives two minutes late but the delivery guy wants to charge me full price anyway because my Dad stopped him in the living room and made the guy open up the box to see the pizza and then Dad got mad because the pizza is shaped like a wheel. And then there’s a sad song about pizza and wheels and deliveries and credit cards and loose change inside the sofa. And then I notice that the pizza delivery guy is wearing something called ‘Elevator Shoes’, which leads into the big finale where I get to jump up and down a little.”

“We’ll take your word for it,” said Mac.

“I’d rather be a bowling pin,” said Fred as he got up from the floor. “It’s safer.”

And so Eddie, Mac, Open Mike, Lady Artifice, Ben, Ned, Ted, Ed, Fred, Red, Dan, Tom, Jim, Tim, and Sam all left the Off-Limits Theater, and Five-and-Ten turned to the Big-Time Critic, who was still in his chair with his feet propped up.

“Whaddya think?” asked Five-and-Ten hopefully.

But the Big-Time Critic didn’t say anything.

He was dead. 67. The Old Man Who Became A Little Girl.

No. Just no. Don’t be silly. 68. Sometimes

Sometimes it seems like the middle of the night, Sometimes it seems like the middle of the day, And sometimes it seems like the middle of the night in the middle of the day.

And I hear all the voices talking and talking But they’re not talking to me They’re never talking to me And they haven’t been talking to me for a long, long time.

The candles are going out one by one, Like so many stars disappearing in the sky…

Sometimes it seems like the middle of the night, Sometimes it seems like the middle of the night, And sometimes it seems like the middle of the night in the middle of the night.

The voices are talking and talking again But they’re not talking to me They’re still not talking to me And they haven’t been talking to me for a long, long time.

And the stars are going out one by one, Like so many candles disappearing in the dark…

And the voices are talking and talking again But I know they’re not talking to me They’re still not talking to me And they haven’t been talking to me for a long, long time. 69. Greetings from Planet Dave

If no man is an island, Then every man’s a planet, The same is true for women, (that came from Planet Janet)

The question is of scale And proximity, I guess, Each man is in a system, Each man is in a mess

And every man’s a genius, And every man’s a fool, Or else a piece of poetry Or else a molecule

And every man is winter And every man is spring, But when you really think it through It doesn’t mean a thing. 70. Slouch a Little, Darling, When You Walk with Me

Slouch a little, Darling, when you walk with me, For I’m as much in love with you as I can be, But when we’re out together where the folks can see, Slouch a little, Darling, when you walk with me.

It’s not that I’m concerned about my height, I don’t believe it matters, but some folks might, I know that it seems trivial today, But someday it might matter what the people say.

So slouch a little, Darling, when you walk with me, For I’m as much in love with you as I can be, But when we’re out together where the folks can see, Slouch a little, Darling, when you walk with me.

You know that I would take you with me anywhere, But it’s a bit uncomfortable when people start to stare, And even if they don’t, that’s how it feels, Especially when you are wearing heels.

So slouch a little, Darling, when you walk with me, For I’m as much in love with you as I can be, But when we’re out together where the folks can see, Slouch a little, Darling, when you walk with me.

I’ve love to take you all around the town, If only we could do it sitting down…

Slouch a little, Darling, when you walk with me, For I’m as much in love with you as I can be, But when we’re out together where the folks can see, Slouch a little, Darling, when you walk with me. 71. Another Fake Fairy Tale, Part 1

Once upon a time there was a middle-aged man named Eddie.

This may not sound like the beginning of your standard fairy-tale, but remember, this is a fake fairy-tale, so pray be indulgent.

I could have started out with Eddie being a little boy, but then there would be all that tedious waiting-around until he grew up, or I’d have to send him out into the world before he was ready, and then it would either be a very different sort of fake fairy-tale, or it would louse up the other stories already written about Eddie, because yes, it’s the same Eddie from all those other stories, and it’s easier to just kind of fit this story somewhere along the way than to kill him off (again) and have him start all over or something like that.

Anyway, as you may recall, Eddie had a friend named Mac, but, as our particular story begins, Mac was off doing something else.

Something else? Other than what?

You may well ask, but I don’t really know, or I haven’t decided, or I don’t care, and it probably doesn’t matter, and you may indeed well ask, but if you keep asking too many questions about this sort of thing it’s going to make the story take much longer than otherwise, although that might not be such a bad thing because we’re only about 34,000 words in and a little more verbiage might come in handy in lieu of actually coming up with anything really creative.

Yeah, so Mac was off doing something else.

And the Queen had a magic mirror, and every day she would ask it who was the fairest in the land, and the mirror would always say, “You are”, partly because the question was somewhat ambiguous, for the word “fairest” could be construed to mean either “light-skinned”, or “balanced in judgement”, or even “having a quality somewhere between good and poor”, as if the Queen was something in somebody’s coin collection, and also because the mirror had concluded that this particular answer seemed to satisfy the Queen, thus assuring that the mirror would not get thrown out or returned to the manufacturer as “defective”.

Actually, the Queen was nothing special, apart from being a queen. As for her appearance, she was all right, as queens go: not particularly frumpy, not unduly gaunt or angular. She didn’t look like a movie star or the winner of a beauty pageant, but most people don’t expect that sort of thing in a queen anyway. She had a dignified, regal sort of appearance, especially when she was all decked out in the royal robes and the crown and everything, and if you had permed and blow-dried her hair, and slapped on some heavy make-up and eyeliner there’s no telling what you might have ended up with, but the result probably wouldn’t have been what most people think of as queenly, and any thoughts about the swimsuit competition can be similarly dismissed, although she didn’t have any inappropriate tattoos, so at least that wouldn’t have been a deal-killer.

What’s all this about a queen?

You may well ask, at the risk of further dilating the telling of the story.

The Queen is where the fairy-tale part comes in. It seems that there are an awful lot of fairy- tales that have queens, so it seemed like a good idea to have a queen in this one. Of course, some fairy-tales have kings, and some have princes, and some have princesses, so there’s usually some kind of royalty stuck in there somewhere. It might have something to do with being able to afford a magic mirror. I don’t know: maybe you could have a story in which there was a real-estate agent who sold a house which came with a magic mirror and the buyer said that they already had their own magic mirror and agreed to let the real estate agent have the other magic mirror in lieu of commission, but I don’t know if the real-estate agent would have gone for that kind of a deal. I mean, the tax consequences alone would have been a puzzler unless you had a special blue book with which to determine the fair market value of a magic mirror, presumably a used one.

Plus, the nice thing about a commission is that you can take it to the bank.

The banker in this story would have had no interest in a magic mirror, because he already believed that he was the fairest one of all: after all, his interest rates were competitive, and he gave away free lollipops. That’s pretty fair, isn’t it? Not terribly generous, but fair.

Some fairy-tales also have frogs in them. That might be overstating it a bit. Maybe one fairy- tale, and one frog, but the frog didn’t have a magic mirror either, which hardly seems fair, but then the magic mirror never says anything about whether or not the fairy-tale itself is fair, just the queen. It occurs to me that the magic mirror might talk to other people as well, like the king or the knave or the guy who occasionally cleans off the mirror, to whom it might say “Ow! Hey, that’s my magic eye, ya know!” or something like that.

Magic things are also handy in fairy-tales. Magic mirrors, magic wishing-wells, magic spinning- wheels, magic rings. Also enchanted things, usually cottages. Not sure about the distinction between magic things and enchanted things. Maybe it’s a Real Estate thing.

Come to think of it, the one thing that every fairy-tale ought to be required to have is at least one fairy. Sorry, but having a witch is not sufficient. That would just be a Witch-Tale, or something like that. You could make a case for having an all-fairy cast of characters if you really wanted it to be a pure fairy-tale, but that might be overdoing it, like having a love story in which absolutely everyone was in love with everyone else. I think that there are stories like that, but they are more like orgies. Or a crime drama in which absolutely everyone was a criminal. The dialogue would go something like this: “Cheese it, here come the criminals!”

“I thought we were the criminals!”

“We are, what I mean is cheese it, here come the other criminals!”

“I wish I was in a fairy tale instead!”

“Idiot! You left out the hyphen!”

“The hyphen is optional, and probably quite unnecessary!”

“That’s funny, you don’t talk like a criminal!”

“I know! That’s why I’d rather be in a fairy tale! For that matter, I’d settle for a good omelette!”

…provided it was a cheese omelette, of course. If it was just an egg-and-bacon omelette it wouldn’t work, even if it was a Royal egg-and-bacon omelette or a Magic egg-and-bacon omelette or even a Fairy egg-and-bacon omelette. Being a writer is trickier than you’d think.

Anyway, since this is supposed to be a fake fairy-tale, maybe there should be a fairy in it. On the other hand, maybe a fake fairy would be good enough.

It seems that there was also this fairy who may have been a fake fairy, but who may actually have been a real fairy, depending on How Things Go. Yeah, that’s it, only she was more like a magical winged lady all in blue, and we’ll get around to her later. We’ll leave her waiting in the wings, or her wings, to be exact.

So then the queen sent out her royal axe-man to go into the woods and chop off the heads of whatever girls he could get, just to be on the safe side, but the royal axe-man was only five feet, ten inches tall, so he couldn’t get any girls. Besides which, he was a very tender-hearted royal axe-man who couldn’t even bear to chop down trees because he had sympathy with every living thing. He was very conflicted and confused, and sometimes he referred to his axe as an electric guitar, but even then he couldn’t get any girls.

So then Eddie the middle-aged man tried to read a fake fairy-tale with an exposition like this one, and it caused him to fall into a deep sleep. 72. Another Fake Fairy Tale, Part 2

It seems that Eddie was sitting at the foot of a nice, shady tree when he fell asleep, and the nice, shady tree was on the top of a tall hill, so that when Eddie fell asleep, he also fell over and rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled down the hill, and all this rolling caused him to build up considerable momentum, and so he rolled all the way deep into a nearby forest that I just now decided to put there, partially so that the tree at the top of the hill wouldn’t feel too lonely, but also because a lot of fairy-tales have things happen deep in a forest. You don’t usually get a lot of fairy action at the edge of a forest, especially if you’re only five feet, ten inches tall.

And the royal axe-man didn’t see Eddie rolling deep into the forest because the royal axe-man had been sent to the woods, which is apparently a different place from the forest, and I can’t think of anything else for the royal axe-man to do right now, so I’m just going to leave him in the woods. Maybe he can win a bet about the habits of bears or something.

It just occurred to me that, in the valuation of a magic mirror for tax purposes, you wouldn’t use the fair market value: you would use the fairy-market value.

It’s a fair question. However, it’s not a fare question.

A fare question would be something like “What is the price of a fare to take the train to Binkford?”, and the answer would be something like “Nothing! It goes there all by itself!”

So anyway, Eddie rolled all the way deep into the forest while he was still asleep, and he didn’t even wake up when he bumped up against a log-bench near a stream in a clearing in which there stood a curious little cabin in the middle of the clearing in the middle of the deep, dark forest. Either he didn’t wake up or he bumped his head against the log bench and fell asleep again. It was a long way down from the hilltop, and the forest was dark, and I didn’t get a very good look at it, and I wasn’t really paying that much attention.

But even though Eddie was still asleep, he had a dream about the curious little cabin.

Eddie dreamed that he got up and looked at the curious little cabin. The thing that Eddie found curious about the cabin was that it was pink, which was rather an unusual color for a little cabin in the middle of the deep, dark forest. Not that it was entirely pink; the trim was a deeper shade, almost magenta, and there was a little welcome mat by the front door that had white fringe. The outside of the cabin walls were decorated with sparkly white designs almost like lace, and there were two little windows on either side of the door with red curtains with white bows. The front door, oddly enough, retained the color of the original wood, although it had been well-varnished and polished, and it had a warm, pale tan sort of color punctuated by the darker hues of the wood grain.

In the dream, Eddie knocked on the door, but there was no answer. The door simply swung open to reveal the interior of the cabin. It seemed to be somewhat larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside, but remember that Eddie was still dreaming and that this is still a fake fairy-tale. The first room had a nice red carpet in the middle, a few wooden stools, and several musical instruments hanging on the walls. There were two guitars, a flute, an accordion, and a violin. Elsewhere in the room were more instruments: some drums, a couple of tambourines, a small reed-organ, and a bass-fiddle.

Beyond the front room, Eddie could glimpse a simple kitchen with a table surrounded by seven wooden chairs, and there was a doorway off to the side, but Eddie couldn’t tell where it led.

There was also a set of wooden stairs leading upstairs to a second floor. The steps themselves were just wooden planks, but they were sturdily made, and each plank was carpeted. Upon climbing the stairs, Eddie found himself in a large single room containing seven comfortable- looking beds of fairly normal size, each with a pillow and a nice bedspread. Each pillowcase and bedspread was a different color of the rainbow, and each was embroidered with a name: Annabell, Flowerbell, Lulubell, Dinnerbell, Servicebell, Dingdongbell, and Lady A.

Eddie puzzled over the names on the beds, but he did not suddenly decide that he was weary and wanting to take a nap; instead, he went over to the window at the far side of the room, and looked out the back of the house. From that window he could see a little wishing-well, and a clothesline containing lingerie in various colors of the rainbow, apparently drying in the sunbeam that shone through a break in the forest canopy. Upon seeing this, it occurred to Eddie that he was in someone else’s private place, so he crept back downstairs and out the front door of the house, carefully closing the door behind him.

Even in his dreams, Eddie was essentially polite. He sat down on the log bench and wondered if it was even appropriate for him to be taking advantage of the comfortable seating. He did not set about tidying up anything, or repairing anything, or trying to spruce up anything because everything at the little cabin appeared to be in perfect order. He didn’t even think of looking around for a shovel with which to dig a man-cave, and he didn’t consider building a work-shed on either side of the cabin to give the place “a man’s touch”. It didn’t occur to him to try to change someone else’s residence to suit his tastes. He just left well enough alone.

Of course, he didn’t really have any tastes to speak of: he was accustomed to waking up staring at a ceiling fan in a little office on West 333rd Street, so he hadn’t given any recent thought to décor. All he could think about was lying flat on his back, looking up at the ceiling, and watching the fan go around, and around, and around, and around, and around…

While Eddie thought he was thinking about lying flat on his back in his office as he sat on a wooden bench in the middle of the deep, dark forest, he was actually still fast asleep, lying on the ground beside a wooden bench in the middle of the deep, dark forest.

And, yes, there really was a curious little cabin all pink and sparkly, and yes, there really was a room inside with many musical instruments, and yes, there really were seven comfortable beds on the second floor, and yes, there really was a little wishing-well in the backyard, and yes, there really was a clothesline with drying lingerie in all the colors of the rainbow, so, as dreams go, Eddie’s dream was pretty close.

One significant thing is that there were no glass-works of any kind, no big furnace or bellows or other glass-blowing equipment anywhere in the area. Try to bear that in mind.

Meanwhile, it seems that Six Pretty Girls were on their way home from their day jobs, accompanied by another lady of flawless appearance but curiously unconvincing manner. They were walking together through the deep, dark forest as they usually did, conversing politely. They had no fear of encountering the royal axe-man because he was off in the woods somewhere else, having received a follow-up note from the Queen which said that he wouldn’t have to cut off anyone’s head after all because it was a stupid idea. Also, the day jobs of the Six Pretty Girls were all located in the town of Binkford, which was on the far side of the forest from the Queen’s castle. They had no concerns over the magic mirror either, partly because the mirror just kept on telling the Queen what she wanted to hear, and partly because they had a tax arrangement with the town of Binkford to have deductions from their wages taken at their workplace, which was outside of the Queen’s domain, and the magic mirror didn’t figure into any of their calculations. Their savings were also located outside of the Queen’s domain in a financial institution which had a big sign in front and fancy letterhead stationery, all of which identified it as the FIRST NATIONAL BINK OF BANKFORD, which everyone pretended not to notice.

Finally, the Six Pretty Girls owned their cabin and the surrounding property outright, free and clear, with no outstanding mortgage or financial encumbrance of any kind, and they were not subject to property taxes or utilities or other assessments, all of which proves that this really is a fairy-tale, even if it’s fake.

Lady A didn’t own a share of the cabin, but everyone figured that, with a name like Lady A, she was obviously titled and was therefore allowed to do whatever she pleased, which she did, and it never occurred to anyone to ask any questions. Not even the Queen.

And so the Six Pretty Girls walked through the deep, dark forest with Lady A, and they talked pleasantly about their hopes and wishes and dreams of someday being able to quit their day jobs and entertain full-time.

“What you girls need,” suggested Lady A, “is a good agent.”

“What does an agent look like?” asked Annabelle, the Little Pretty Girl.

“It varies,” replied Lady A, “but they usually wear a fedora hat and a trench-coat.” 73. Another Fake Fairy Tale, Part 3

“That’s funny,” said Dinnerbell, the Gentle Pretty Girl. “I thought that Flowerbell was our agent.”

“No,” said Flowerbelle, the Gracious Pretty Girl, “I’m more like a producer-director.”

“Well then,” said Lulubell, the Tall Pretty Girl, “what about Lady A?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Dingdongbell, the Crazy Pretty Girl. “Lady A couldn’t possibly be an agent.”

“Why not?” asked Servicebell, the Cheerful Pretty Girl. “She’s wonderfully clever.”

“But she doesn’t wear a fedora hat and a trench-coat,” said Dingdongbell.

“Well,” said Dinnerbell, “I guess that settles it. We need an agent.”

“Maybe we just need to get a fedora hat and a trench-coat for Lady A,” suggested Dingdongbell.

“I’m afraid that there’s more to being an agent than just wearing a fedora hat and a trench- coat,” said Lady A.

“Like what?” asked Dingdongbell.

“I don’t know,” replied Lady A. “I’m not an agent. I’m just a friend of the band.”

And that was the point at which the Six Pretty Girls and Lady came into the clearing where their little cabin was situated.

“I’ll go inside and start fixing dinner,” said Lady A.

“I’ll go inside and lay out a fresh tablecloth,” said Annabell.

“I’ll go inside and get out the napkins,” said Flowerbell.

“I’ll go inside and get out the plates,” said Servicebell.

“I’ll go inside and get out the cups,” said Dinnerbell.

“I’ll go inside and get out the silverware,” said Lulubell.

“I think I’ll stay outside and see if I can do anything to advance the plot,” said Dingdongbell. “Good idea,” said Lady A.

So everyone but Dingdongbell went inside to begin their chores, and Dingdongbell looked around to see if there was anything she could do to advance the plot. Then she noticed that the washing on the line had dried, and so she took it all down and put it neatly into a basket. Then she took the basket inside and carried it upstairs to the bedroom for sorting-out. Then she did the sorting-out and put all the clothes away and came back downstairs.

“Did you do anything to advance the plot?” called Lady A from the kitchen.

“Not yet,” said Dingdongbell, and she went back outside.

It was then that she looked out into the front yard and noticed something.

There was a small apple tree in the front yard, and the apples on it had become ripe for picking.

So Dingdongbell fetched a wooden ladder and picked the ripened apples and placed them neatly into a small basket, and brought them into the house.

“Oh, look, apples!” said everyone.

“An apple is like nature’s toothbrush,” said Annabell.

“You don’t usually hear much about toothbrushes in fairy tales,” observed Dinnerbell.

“I see that you placed them neatly into the basket,” said Flowerbell.

“It’s difficult to put apples into a basket sloppily,” said Lulubell.

“I bet I could,” said Dingdongbell, “if I hurled them with sufficient force.”

“That’s true,” said Lady A. “Did you do anything to advance the plot yet?”

“No,” said Dingdongbell. “Anyway, I have to go back outside to put my ladder away.”

And so Dingdongbell went back outside and put the ladder away.

Then Dingdongbell looked around the yard to see if there was anything else she could do that might advance the plot. She couldn’t see anything, so she decided to go and sit on the log bench where she could try to think of something.

But just as she was about to go to the log bench, Lady A came to the door and said “Dinner’s ready.” “But I haven’t done anything to advance the plot yet,” said Dingdongbell.

“Well,” said Lady A, “maybe you can’t advance the plot on an empty stomach. Or maybe it just needs a little more suspense.”

“It that like pepper?” asked Dingdonbell.

“A little bit,” said Lady A.

And so Dingdongbell went into the house and everyone had dinner. 74. Another Fake Fairy Tale, Part 4

After dinner, everyone sat around the table and made their after-dinner wish.

“What an idiotic thing to do,” said Open Mike, who was secretly reading the fake fairy tale from a bench near Smith’s Switch Station, far, far away.

“I don’t know,” said Jennifer. “I think it’s kind of charming.”

“I wish I had thought of it,” said Oscar Wilde.

“You will, Oscar, you will,” said James Whistler. Or maybe he didn’t. You can never tell about those witty anecdotes.

Meanwhile, back at the dinner-table in the little pink cabin in the middle of the clearing in the deep, dark forest in the fake fairy-tale far, far away from the gratuitous digression, everyone made their after-dinner wish.

“I wish that the dishes would wash themselves,” said Lulubell.

“I wish that there was a fairy tale that mentioned bicarbonate of soda,” said Dinnerbell.

“What’s the matter?” asked Lady A. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I feel fine,” said Dinnerbell. “I just think that it would be kind of interesting.”

“I wish that I could think of an amusing after-dinner wish,” said Annabell.

“I wish that we could all go outside and sit at the log bench and find a good agent,” said Dingdongbell.

“I wish that wishes were horses,” said Flowerbell.

And so they all tried sitting at the table and making their after-dinner horses.

“This doesn’t seem to work very well,” said Servicebell.

“I’m not surprised,” said Lady A. “Why, the very idea: ‘After-Dinner Horses’? What a terrible thing to call a wish.”

And so they all washed and dried and tidied up the dishes and put everything away, and then they went out into the front yard, walked over to the log bench, and tried to sit down. “Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum,” said Dingdongbell. “There’s a good agent lying down in front of the bench, and I don’t have any place to put my feet.”

“He seems to be asleep,” said Annabell. “Maybe we can just prop up our feet on him.”

“But then maybe our feet will fall asleep,” said Lulubell.

“How do you know that he’s a good agent?” asked Dinnerbell.

“Just look at him,” said Dingdongbell. “He’s wearing a fedora hat and a trench-coat. He must be a good agent. Besides, that was my after-dinner wish.”

“But remember what I said before,” warned Lady A. “There’s more to being a good agent than just wearing a fedora hat and a trench-coat.”

“There must be some other way to test,” said Servicebell.

“I know!” said Dingdongbell. “Let’s walk all over him and see if he complains.”

And before anyone could object, Dingdongbell walked all over the sleeping Eddie. Then she jumped up and down on him a couple of times. But Eddie didn’t move or make a sound.

“That settles it,” said Lady A. “He’s either a good agent, or a dead agent.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Dingdongbell.

“I don’t know,” said Lady A.

“Maybe we should make a glass coffin for him,” said Annabell.

“But we have no glass-works of any kind, no big furnace or bellows or other glass-blowing equipment anywhere in the area,” said Lady A. “Try to bear that in mind.”

“That’s a good point,” said Annabell. “I’m glad you reminded me. Otherwise the whole story would be ridiculous.”

“Maybe we could weave a coffin out of the leftovers from our last basket festival,” suggested Servicebell.

“Considering how poorly that turned out, we might as well try to cut our losses,” said Lulubell.

“I still think it would have worked,” said Dinnerbell, “if we’d been able to come up with a better name.” “I think I missed that one,” said Lady A. “What did you call it?”

“The Wicker Wish of the Fest,” said Dinnerbell.

“I see what you mean,” said Lady A. “That’s pretty desperate.”

And so they all went back inside the cabin and gathered the leftover materials from the basket festival, and, before you knew it, they had fashioned a surprisingly tasteful wicker coffin with a hinged cover and some nice ornamentation and everything. Of course, they had to stop to sleep, and then they had to wake up and eat a balanced breakfast, and then they had to walk back into town to work at their day jobs, and then they had to walk back to the cabin and have their dinner, and so it actually took about four days to finish the wicker coffin, and then they discovered that it was too short, too narrow, and not sufficiently deep, so they had to take it all apart again, and then they took meticulous measurements, and then they worked assiduously over the weekend, but then they found that they didn’t have enough wicker to make the cover, so they settled for an open-top sort of affair.

But you didn’t know that until just now, so they still finished the wicker coffin before you knew it.

And then they were visited by a magical winged lady all in blue, and she floated down through the opening between the trees in the backyard and alighted ever so gently atop the roof of the wishing-well, but everyone else was still in the front yard trying to figure out how to get Eddie into the wicker coffin, so nobody saw her gliding down and making a perfect landing, so she just jumped off the roof of the wishing-well down to the ground and stomped around to the front yard.

“Waste of a perfectly good entrance,” she said.

“Who are you?” asked Annabell when she saw the magical winged lady coming around the corner.

“I’m Wendy, the Validation Fairy,” said Wendy the Validation Fairy. “I show up in certain fairy- tales just to keep everything kosher.”

“Aren’t you supposed to come gliding down and alighting ever so gently on something?” asked Lulubell.

“I did,” said Wendy, “only it was in the backyard when no-one was looking. I landed on the roof of the wishing-well, which would usually be a primo spot for a fairy landing, what with it being a wishing-well and all, but I guess you need to have the well in the backyard because that’s where you do the washing and where you have to hang it up to dry and you can’t very well have a fairy tale where there’s a curious little cabin in the middle of the deep, dark forest with a bunch of lingerie hanging out in front of it. Anyway, what can I do for you kids?”

“Well,” said Annabell hesitantly, ”we made this nice wicker coffin, but we can’t figure out how to get the good agent into it.”

“Have you tried picking him up?” asked Wendy.

“No,” said Annabell. “He’s been lying out here for about a week now, and he’s been rained on, and we don’t really want to touch him.”

“Hmmm,” said Wendy. “The spells I know involve magically placing people into wicker caskets, and you just told me that this is a wicker coffin.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Servicebell.

“They’re spelled differently,” said Wendy. “The phrase ‘wicker casket’ has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

“That’s true,” said Lulubell, “but does the spelling really make any difference?”

“It sure does,” said Wendy. “That’s the difference between you mortals and a real, honest-to- goodness, board-certified public fairy: we all know that spelling is the essential part of all spells. That’s why we have the old saying, ‘you can’t have the spell without the spelling’. It’s part of the exam.”

“So you can’t put the agent in the coffin?” asked Dinnerbell.

“Well, maybe I can come up with a workaround,” said Wendy. “Let me see if I can cook up a Handsome Prince who can awaken the Sleeping Agent with True Love’s First Kiss, and then the agent can climb into the wicker casket all by himself.”

“Don’t you mean ‘the wicker coffin’?” asked Dinnerbell.

“I still like my way better,” said Wendy. “Has anyone got a spare frog they’re not using?” 75. Another Fake Fairy Tale, Part 5

“The high school biology class in town just did dissections,” said Lady A. “They might have some used frogs available.”

“Sorry,” said Wendy. “I do spells, not miracles.”

But just then they heard a little splash, followed by some soft little thumps, and who should come hopping around the corner but a little green frog.

“How do you do?” said the frog. “I am called FrogBoy. I am a small green talking frog. I do all my own sound effects, and all the girl frogs love me.”

“Really?” asked Dingdongbell. “I sometimes do sound effects as well, but they’re usually only drum riffs, and I’ve been keeping them to myself for the purposes of this fake fairy-tale, but I’ve never heard of anyone else who did their own sound effects and was called FrogBoy. Who calls you that?”

“Nobody,” said FrogBoy. “I’m just hoping it will catch on.”

“What you need,” said Wendy, “is a good agent.”

“You’re not kidding,” said FrogBoy. “Boy, I’d do anything to get a good agent.”

“Anything?” asked Wendy as she advanced on the little frog.

“Anything!” said FrogBoy.

“Very well,” said Wendy, and she waved her magic wand which she had artfully concealed somewhere about her person, or which she had been carrying all along, or whatever, and when you’re dealing with a magical winged lady all in blue who can also cast spells it’s better not to ask too many questions, and then there was a swirl of mysterious light, but not of blinding light, because then everyone would have been blind and nobody would be able to see what happened next and there would probably be sufficient likelihood of some kind of litigation to convince all the wicked law firms to modify their advertising to include claims for damages caused by magic spells, but anyway the next thing that anyone could see was that FrogBoy had been magically transformed into a Handsome Prince.

“How do you do?” said the now-transformed FrogBoy. “I am called FrogBoy. I am a Handsome Prince, and I still do all my own sound effects, except that Handsome Princes aren’t really known for making particular sorts of sounds, but my crown gives off a nice shimmer when I stand in the sunlight and tilt my head in a certain way. I have no idea whether or not the girl frogs still love me, but I no longer care because now I am a Handsome Prince, so I figure on hunting for bigger game, if you know what I mean, hint-hint-hint.” “We just need you to kiss this sleeping agent,” said Wendy.

FrogBoy took a look at Eddie. Eddie had been lying outside for about a week, and he had been rained on, and he had never looked all that appealing to begin with.

FrogBoy hesitated.

“Are you sure this guy’s a good agent?” he asked.

“Actually,” said Lady A, “we have no idea. He’s been conked out in the front yard ever since we found him.”

“So exactly what will happen if I kiss him?” asked FrogBoy. “Will he decide to take me under his wing and promote me and make my name a household word that all the moms will repeat over and over again to their teenage daughters until they can think of nothing else? Will he take me away to the big city and leave the rest of you stuck out here in the middle of the deep, dark forest, no better off than you were before, with nothing to show for your troubles but a grease spot on the ground in front of your log bench, while I spend the rest of my days in wealth and comfort and whatever kinkiness I can get away with, like they do in all the other fairy tales?”

“You forgot the hyphen,” said Servicebell.

“No I didn’t,” said FrogBoy. “I’m a Handsome Prince, remember, and I don’t have to use hyphens if I don’t want to, just like I don’t have to pick up after myself or floss regularly, and I certainly don’t have to go around kissing funky old bums that I find passed out in somebody’s front yard. And, another thing---“

But there wasn’t another thing, because Wendy waved her magic wand, and FrogBoy was transformed back into a little green frog, only he found that he no longer had the power of speech, so he hopped away in silence. Curiously enough, this lack of speech made him considerably more popular with the girl frogs in his area, and they no longer avoided him, but they still wouldn’t go out with him.

Then Eddie woke up, but instead of finding himself surrounded by a lot of Pretty Girls and a magical winged lady all in blue in front of a curious little cabin in the middle of the deep, dark forest, he found himself flat on his back staring up at the ceiling fan of his office on West 333rd Street.

“Well,” he said, “that was pointless.” 76. The Screwball Comedy, Part 1

“Great News!” said Mac as he burst into Eddie’s office.

“Is it worth getting up off the floor for?” asked Eddie wearily.

“Possibly,” said Mac. “You may want to get up off the floor anyway so they can lay down the new carpeting.”

“What new carpeting?” asked Eddie. “I do my best sleeping on linoleum.”

“Any kind of carpeting you want!” said Mac. “You could have mink carpeting! You could have chinchilla! You could even have strawberry!”

“How about chocolate?” asked Eddie.

“Chocolate, chinchilla, strawberry, any flavor you like!” said Mac.

“I didn’t know chinchilla was a flavor,” said Eddie.

“Everything’s a flavor if you’re hungry enough,” said Mac. “How are you going to find out if you won’t even try it?”

“Wait a minute,” said Eddie. “Where’s all the money gonna come from to pay for all this new carpeting?”

“The economy!” said Mac. “All our investments finally paid off, and now we’re rich again! In fact, we’re richer than we’ve ever been before!”

Eddie sat up, and looked around, and he saw that it was true. The linoleum upon which he had been lying seemed to sport a new coat of polish, and the fake simoleons which he used for wallpaper had been converted into real currency, and even his wall-pictures of Napoleon were grinning. The eyes of the paintings seemed to give off a greenish glow in the shape of dollar- signs, and part of a huge wad of currency was peeping out of each vest.

“I’m a little out of practice,” said Eddie. “What can we do with all this money?”

“For one thing,” said Mac, “you could get a new trench-coat. Your old one can probably walk around all by itself.”

“I like my old trench-coat,” said Eddie. “Well then” said Mac, “you could spruce it up a bit! You could get it Sanforized! Or Martinized! Or Hollanderized! In fact, you could afford to have Sanford and Martin and Hollander come here personally and work on it while you’re still wearing it!”

“Could they do it while I was skipping rope under a hot shower?” asked Eddie.

“Only if I can watch,” said Mac.

“It would take a pretty big shower-stall,” said Eddie, “what with Sanford, Martin, Hollander, you, and me all in there at the same time.”

“Not to mention the camera crew,” said Mac. “But the point is, you can afford all that, and more! We’re really, really, really, really rich!” 77. The Screwball Comedy, Part 2

“I think I’ll keep my hat and trench-coat just the way they are,” said Eddie.

“Why?” asked Mac.

“Well,” said Eddie, “these days, I like to take long walks, see? And when I walk, I sometimes talk to myself, see? So I figure if I make too many changes to the way I look, I might not even recognize myself, and walk right by. Then where would I be?”

“Smith’s Switch Station,” said Open Mike as he walked into the room.

“Exactly,” said Eddie, “or at least something like that. At least this way I still know where I’m at.”

“Smith’s Switch Station,” said Open Mike again.

“Wait a minute,” said Eddie, “I thought I was still in my old office on West 333rd Street.”

“You are,” said Open Mike, “but you’re also at Smith’s Switch Station. I had it delivered.”

“How in the world could you get Smith’s Switch Station delivered to my office?” asked Eddie.

“With lots and lots and lots of money!” said Open Mike. “All my investments finally paid off, and now I’m really, really rich!”

“It’s like I was trying to tell you,” said Mac. “Everybody’s investments have paid off! It’s not just you and me, it’s the whole economy! Everybody’s rich!”

“Everybody?” asked Eddie.

“Everybody!” said Mac.

“Even Ben?” asked Eddie.

“Even Ben!” said Mac.

“Even Ned?” asked Eddie.

“Even Ned!” said Mac.

“Even Ted?” asked Eddie.

“Even Ted!” said Mac. “Even Ed?” asked Eddie.

“Even Ed!” said Mac.

“Even Fred?” asked Eddie.

“Even Fred!” said Mac.

“Even Red?” asked Eddie.

“Even Red!” said Mac.

“Even Dan?” asked Eddie.

“Even Dan!” said Mac.

“Even Tom?” asked Eddie.

“Even Tom!” said Mac.

“Even Jim?” asked Eddie.

“Even Jim!” said Mac.

“Even Tim?” asked Eddie.

“Even Tim!” said Mac.

“Even Sam?” asked Eddie.

“Even Sam!” said Mac.

“Even Jennifer?” asked Eddie.

“Even Jennifer!” said Mac. “Of course, she was never really scrounging to begin with.”

“Even Flowerbelle?” asked Eddie.

“Even Flowerbelle!” said Mac.

“Even Annabelle?” asked Eddie.

“Even Annabelle!” said Mac. “Even Dinnerbelle?” asked Eddie.

“Even Dinnerbelle!” said Mac.

“Even Servicebelle?” asked Eddie.

“Even Servicebelle!” said Mac.

“Even Lulubelle?” asked Eddie.

“Even Lulubelle!” said Mac.

“Even Dingdongbelle?” asked Eddie.

“Even Dingdongbelle!” said Mac.

“Even the Three Little Kittens?” asked Eddie.

“Even the Three Little Kittens!” said Mac. “They have so many mittens now, they have trouble losing them, because everywhere they look, they find another pair that they already own.”

“Even the All-Mouse Glee Club?” asked Eddie.

“In a word, yes,” said Mac.

“Well, maybe we should go somewhere to celebrate,” said Eddie. “Asking all these questions has really worked up my appetite.”

“So let’s go to the Pancake Palace,” said Mac.

“Sure,” said Eddie. “Where else?”

And so Mac, Open Mike, and Eddie went off to the Pancake Palace. 78. The Screwball Comedy, Part 3

When they left the office building, the first thing that they noticed was that the streets outside were now all paved with gold. The sidewalks were done in silver, and the fire-hydrants were done in rubies. The red lights were also rubies, the yellow lights were real amber, and the green lights were jade. This wasn’t quite as obvious unless you squinted, but they were all done up that way just the same.

About halfway down the block, they were approach by a panhandler.

“Spare change?” asked the panhandler.

“Well, I don’t see why not,” said Eddie as he reached into his pocket.

“No, you don’t understand,” said the panhandler. “I was asking if you needed any spare change. You see, I’ve got more than I’ll ever need, so I’ve decided to give back to the community.” And the panhandler held out a handful of hundred-dollar bills.

“Those are hundred-dollar bills,” said Eddie incredulously.

“That’s what passes for spare change these days,” said the panhandler. “It’s the smallest currency I’ve got.”

“It’s like I said,” said Mac. “Everybody’s rich now.”

“Maybe you could get a new pan,” suggested Eddie to the panhandler.

“Oh, I’ve already got several dozen,” said the Panhandler, “Solid gold, you know, but nowadays my butler carries them for me.”

“That must be quite a load,” said Open Mike.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said the panhandler. “He just throws them in the trunk of his Rolls-Royce.”

They moved along, and eventually reached the Pancake Palace.

It was brighter, shinier, and perfectly clean, but it was still recognizable as the Pancake Palace. There was more neon outside, and there were more decorations inside, but when they entered they were still greeted by Wendy in a pale blue dress with an apron.

“Your usual booth is available,” she said.

“That’ll be fine,” said Mac. Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike sat in their booth and examined their menus.

“Hey,” said Eddie, “these menus are the same as before. I like that.”

“Sue,” said Wendy. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“I dunno,” said Eddie. “I was just thinking, what with the booming economy and all and everyone being rich…well, maybe things would have gotten fancy or something.”

“I think we were all expecting the prices to go up,” said Mac.

“Why?” asked Wendy.

“Well,” said Mac, “it has to do with supply and demand and maximizing profits.”

“I’d better get the owner,” said Wendy. “He sets the prices, and he can explain these things better than I can. But first, let me take your orders so I can get to work on your food.”

Mac, Eddie, and Open Mike all placed their orders for the Time-Machine Special, but they decided to wait in the booth for the owner to come by.

“It’s ok,” said Mac, “we can kill some time talking.”

But then the owner came up. He was dressed neatly, but the apron and chef’s hat he was wearing indicated that he was a working owner.

“Hi guys,” he said. “My name’s Chuck Cherubim, and I’m the owner of the Pancake Palace. Wendy’s working on your order right now, but she said you had some questions about the prices.”

“There’s no problem,” said Eddie.

“No,” said Open Mike. “No problem at all, only we were wondering, what with the booming economy and all, how you can still keep the same prices.”

“Oh, I get that question a lot these days,” said Chuck Cherubim. “Mostly it’s visiting businessmen or out-of-towners or first-year Economics students. It’s really simple. I may be the owner and all, but I also like to eat here. Now why in the world would I want to suddenly start charging myself extra for my favorite food?”

“Well,” said Mac, “maybe you could set aside enough money to retire.”

“Retire? Let me try to explain it,” said Chuck Cherubim. “Ever since I was a little kid, I always wanted to have my very own pancake palace. I like smelling the batter when it’s getting mixed, I like flipping the pancakes while they’re cooking, and I like eating ‘em when they’re done. Over the years, I’ve gotten pretty good at all three, and I like it when other folks say so. Now that I’m rich, just like everybody else, I wanna do what I wanna do, only it turns out that this is all I ever wanted to do anyway: smell the batter, flip the pancakes, and eat ‘em with butter and syrup. And having my own restaurant is like having a party every day. If I wanna take a day off, I take a day off now and then, but I found out that I’m lousy at golf, too lazy for tennis, and an ocean cruise just makes me miss my kitchen. Meanwhile, I got money, you got money, everybody’s got money, so why worry? If I get a little extra cash, I buy something nice for the joint, which is pretty much my home anyway, so everybody can enjoy it.”

“What if your suppliers raised their prices?” asked Mac.

“Not likely to happen,” said Chuck Cherubim. “We get together sometimes, me and the other guys on the block. We sometimes take turns eating at each other’s restaurants, so everybody knows everybody, and we all know the suppliers, and everybody’s doing great these days, so nobody feels like rocking the boat when everything’s going so good. I’ve heard about what happens when guys try to top each other: the first guy squeezes the second guy, then the second guy needs to squeeze the third guy, then the third guy needs to squeeze the first guy, and it goes around and around and around and they just end up with a lot of bad feelings. And if that’s not bad enough, all of a sudden the money they’ve got isn’t worth as much.”

“So the menus have stayed the same all over town?” asked Mac.

“Sure!” said Chuck Cherubim. “You come here to eat the food, not the menu. If I change the prices, I gotta either change all the menus or get new ones. But that won’t help the food any, so why bother? Why spend the time and money on something that isn’t what you came for? See what I mean?”

“I get it,” said Open Mike.

“I like it,” said Eddie. “It keeps things simple.”

“Thanks, Chuck,” said Mac, “you’re an angel.”

“Naw,” said Chuck, “I’m just a Cherubim,” and he strode happily back to his kitchen.

Then Wendy brought everyone’s food, and they had a fine time. 79. The Screwball Comedy, Part 4

“That was fun,” said Mac at the conclusion of the meal. “Now let’s go to the Shiny Building.”

“Look,” said Eddie, “some of us don’t get out as much as you do. What in the world is the Shiny Building?”

“Heck,” said Open Mike, “I get out more than both of you guys put together, and even I’ve never heard of the Shiny Building.”

“That’s because it’s brand-new,” said Mac.

“I guess that’s also why it’s shiny,” said Open Mike.

“No,” said Mac, “it’s actually named after the guy who built it: Big Bill Shiny.”

“This I gotta see,” said Eddie.

And so Mac took Eddie and Open Mike to go see the Shiny Building, but first he left Wendy a fifty-dollar tip, since he had some catching-up to do.

The Shiny Building was a 15-story structure near the edge of town, but since it was actually a very small town it was only about a six-block walk from the Pancake Palace. It was mostly covered with reflective windows, and it fairly glowed in the sunlight.

“Come to think of it,” said Mac as they approached, “I guess it really is pretty shiny all by itself.”

At the walkway in front of the building, they were greeted by a large man with a cheerful countenance. He was sturdily built but not overweight. He was neatly dressed, but not extravagantly so. He wore light slacks, a sports coat, and a tie loosely hung around a pale blue cotton shirt.

“Hi, guys,” he said, “I’m Bill Shiny. The kids call me Big Bill. How do you like my building?”

“It’s a beaut,” said Eddie, glancing at the “Shiny Building” sign out front. “You sure named it right.”

“Oh yeah,” said Bill Shiny. “Here, I got free sunglasses for visitors. Try these on for size.”

Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike all put on the sunglasses, and surveyed the structure.

“The sunglasses help when you’re close up,” said Eddie.

“Yeah,” agreed Shiny, “plus a lot of the folks like to pretend they’re movie stars.” “It it a business building or residential?” asked Mac.

“Some of each,” said Shiny. “Top floors are residential, lower floors are business. Some people live up top and work down below. You can commute by stairs or elevator. I’ve still got a few vacancies, but it’s filling up pretty nicely.”

“So you figure you’re gonna get by all right on the finance?” asked Mac.

“The way the economy is right now, everything’s going great,” said Shiny. “I’m ‘way ahead of schedule. I’ve already paid all the construction costs, but I’m still gonna add some more touches here and there.”

“You mean you built the whole thing with your own money?” asked Mac.

“Kinda sorta,” replied Shiny. “I guess it depends on how you look at it. People have different ideas about money. I saw a T-shirt the other day that said ‘the problem with Socialism is that sooner or later you run out of other people’s money’, and it got me to thinking. If a guy like me starts off working in construction, then builds a bunch of houses that sell, then makes some investments that pay off, and ends up with enough cash to build his own building like this one, whose money really paid for it? It may have been my money when I used it here, but wasn’t it someone else’s money before, when I was getting paid for my work as I was saving up? And as for another guy who might have inherited money from his family, wasn’t it someone else’s money – say, his grandfather’s, or something – wasn’t it his grandfather’s money before the inheritance? The way I see it, it doesn’t really matter whether you built up the money through work, or inherited it, or borrowed it, it still started off as someone else’s money.”

“Maybe there’s a T-shirt somewhere that says ‘the problem with Capitalism is that sometimes you forget that your money used to be someone else’s money’,” suggested Open Mike.

“I dunno,” said Shiny, “that’s kinda cute, but I was never too good at keeping track of all the ’- isms’. When I was a kid, I kinda got the idea that Communism was just another way of saying ‘share your stuff’, and that Socialism was another way of saying ‘everyone shares their stuff’, and that Capitalism was another way of saying ‘each person owns their stuff’, but they usually end up letting other people use it anyway.”

“Like the guy who owns a factory but needs other people to operate it?” suggested Mac.

“Or the guy who owns a nightclub but needs other people to perform?” added Open Mike.

“Like just about anybody who lives in the world,” said Shiny. “At least, anybody who likes to have friends.”

“Friends?” asked Mac. “Sure,” said Shiny. “Not having friends is like building a big fancy castle in the middle of a dump. Maybe worse. Maybe more like a palace in a slum: no matter how comfy everything is inside, the minute you look out the window all you see is misery. The minute you step outside, you get depressed. And if you built your palace up while pushing everyone around you down, well, it’s not a good feeling. Maybe you’re scared that everyone else is gonna come and get you. Then you start thinking of them as a threat…like they’re your enemies or something.”

“So whaddya do? Asked Eddie.

“Make friends,” said Shiny, “and start making friends before you build you castle. I started out by helping other folks fix their houses, and they liked that. Then I helped them build their houses, and they liked that even more. And I made sure I did good work and built nice places. Pretty soon I lived in a town full of nice places that I had helped out on, and the people I helped became my friends. Then when I built my castle, I made sure that other people could enjoy it as well.”

“If you plant Nice, you’re gonna harvest Friends,” suggested Open Mike.

“That’s pretty good,” said Shiny.

“Plus it’s easier to read on a T-shirt,” said Eddie.

“So it’s more than keeping the customer satisfied,” said Mac.

“Well, I see it this way,” said Shiny. “If I was tired at the end of the day, and I thought of the other guy as just another customer, maybe I’d tell him something like ‘sorry, we’re closed’. But I’d probably put in the extra fifteen minutes for a friend even if I was tired. I’ve found that, even if I thought I had other things to do, those other things could usually wait a little bit.”

“Well, however you think of it,” said Mac, “it seems to be working.”

“So far, so good,” said Shiny. “You wanna come on in and look around?”

“Sure,” said Eddie, “Why not?”

And so Mac, Eddie, and Open Mike left Big Bill Shiny outside to greet his other visitors, and they went inside the building and looked around.

Not every space was occupied, but what there was showed promise. The first floor had a front desk, but it was surrounded by a large open space with chairs and couches and dispensing machines, with some public restrooms along the far wall, and a central staircase flanked by two elevators on each side. Behind the front desk was a large directory, topped by the words “First Floor Lounge, Come On In, Rest And Relax, Take Your Time.” “Smart,” said Mac. “People are gonna like to just come in and hang around, but sooner or later, they’re gonna look around for something to do.”

According to the Directory, there were already a fair number of things to do: there was an indoor miniature golf course, a bowling alley which included Tenpins, Duckpins, and Candlepins, a Video Arcade, three restaurants, a coffee shop, and a small performance club. There was also a drug store, a shop for books, magazines, music and video, and a salon/barbershop. There were some offices offering professional services, and then a couple of floors still under development. Above those, the residential section was listed.

The lounge was not crowded, but, considering the size of the town, it was fairly well-populated with people resting, reading, snacking, and exploring, and everyone seemed to be pleased.

“So Eddie,” said Mac, “How do you like it here?”

“Well,” said Eddie, “I guess I’m kinda set in my ways. I’m gonna stay put in my old office. It’s what I’m used to.”

“So you wouldn’t want to live here?” asked Open Mike.

“No,” said Eddie, “but it’s a nice place to visit.”

Then they bowled a few games. First they tried tenpins (Mac had the highest score), then they moved over to duckpins (Eddie won that game), and finally over to candlepins (Open Mike and Eddie were tied for first, and Mac suspected one of them of sandbagging, but he couldn’t tell which it was).

Then they picked up a couple of sodas from the vending machines in the lounge and went back out into the sunlight.

“Thanks for stopping by,” said Big Bill Shiny.

“We’ll be back,” said Mac. “See you later.” 80. The Screwball Comedy, Part 5

Before they had gone half a block, a huge limousine pulled up beside them.

“Thank goodness I found you,” called the driver. “Hurry up and get in. There’s Big Trouble at the Fabulous Mansion.”

Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike all piled into the back seat of the limousine, and it sped away toward the edge of town.

It didn’t take long to reach the edge of town. It took about thirty seconds. Even with the booming economy, it was a very small town. It didn’t take long to reach the end of the suburbs. It took about three minutes, but that included a few stop signs. By the time they reached the countryside, Eddie noticed something.

“Say,” he said. “If you’re the driver, how come you’re riding on the passenger side?”

“Oh, I don’t actually drive much nowadays,” said the Driver. “I’m breaking in a new chauffeur.”

“So I guess you’re the new chauffeur?” asked Open Mike.

“Who, me?” said the man at the wheel. “No, I’m the chauffeur’s assistant. He’s taking the day off, so he let me take the limo out for a spin.”

“Boy,” said Eddie to Mac, “you weren’t kidding when you said that everyone was rich these days.”

And then they arrived at the Fabulous Mansion.

“Welcome, welcome!” gushed the Fabulous Daughter as Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike climbed out of the limousine. “You’re just in time to greet the new arrival!”

Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike looked around.

“What a swell place,” said Eddie.

“No,” said Open Mike. “The Swell Place is over by Smith’s Switch Station. This is the Fabulous Mansion, remember?”

“Oh!” said the Fabulous Daughter to Open Mike. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you at first. Welcome!”

“So where’s the new arrival?” asked Mac.

“Follow me,” said the Fabulous Daughter. So Eddie, Mac, Open Mike and the Oxford Comma followed the Fabulous Daughter as she led them to a large stable that looked a lot like a luxury hotel, and there in the last stall stood a tiny, tottering foal.

“Gentlemen,” said a voice, “say hello to Big Trouble, the newest addition to the family.”

“Hello,” said Eddie.

“Hello,” said Mac.

“Hello,” said Open Mike.

“I see you’ve already met our daughter,” said the voice,” so allow me to introduce myself. I’m Mister Fabulous.”

Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike turned in the direction of the voice, and saw that it came from a large, muscular horse.

“Hello,” said Eddie.

“Hello,” said Mac.

“Hello,” said Open Mike.

“Daddy,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “I’d like you to meet my new friends Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said the horse. “Who’s the little guy?”

“That’s the Oxford Comma, remember?” said the Fabulous Daughter. “He just turns up from time to time.”

“Oh,” said the horse, “that’s right. Please forgive me if I’m still a little hazy with my details. What with all the excitement about the new arrival, I’ve got a lot of things to attend to. Why don’t you all tour the rest of the stables while I go look in on the Missus?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Eddie.

And so the Fabulous Daughter led Eddie, Mac and Open Mike off on a tour of the stables.

“Let me introduce you to the other horses,” said the Fabulous Daughter as they passed each stall. “This is Rather Irritating.” There was an awkward moment as Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike looked around, somewhat confused and taken aback.

“Is something wrong?” asked Mac finally.

“Not at all,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “I was just introducing you to this horse. He goes by the name of Rather Irritating.”

“Oh,” said Open Mike. “What a fine-looking horse.”

The Fabulous Daughter led them to the next stall.

“This horse is named Dubious Investment,” she said.

“How do you do?” asked Mac, who decided to observe the niceties.

“I’m not complaining,” replied the horse. “They’ve got some pretty good niceties around here, even if I’m not crazy about the names we get.”

The Fabulous Daughter led them to the next stall.

“This next horse is called My Kid’s Tuition,” she said.

“He’s really handsome,” said Mac admiringly.

The Fabulous Daughter led them to the next stall.

“I’d like you to meet the next horse,” she said. “This one is called Financial Drain.”

“These horses have some interesting names,” said Open Mike diplomatically.

“Do you really think so?” asked the Fabulous Daughter. “Daddy picked them out. He names all the horses, and I think the world of him, but I’m not sure that choosing names is what he does best. For instance, this next horse’s name is Waste O’ Hay.”

“Oh, my,” said Open Mike.

“No,” corrected the Fabulous Daughter, “that’s O’ Hay. Don’t worry. A lot of people get mixed up about the Irish names.”

“And who is this?” asked Mac as they reached the next stall.

“That’s Mister Mucilage,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “I think he suffers a little bit from Low Self-Esteem.” “I can understand that,” said Eddie.

“Then you’ve heard the singing?” asked the Fabulous Daughter. “I knew it was loud, but I didn’t know it carried all the way to the city.”

“Singing?” asked Eddie. “Mister Mucilage can sing?”

“Oh my goodness no,” laughed the Fabulous Daughter. “Well now, come to think of it, I don’t know if he can sing or not. I don’t think he’s ever tried. The singing comes from the horse in the next stall.”

“This I’ve gotta see,” said Eddie.

And so the Fabulous Daughter led them to the last stall, which was somewhat apart from the others.

“This is the singing horse,” she said, “and his name is Low Self-Esteem.”

“So you figure he sings to compensate?” asked Mac.

“Naw,” said the horse. “I just like to sing:

There’s a thing that I noticed at midnight, By the light of the silvery moon, And I saw it again in the morning, And again when I looked out at noon,

It’s becoming a bit of a puzzle, And it makes my mind bubble and fizz, And I’m left in a bit of a muddle, For I don’t even know what it is.

And it doesn’t make much of a story, But I find as I let my mind roam, There are very few rhymes for ‘is’ That you can use in a family poem.”

Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike applauded politely.

The horse took a bow with a nod of his head, and the Fabulous Daughter led them away.

Quite some distance away. “How was it, really?” she asked finally.

Eddie shrugged.

“Not bad,” he said, “for a horse, anyway.”

“Nice and loud,” said Mac.

“Yes,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “and he practices all night. That’s why his next-door neighbor suffers. It’s not always easy to sleep.”

“Say,” said Open Mike, “I was wondering: you seem to know our names, but we don’t know yours. How did you hear about us?”

“I didn’t hear,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “I read. I like to read, and after I went through all the good books I could find, I started reading the other kind, and eventually I got down to the point where I found out about you. I know that Eddie was married eleven times, and that Mac was his faithful friend through thick and thin, but I only know a little bit about Open Mike. I have to admit it: that’s the reason I called you all here.”

“Me?” said Open Mike. “I guess I’m what you’d call a Professional Amateur, and I walk around a lot.”

“That’s fascinating,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “I think we should go somewhere in the moonlight and talk about it. But first, I was wondering if anyone was hungry.”

“Come to think of it,” said Mac, “I haven’t eaten since we had brunch at the Pancake Palace.”

“Me neither,” said Eddie. “I’m so hungry I could eat a…I could eat a figure of speech, that’s all.”

And so the Fabulous Daughter led Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike to a little gazebo where they sat down at a small round table with a chess board painted on it. From her pocket she produced a little bell which she rang. 81. The Screwball Comedy, Part Six

Within moments of the sound of the bell, an elegantly-dressed gentleman came, carrying a silver tray. He placed the tray on the table and removed the cover. There on the tray were a bowl of oatmeal and a bowl of mashed potatoes.

“What is your wish for mealtime?” asked the well-dressed gentleman.

“Oh, this stuff looks ok to me,” said Eddie.

“Oh my,” laughed the Fabulous Daughter. “These bowls aren’t for dinner.”

“Not even for breakfast,” said the well-dressed gentleman.

“We’ll just have the usual,” said the Fabulous Daughter to the well-dressed gentleman.

“Very good, then,” said the well-dressed gentleman, and he strode away quietly.

“You have a very elegant butler,” said Mac.

“Oh, he’s not my butler,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “He works for Oaty and Mashy here.”

“Ya see,” said the Oatmeal, “things are going so good that we can afford to hire the Guy with the Spoon. In fact, things are so good that even he can afford fancy stuff, so now he’s known as the Guy with the Silver Spoon.”

“But he asked the girl here to order the dinner,” said Eddie.

“That’s ‘cause he knows we don’t eat,” said the Mashed Potatoes.

The well-dressed gentleman returned wheeling another, larger tray. This tray contained what appeared to be chicken patties and sour cream, along with a salad and a couple of hot dogs. The drinks appeared to be sodas and milk.

“Thanks, Guy,” said the Oatmeal. “Now you can go get the floor show ready.”

Everyone agreed that the food was delicious. Even the ones who didn’t eat.

“Gee,” said Eddie, “with everyone else doing so well, I kinda feel sorry for the cows and chickens.”

“What?” said the Oatmeal. “Oh, you mean the patties. Don’t worry about it. All the stuff here that looks like meat and dairy is actually soy substitute. Only the salad and sodas are real.” “Are the cows and chickens part of the floor show?” asked Open Mike.

“Naw,” said the Oatmeal. “They just do barn dances. For the floor show, we booked the All- Mouse Glee Club and Backup Band, along with our Special Guest Star.”

“Gritsy…” murmered a voice coming from the Bowl of Mashed Potatoes.

And then the lights went down. It was curious, because no-one had noticed the fading daylight and its gradual replacement by artificial lighting, but then the lights went down in the gazebo, and the lights went up on the little stage. Nobody had noticed the little stage before either. Everything was so smoothly done that it all just seemed natural. The Guy with the Silver Spoon was very good at his new job.

Then there was a spirited musical introduction, and a spotlight came up on a Bowl of Grits, who sang the following song:

“People going crazy in the daily paper People on the TeeVee tell me what to do Everybody acts like they’re doing me a favor Last thing I need is advice from you.

Hey, won’t you sing me an affectation Something to which I can bob my head I’ve had enough of thoughts and feelings, Just give me riffs and hooks instead.

Just want a beat I can tap my toe to, Don’t want to think of what the words might mean, Just a simple melody that I can go to, Autotune the vocal ‘till it sounds like a machine.

Hey, won’t you sing me an affectation Something to which I can bob my head I’ve had enough of thoughts and feelings, Just give me riffs and hooks instead.

I don’t need to leave the world behind, I just want to empty out my mind…

Hey, won’t you sing me an affectation Something to which I can bob my head I’ve had enough of thoughts and feelings, Just give me riffs and hooks instead.“ The song ended to tumultuous applause, the stage lights faded out, and the lights in the gazebo came back up.

“Wasn’t that great?” said another voice.

“Oh, hello Daddy,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “I was just going to ask Open Mike here to come along with me on a hayride.”

“Sure,” said Mister Fabulous. “You two kids go have fun while I talk with Eddie and Mac here.”

And so the Fabulous Daughter led Open Mike off into the darkening evening.

“Are you sure it’s OK?” asked Eddie. “I mean, isn’t she a little young to be going out alone with Open Mike?”

“Nonsense,” laughed Mister Fabulous. “She’s old enough. After all, I was winning races when I was three.”

“But you’re a horse, and she’s a girl---“ said Mac.

“Shhh,” said Mister Fabulous gently. “I never told her she was adopted.”

Soon Open Mike and the Fabulous Daughter were lying in the back of the hay-wagon, which, perhaps not so surprisingly, wasn’t moving. It did contain hay, and they were lying upon the hay which was in the hay-wagon, but there was no driver to tell the horse to pull the hay-wagon, and there was no horse either.

There was only Open Mike, and the Fabulous Daughter, and a voice was saying,

“If I saved the world today, What would I do on the morrow? I like to keep busy lest I become idle And fall into boredom and sorrow.”

“You’re quite the poet,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“Who, me?” said Open Mike. “No, not hardly.”

“But what was all that about saving the world?”

“Oh,” said Open Mike. “I think that was my pants speaking. I read somewhere that you should always wear reflective clothing at night for safety, so I bought a pair of reflective pants, and sometimes they recite introspective poetry.” “That wasn’t poetry,” said the voice. “That was a song.”

“But it didn’t have a melody,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“It was a recitative,” said the voice.

“Steve Who?” asked Open Mike.

“I think it meant ‘recitative’,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“You’re mispronouncing it,” said the voice. “It’s ‘recitative’. See how it’s italicized.”

“I dunno,” said Open Mike. “That looks like slanted writing to me.”

“It’s hard enough to have a romantic hayride without a pair of pedantic pants illustrating the limits of conventional text,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“Maybe we should change the subject,” suggested Open Mike. “For instance, maybe you could tell me your name.”

“My name?” said the Fabulous Daughter. “I haven’t got a name.”

“That’s strange,” said Open Mike. “All the horses around here have names.”

“That’s the thing,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “Just think about the names that the horses wound up with: Big Trouble, Rather Irritating, Dubious Investment, My Kid’s Tuition, and so on. Those are terrible things to call a horse.”

“So who picked out those names?” asked Open Mike.

“Daddy did,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“But you’d think that, being a horse himself, he’d choose better names,” said Open Mike.

“That’s just the trouble,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “Back in his racing days, all his friends had names like that. I suppose that the owners thought they were being clever, but when you take a sensitive creature like a horse and call him something like ‘Mister Mucilage’, it’s got to be demoralizing. I never could understand how an owner could know that his horse understands words like giddy-up and whoa and yet fail to comprehend the fact that the same horse would also know when he was being insulted.”

“But Mister Fabulous isn’t an insult,” said Open Mike. “No,” agreed the Fabulous Daughter. “It’s a great name, and I think that it helped Daddy win all his races. He always felt positive, while the other horses were all depressed. No wonder they didn’t feel like running.”

“So how come he picked out such lousy names for the other horses?” asked Open Mike.

“I’m not sure,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “but I think it’s supposed to be a tribute to his friends, like naming a child after a favorite uncle or something. Anyway, he means well, and I don’t want to break his heart by pointing out any incongruities. He’s awfully sweet. I haven’t even let on that I know I’m adopted. But anyway, I told him that I didn’t need my own name, and that I was happy just to be known as his daughter, and that made him very happy.”

“I once met a girl from Omaha Nebraska,” said a voice. “She told me so, and I didn’t even aska.”

“Not bad,” said Open Mike, “for a pair of pants.”

The Fabulous Daughter looked disappointed.

“Maybe it’s time for you, me, and your pants to go back and rejoin the others,” she said.

Meanwhile, back at the gazebo, Oaty Oatmeal was telling all about his ambition to learn to play the Mekelele.

“It’s like a Ukulele,” he said, “but customized.”

“So why not do it?” asked Eddie.

“No hands or fingers,” said Mashy.

Mr. Fabulous nodded gravely. 82. The Screwball Comedy, Part Seven

There was some more inane dialogue in the gazebo, and then Open Mike and the Fabulous Daughter returned.

“How was the hayride?” asked Mr. Fabulous.

“It was all right,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “We didn’t actually go anywhere. We just rested in the back and listened to Open Mike’s pants.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Fabulous, “you mean the reflective clothing.”

“Everybody’s wearing it these days,” said Mac. “It’s the Next Big Thing.”

“Especially the larger sizes,” said Open Mike. “But for some people it will have to be the Next Petite Thing.”

“It’s getting late,” said Eddie. “Maybe we should go.”

“Oh please stay,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “We can put you up in the guest rooms, and in the morning you can participate in the Mistaken Identity.”

“Only if your father agrees,” said Open Mike.

“Oh please, Daddy,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “Can’t they stay?”

“Who are you?” asked Mr. Fabulous.

“See?” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“That’s how it works,” said Mr. Fabulous. “Please do stay. You’ll have a lot of fun.”

So Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike spent the night in the guest rooms.

The following morning, there was a cheery wake-up call over the intercom.

“Breakfast is served in the main dining hall. Today’s feature is actual pancakes.”

“Good morning, everyone,” said Mr. Fabulous to the assembled guests.

“I am the fairest one of all,” said Mac.

“I am made entirely of bees,” said Open Mike. “I’m still Eddie,” said Eddie, “but I think my friends here are a little mixed up.”

“Maybe a little,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “but Mac really is kinda cute for his age, and maybe Open Mike’s got a bit of a buzz going.”

“Do bees even eat pancakes?” asked Eddie.

“Put the plate in front of me, watch, and learn,” said Open Mike.

“I am the Princess,” said Mrs. Fabulous, “and nobody has been paying any attention to me.”

“I’m sorry, my dear,” said Mr. Fabulous. “Try using dialogue. It makes you more noticeable.”

But where was Mrs. Fabulous?

“I’m sitting right here,” said Mrs. Fabulous. “Why don’t you describe me?”

Mrs. Fabulous was indeed sitting right there, looking absolutely indescribable.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Fabulous.

“Actually, that was a pretty evasive description,” said Mac.

“Buzz, buzz, buzz,” said Open Mike. The stack of pancakes on his plate did appear to be getting smaller, but the exact mechanics of the process were difficult to determine, let alone describe.

“I can’t eat my pancake,” said Mrs. Fabulous. “There’s a pea in it.”

“Then just eat the other letters, dear,” replied Mr. Fabulous.

“This scene isn’t really going anywhere,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

But she was mistaken. The scene was taking place in the main dining-hall of the Fabulous Mansion, and the Fabulous Mansion was located in the countryside on the planet earth, which was spinning around at a rate of thousands of miles per day, and also hurtling through space at millions of miles per year around the sun, and the sun itself was probably up to something depending on your frame of reference. And somewhere, far across the sea, a door slammed.

“Don’t slam that door,” said someone. “Just pull it gently closed behind you.”

Then there was a knock on the door.

Not that door, the other door. “I say,” said Mr. Fabulous, “that’s my door you’re knocking on.”

“Actually,” said Mac, “I think it’s a lovely door.”

“Sorry,” said the Sound Effects Man. “I think that was me.”

Then there was another knock on the door.

“What’s wrong with my door?” asked Mr. Fabulous.

“Well for one thing,” said a voice from outside the door, ”it’s closed, and I’m standing out here on the wrong side of it.”

“Oops,” said the Sound Effects Man, “I really thought it was me. I’ll get it.”

Soon the Sound Effects Man returned, carrying the door.

“Actually, just opening the door would have been sufficient,” said the voice, “but that’s all right. Let me introduce myself: I am a Handsome Prince, and I have some shoes here that I’d like everyone to try on.”

“You’re not FrogBoy, are you?” asked Eddie suspiciously.

“Oh, no,” said the Handsome Prince. “This may be the Mistaken Identity Segment, but I would never be so mistaken as that.”

“So what’s with the shoes?” asked Eddie.

“I think I’m supposed to marry the person whose foot fits the shoes, or vice versa,” said the Handsome Prince.

“Vice versa?” asked Mac. “How might that work?”

“I was thinking that the shoe might fit the foot,” said the Handsome Prince.

“Oh,” said Mac. “I thought maybe you would marry the foot.”

“Or maybe you would marry the shoe,” suggested the Fabulous Daughter.

“Don’t be silly,” said the Handsome Prince. “If I wanted to marry the shoe, I would just up and do it, and not bother with all this going door-to-door business.”

“Well, we might as well start trying on the shoe,” said the Sound Effects Man. “I have an appointment across town with the Dark and Stormy Knight.” And so the Sound Effects Man tried on the shoe, but it didn’t fit.

“Good thing, too,” said the Sound Effects Man as he walked out.

“Don’t forget to put the door back,” called Mr. Fabulous.

And so the Sound Effects Man replaced the door gently on its hinges as he left, and he didn’t slam it, either.

Then Eddie tried on the shoe, but it didn’t fit him either.

“Suits me fine,” said Eddie.

“Actually, it doesn’t,” said the Handsome Prince, “and I am much relieved.”

“How about trying it out on one of the ladies?” suggested Open Mike, as the last traces of his pancakes mysteriously disappeared.

“Good idea,” said the Handsome Prince, as he turned to the Fabulous Daughter.

And so the Fabulous Daughter tried on the shoe, but it didn’t fit her either.

“My lousy luck,” said the Handsome Prince.

“Mine, too,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“Let me try it,” said Mrs. Fabulous. “After all, I am the Princess.”

“What?” said the Handsome Prince. “I thought you were Catherine the Great.”

“Not yet,” said Mrs. Fabulous, “but I’m working on it.”

But when Mrs. Fabulous tried on the shoe, it didn’t fit her either.

Then Open Mike tried on the shoe. It wasn’t so very far off, but it still didn’t fit.

“You know,” said the Handsome Prince, “it doesn’t go on your head.”

So Open Mike tried it on his foot, but it didn’t fit there at all.

“So who’s left?” asked the Handsome Prince.

“Only one, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Fabulous, “and that’s the Narrator.” “I’m even more afraid than you are,” said the Handsome Prince as he handed the shoe to the Narrator.

“I say,” said the Narrator as he examined the shoe, “this is a horseshoe.”

“So it is,” exclaimed Mr. Fabulous. “Let me try it on.”

And so Mr. Fabulous tried on the horseshoe, and it fit perfectly.

“How embarrassing,” said Mr. Fabulous. “I’m already married.”

“It’s just as well,” said the Handsome Prince. “It was a stupid idea anyway.”

And so the Handsome Prince went away, carrying his horseshoe with him. After that experience, he decided to try his luck with Online Dating, but it was no improvement at all. It may have been that a lot of people were skeptical of anyone claiming to be a handsome prince, and it may have been that a lot of people were disguising their own identities, but eventually he married a glamorous movie actress, and they eventually discovered what a lot of people eventually discovered, which was that Handsome Princes don’t stay handsome forever, and that glamorous movie actresses don’t stay glamorous forever, but fortunately they also discovered what a few wise people eventually discover, which was that when genuine affection and steady companionship exists between two people, all that external handsome and glamorous business doesn’t really matter much, and so they really did live happily ever after, and although it is also true that they will both die eventually, that part hasn’t happened yet.

So there.

“Oh well,” said Mrs. Fabulous, “I’m not really a princess after all. That was just my Mistaken Identity.”

“Then I guess I’m not really the fairest one of all,” said Mac, “but I like to think that I’m somewhat reasonable.”

“And I guess that I’m not really made of bees,” said Open Mike. “Another case of Mistaken Identity.”

Then Eddie woke up. He was lying on the floor of his office on West 333rd Street, staring up at the ceiling fan, feeling the throbbing of his customary headache.

“I guess I’m still Eddie Gumshoe,” he murmured, “and I guess that identity is my mistake.” 83. Is This Still the Screwball Comedy?

“I wonder if this is still the Screwball Comedy,” said Eddie as the room came back into focus.

“You bet it is,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

Eddie looked in the direction of the voice, and sure, enough, it really was the Fabulous Daughter, sitting on top of a filing cabinet in the corner of the office.

“What happened?” asked Eddie.

“You blacked out after the Handsome Prince left,” replied the Fabulous Daughter. “There was this really long expository sentence about him marrying a glamorous movie actress, and it seemed to put you to sleep. So I had the Driver bring the two of us back to your office.”

“Where are Mac and Open Mike?” asked Eddie.

“They’re still partying back at the Fabulous Mansion,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “They said they prefer Screwball Comedy to Blackout Comedy.”

“So that means…” started Eddie.

“That’s right,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “That means that the two of us are going to go on an adventure.”

“I dunno,” said Eddie as he sat up. “For one thing, if it’s just going to be the two of us, I want to have something to call you other than ‘The Fabulous Daughter’.”

“You could try calling me Esmeralda,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“OK then, Esmeralda,” said Eddie, “why don’t you hop down off that filing cabinet and get me some black coffee?”

But the Fabulous Daughter did not hop down off the filing cabinet and get Eddie any black coffee. She did not get coffee of any kind. She did not hop down off the filing cabinet. In fact, she made no movement at all.

“Esmeralda?” said Eddie.

No response.

“What’s the deal?” said Eddie. “You said I could try calling you Esmeralda, and now you don’t answer.” “I said you could try,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “I guess it didn’t work.”

By this time Eddie had staggered to his feet.

“I’ll get my own coffee,” he said.

Meanwhile, back at the Fabulous Mansion, Mac and Open Mike were enjoying a game of Wistful with Mr. and Mrs. Fabulous.

“You know,” said Mr. Fabulous, “having a lot of money in a community in which everybody else also has a lot of money and nobody is poor or hungry or homeless may not be a perfect life, but everyone seems to be more relaxed.”

“You said it,” sighed Mac wistfully.

It was part of the game. 84. That Was a Pretty Short Chapter

Yes, it was, but this one is even shorter. 85. Now Cut That Out

Okay, so Eddie and the Fabulous Daughter left the office on West 333rd Street.

“We’re going to go visit the Greatest Artist That Nobody Cares About,” she said.

“How is that even possible?” asked Eddie. “Da Vinci? Michelangelo? That what’s-his-name guy that I never know how to pronounce? They’re all dead. How are we gonna visit them?”

“We’re not,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “The guys that you mentioned are all still famous, which means that people care about them. We’re going to visit someone that nobody cares about.”

“Oh,” said Eddie, “I guess that takes it down a coupla notches.”

“Maybe,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “and maybe not. This artist can paint a song that you can actually hear. This artist can write a story that shows you yourself. This artist makes music that you can see, feel, and sometimes taste.”

“Only sometimes?” asked Eddie.

“The music covers a wide range,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “and there are some things you wouldn’t want to taste.”

“So if this artist is so great, how come nobody cares?” asked Eddie.

“You know,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “I really haven’t given the matter any thought at all.”

“Are we going very far?” asked Eddie.

“Not far at all,” replied the Fabulous Daughter, “or I wouldn’t bother going. In fact, we’re almost there.”

They turned up a side street and soon arrived at a nondescript house.

“Looks kinda small for a studio,” said Eddie.

“That’s because there really isn’t any studio to speak of,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “Just a bedroom with a small refrigerator.”

They rang the doorbell.

There was no answer. “I guess nobody’s home,” said Eddie.

“Hello,” said a voice behind them.

“Hello,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “We were afraid that nobody would be here.”

“Well,” said the artist, “the fact that I’ve arrived may not materially affect the accuracy of that statement, but come on in anyway. Just let me unlock the door, and that will guarantee the presence of two somebodies at least.”

“How do you know me?” asked Eddie.

“I don’t,” replied the artist. “How do you do?”

“Oh,” said Eddie, “I’m Eddie Gumshoe, and this is the Fabulous Daughter.”

“I imagined that she must be somebody’s fabulous daughter,” said the artist.

“We came to visit you,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“How extraordinary,” said the artist. “You may be the first to congratulate me on having visitors.”

“Because we’re your first visitors,” said the Fabulous Daughter, who knew how to step on an obvious punch-line.

The artist led them through the smallish house to a really-quite-small room. It was small even for that house.

“So where is all the artwork?” asked Eddie.

“It mostly resides in my computer,” said the artist. “Not much room in here for anything else. I might make experimental sketches on bits of paper, but the finished stuff usually ends up digital. It’s easier to store, and easier to clean up.”

“But doesn’t that make it hard to display to the public?” asked the Fabulous Daughter.

“Sure,” said the artist, “but the public has yet to complain about that.”

“Haven’t you ever tried to find a public showplace?”

“Oh, occasionally,” said the artist. “In fact, I just got back from a potential spot, a local restaurant. You may have heard of it.” “The Pancake Palace?” asked Eddie.

“No,” said the artist. “The place is visited is called ZZZ’s. Their official motto is ‘The Last Word in Live Entertainment’.”

“Is that so?” asked Eddie, “I heard that their motto should be ‘The Place Where Local Bands Go To Die’. Why would you want to go there?”

“The lack of competition,” said the artist. “Everyone’s trying to get into the real galleries. Also, since a lot of my stuff has a musical quality, I thought they might like the novelty.”

“And now did that work out?” asked the Fabulous Daughter.

“No interest, as usual,” said the artist. “They pride themselves on their traditions which started before I was born, so naturally anything I might create would automatically be too new for them. It’s all right. I’m used to that sort of thing.”

“Why not try a real art place?” asked Eddie.

“I did, a few years ago,” said the artist. “I made some submissions. I figured that they could only say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“And…?” asked Eddie.

“There was a third possibility that I hadn’t considered,” said the artist. “They ignored me completely, and stopped replying to my messages.”

“Haven’t you ever received any kind of positive response?” asked the Fabulous Daughter.

“I got an interesting reaction from one man,” said the artist. “He told me that he could tell that my work was good. He said he didn’t like it, but he could tell that it was good.”

“So let’s see some of this stuff,” said Eddie.

And so the artist brought up an image on the screen.

“Is that it?” asked Eddie.

“I think you have to wait awhile,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “Keep looking, and see what happens.”

So they waited. “I think I hear something,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“Is that a clarinet?” asked Eddie.

“Yes,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “with an accordion.”

“And a guitar,” said Eddie.

“And something on the bass part,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “I think it’s a tuba.”

“What’s that…singing?” said Eddie.

“What a strange melody,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“I can’t make out the words,” said Eddie.

“It’s French,” explained the artist.

“I don’t speak French,” said Eddie. “How about you?”

“A little,” said the Fabulous Daughter,” but I still can’t make it out.”

“That last bit was a pun,” explained the artist. “’Bonne idée‘ is referring to Easter.”

“Hey,” said Eddie, “now there’s a whole orchestra.”

“It’s amazing,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“It’s real classy,” said Eddie.

“It’s…very interesting,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“Kinda highbrow,” said Eddie.

“Actually,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “it’s…weird.”

“Yeah,” said Eddie. “Say…can we try something else?”

The artist shrugged, and took the image offscreen.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Well!” said the Fabulous Daughter, “I can honestly say that I’ve never experienced anything like that before.” “Yeah,” said Eddie. “Maybe I’d like it if I understood it better.”

“It’s kind of complicated,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“Yeah,” said Eddie, “and you know me: I like to keep things simple.”

“How about some reading instead?” asked the Fabulous Daughter. “They say you’re quite a writer.”

“I’ve got a draft you could take a look at,” said the artist.

“OK,” said Eddie, “let’s give that a shot.”

And so the artist brought some text up onto the screen.

Eddie and the Fabulous Daughter read for awhile, then sat back.

“I can’t tell if it’s funny or sad,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“I was waiting for something to happen,” said Eddie.

“It’s very clear, though,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “It’s like I can see it right in front of me, even if I can’t tell what it means.”

“Does the guy have to be so ugly?” asked Eddie.

“The guy’s all right,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “but I can’t get any sense of who the girl is. It’s like I can see her, only she’s not really there.”

“What does it mean when the other lady walks in and says ‘Maybe a song will help?’” asked Eddie.

“Oh, that,” said Linda contrived as she entered the room. “I say that all the time.”

Eddie and the Fabulous Daughter turned in the direction of the voice.

There was no-one there.

“Now cut that out,” said Eddie.

“Well,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “in this case, maybe a song really will help.” “Could be,” said the artist. “How would you like to hear a song that transports you somewhere?’

“Sure,” said the Fabulous Daughter. “Why not?”

“As long as I can follow it,” said Eddie.

So the artist turned on the sound, and brought up the song.

And the next thing they knew, Eddie and the Fabulous Daughter felt themselves drifting, as though they were gliding along a smooth stream, only somehow they passing through clouds and mist.

And when it ended, they found themselves back at the Fabulous Mansion. 86. Back at the Fabulous Mansion, Like I Said

“Are we still in that song.” Asked Eddie, “or are we really back at the Fabulous Mansion?”

“Oh come on, Eddie,” said Mac. “You really should know by now to pay attention to the chapter headings.”

“You must have been visiting the Greatest Artist That Nobody Cares About,” said Mr. Fabulous.

“How did you know?” asked Eddie.

“Well, you’re here, you’re disoriented, and you’re kind of nonplussed,” said Mr. Fabulous. “Also, I may be an old retired racehorse, but it doesn’t mean I can’t read.”

“Oh, Daddy,” said the Fabulous Daughter, “you’re such a character. Say, have you been to visit the artist too?”

“Not me,” said Mr. Fabulous. “There’s no way a horse could fit in that little studio.”

“But do you know anything about the artist?” asked Eddie.

“I only know what people tell me when they’ve arrived,” said Mr. Fabulous, “and they never seem to know much.”

“Does the artist have a name?” asked the Fabulous Daughter. “I forgot to ask.”

“Nobody ever seems to ask,” said Mr. Fabulous. “They can’t even agree on a gender. It’s like the artist disappears and the art takes over. It happens every time.”

“Do you figure it’s true?” asked Eddie. “Did we really visit the Greatest Artist That Nobody Cares About?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Fabulous, “and No.”

“I’d have to agree with that,” said the Fabulous Daughter.

“I don’t get it,” said Eddie. “I mean, an artist is either great or not.“

“That’s the tricky part,” said Mr. Fabulous. “You see, all the artists that people remember as being great are the ones that people care about. Da Vinci…Michelangelo…that what’s-his-name guy that I never know how to pronounce. But how do you rate an artist that nobody cares about? It’s like trying to choose the world’s biggest electron.”

“That’s quite an explanation,” said Mac. “Naw,” said Mr. Fabulous. “That’s just horse sense.”

“So,” said Eddie, “do you figure that the artist got rid of us with that song?”

“No,” said Mr. Fabulous, “I think that it was just a way of saving you the awkwardness of walking out.”

“Yeah,” said Eddie, “I guess you’re right.”

“Hey,” said Open Mike as he entered the room. “What are you guys doing here? Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?” asked Mac.

“Uh-oh,” said Open Mike.

“What’s the problem?” asked Eddie.

“I’d better tell you back at your office,” said Open Mike.

“Oh, my,” said Mac. “If that means what I think it means, we’d better get a ride back right away.”

“Do you really have to go?” asked the Fabulous Daughter.

“I’m afraid so,” said Open Mike. He turned to Mr. Fabulous.

“I’m sure you understand,” said Open Mike.

Mr. Fabulous nodded gravely.

“Daughter,” he said, “why don’t you go out and see if you can cheer up Low Self-Esteem?”

The Fabulous Daughter was crestfallen but obedient.

”Yes, Daddy,” she said as she left.

Just then Mrs. Fabulous bustled into the room. “I’ve got the limo ready and waiting,” she said.

And so Eddie, Mac, and Open Mike rode the limo back to Eddie’s office on West 333rd Street. They waved the driver goodbye as he sped away. Then they looked around. The streets were no longer paved in gold. The sidewalks were no longer decorated with silver. Everything seemed to have returned to its rather dull, ordinary appearance.

They climbed the stairs back to Eddie’s office.

“Looks like the elevator’s busted again,” said Eddie.

“It’s only to be expected,” said Mac.

They re-entered Eddie’s office. It was back to its plain self.

“Don’t worry,” said Open Mike. “The Fabulous Mansion will be all right for now. You know that news takes longer to reach the countryside.”

“What news?” asked Eddie.

“The news that the Screwball Comedy stopped at the end of the last chapter.” 87. False Starts to a Finish

There was a loud SPLOOSH! and Mac was suddenly covered from head to toe in pancake batter.

Eddie looked up at Mac.

“Looks like someone has covered you from head to toe in pancake batter,” he said.

“Yes,” said Mac, “I would never have done such a thing myself.”

“Yeah,” said Eddie. “You’re not the kinda guy who would ever do that.”

******

There was a loud SPLOOSH! and Eddie was suddenly covered from head to toe in pancake batter.

“Don’t just stand there,” he said to Mac. “Start heating up the skillet.”

******

There was a very soft sploosh, and a medium-sized pancake began to heat up on the griddle at the Pancake Palace.

“It’s just a question of placement, timing, and the appropriate degree of moderation,” said Mac.

******

There was a long period of tiny slurps as the Three Little Kittens lapped up the bowl of pancake batter.

“Not bad,” said the Third Little Kitten. “*Burp*”.

******

There was a respectable silence, and Mac was visibly covered from head to toe in elegant clothing.

What else would you expect?

******

There were some asterisks as time passed. The top of the page to ye!

******

There was the sound of “sploosh”, and Open Mike walked into the room.

“What was that for?” asked Eddie.

“I was just practicing saying ‘sploosh’”, said Open Mike. “I just got rejected again by the Art Institute, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.”

“Gee, that’s too bad,” said Eddie. “What happened?”

“I told them I couldn’t draw a straight line,” said Open Mike, “and they asked me to prove it.”

“So did you draw a straight line?” asked Mac.

“I tried,” said Open Mike, “but they told me it looked like a copy of the Mona Lisa.”

“That’s strange,” said Mac. “I thought they made you draw a picture of a pirate.”

“I tried that next,” said Open Mike, “but they said it looked like Susan B. Anthony playing an accordion while riding a unicycle.”

“Did you save the picture?” asked Eddie. “I’d kinda like to see that.”

“No,” said Open Mike, “They gave me a picture of a turtle to draw.”

“And?” said Mac.

“They said it looked almost exactly like a $100 bill,” said Open Mike.

“That could come in handy,” said Mac.

“Except that instead of Ben Franklin,” said Open Mike, “it had a picture of Groucho Marx.”

“Say,” said Eddie, “why don’t you try to draw a picture of the Mona Lisa? Maybe that way it’ll come out as a straight line.”

“I’ll give it a shot,” said Open Mike. “Have you got a piece of paper handy? I’ve still got my purple crayon.” “Sure,” said Eddie. “Here you go.”

And in just a few minutes, Open Mike completed his drawing, which looked exactly like a diploma from the Art Institute made out to Eddie Gumshoe.

“I guess you might as well have it,” said Open Mike.

“Who, me?” said Eddie. “But I can’t even draw a straight line.”

****** If I ate a candy bar, I could tell you all the things you are.

If instead I gobbled two, I could tell you all the things you do.

If I chose to munch down three, I could tell you what you mean to me.

If I chanced to chow down four, I would see if I could eat some more.

If I wound up eating five, I would need a soda to survive.

If I drank just half of it, I would turn into a giant zit.

Having run this ‘round my head, I just think I’ll have some tea instead.

****** Obituaries

1. It’s been a slow week.

Very slow.

Nobody died.

So we got the oldest person in town to do an interview: Q1. To what do you attribute your Unexpected longevity?

A1. I attribute it to my use of Vittamins.

Q2. Don’t you mean “vitamins”?

A2. Yes, that’s what I meant to say. I’m terribly sorry, but I’m feeling a bit Brittish today.

Q3. Don’t you mean “british”?

A3. Whattever.

2. In other almost-obituary news, a religious extremist who was planning on blowing up some people changed his mind, and submitted to the following interview:

Q1. I understand that you consider yourself to be a religious extremist.

A1. Yes, that’s me: extremely religious and religiously extreme.

Q2. And I understand that you were planning on blowing up some people, but changed your mind. Why is that?

A2. I just decided to pray instead. I think that it’s even more religious and more extreme. Heck, anybody can blow people up these days, but having the Supreme Being do it, well now, that would be really something.

Q3. So what happened?

A3. Nothing. I guess it was just the Will of the Almighty.

3. Meanwhile, a nearby county was reportedly the scene of a drive-by greeting.

Q1. So this is the location where the incident occurred?

A1. Yep, I was standing here getting my mail from out of the box.

Q2. From out of the box?

A2. Yep, my postman either has lousy aim or a different way of thinking.

Q3. And what happened? A3. Well, Old Zeb was driving his tractor around the corner, and he comes a-whizzing by, and the next thing I know he hollers out to me.

Q4. And just what did he say?

A4. He said “Howdy”.

4. Finally, we have just confirmed that, in a nearby house, four puppies were born. That’s not exactly obituary material, but it’s a close as we could get this week. I mean, technically, birth is kind of like death, only at the other end of the spectrum. Come on people, work with me a little.

******

I defy you to think about pancakes now.

Really?

Well then, very good. Well done. 88. The Keys on a Piano

If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I haven’t seen one. It saw me first. This chapter has eighty-eight letters. 89. A Complete Departure

Enough was enough.

It was time for a complete departure.

Something that would have nothing to do with anything else in any of the stories.

This chapter was to be the first one after the breakaway.

“What’s going on?” asked Eddie.

“It seems to be something about a new chapter that would have nothing to do with any of the previous chapters,” said Mac.

“Uh-oh,” said Open Mike.

“What’s the problem?” asked Eddie.

“I think we messed it up,” said Open Mike.

“I think you’re right,” said Mac. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be in this chapter.”

“How come?” asked Eddie.

“Well,” said Mac, “I think that the idea was that there would be a complete change, something totally unrelated to anything that had come before.”

“Like a different universe?” asked Open Mike. “What a dumb idea.”

“What’s so dumb about that?” asked Eddie.

“It’s based on the definition of the word ‘universe’,” said Open Mike. “The idea is that the universe is the single totality, encompassing everything.”

“What about parallel universes?” asked Mac. “They seem to pop up all over the place in science fiction.”

“The concept of multiple universes may seem to be expansive,” said the Third Little Kitten, “but it is simply the demonstration of a very limited notion of what constitutes the universe, which must by definition contain every possible and impossible manifestation of itself.”

“He’s right, you know,” said Open Mike. “What’s more,” added the Second Little Kitten, “because absolutely everything is contained within the universe, everything is an occupant of the universe, along with everything else.”

“Hence,” said the First Little Kitten, “there can be no true complete separation from everything else. However distant any two things or concepts may be, they still coexist within the universe.”

“So I guess we didn’t really mess up the chapter, after all,” said Open Mike.

“You didn’t invalidate it,” said the Third Little Kitten. “On the other hand, you may have still messed it up to some extent if it was supposed to be an all-cat chapter.” 90. Irritating Subchapters

A. Alliterative Aleck

Alliterative Aleck got on everyone’s nerves almost right away.

B. Repetitive Ralph Ralph

Repetitive Ralph Ralph got sent home from school immediately after the roll-call. He even got sent home from Dog Obedience School.

C. A Successful Failure

Oh, shut up. 91. The Famous Artist

The most famous artist of all time lay dying.

The famous artist’s voice was known all over the world, but now that voice was gone. The famous artist’s breath was gone as well, and the famous artist’s mind was not far behind.

A song that no-one else would ever hear was ringing in the famous artist’s ears:

Everybody thinks they know about me. They know my face, and the name I chose to go by. They know the songs I sang, and the pictures that I made, And I made a lot of money in my time.

The popular consensus was my compass, Promoters knew with me they couldn’t lose, They could count on me to tell them what I knew they’d want to hear, And I never ever ever told the truth.

I plied my craft and art For the sake of playing smart But somewhere I forgot About my heart.

And all the people know of my successes, The industry awards that I received, And even one or two of my excesses, But they’ll never ever know what I believed.

And everything I tried was so successful And everything turned out the way I planned And everyone would listen to the product that I sold But they’ll never ever ever understand.

My fortune still remains, but in someone else’s hands. My name has been engraved in every hall, But the work that now survives is a monument of lies, It’s worse than if I’d never lived at all. 92. The Wheel

AngryBoy was angry, but it wasn’t about his name.

AngryBoy was angry about the wheel.

He’d roll around the town, loudly denouncing the wheel, and challenging the inventor to meet him face-to-face.

If anyone pointed out that the inventor had long since died, he just said that they didn’t know what they were talking about.

AngryBoy had certain definite ideas about what he wanted to do, and sometimes he bought a wheel that was too small for what he had in mind, or which was too large for him to push as easily as he’d imagined, or that rolled downhill before he was ready. Occasionally he would overload a wheel, and it would break.

All of this made AngryBoy very angry.

If anyone pointed out that the wheel had limited functions, he just said that they didn’t know what they were talking about.

If anyone pointed out that things sometimes break, he just said that they didn’t know what they were talking about.

AngryBoy was angry because the wheel did not fly.

AngryBoy was angry because the wheel was not square.

AngryBoy was angry because the wheel did not come when he called.

AngryBoy wanted to be famous and successful and admired. He wanted the world to hear all of his ideas, and to understand his hopes, wishes, and dreams.

But all that anyone knew was that AngryBoy was angry at the inventor of the wheel, as he rode around the town shouting from his tricycle. 93. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 1

Johnny Twinklehead had a hat. He bought some cheap light-up necklaces and wrapped them around the hat. At night, he could turn on the necklaces and they would make his hat twinkle brightly. This was useful in that it made him visible so that motorists could avoid running over him by mistake. This was also useful in that it made him visible so that motorists would have an easier target if they wanted to run over him on purpose.

Johnny Twinklehead’s hat was not the only thing that twinkled. Of course, the stars also twinkled, and moonlight on running water also twinkled, and things specifically designed for the purpose of twinkling also twinkled (unless there was a malfunction of some sort), but the other thing that twinkled was Johnny Twinklehead’s head. Johnny Twinklehead’s head twinkled with ideas…for awhile at least.

Johnny Twinklehead was not a horse, so there was no discussion over whether or not his name was appropriate. Neither was he a horticulturist, so you can stop that sort of thinking right now.

Johnny Twinklehead went for walks, and, not surprisingly, this resulted in him going places. When he went for walks and went places, he would also have adventures, which is not surprising for anyone who reads the chapter headings.

“Again with the chapter headings?!”

Yup.

Sometimes Johnny Twinklehead would come back with things that he had gotten on his adventures. Mostly blisters on his feet. It depended on how long he walked. But sometimes he would come back with ideas. Almost always nice ideas. If the ideas were not nice, he didn’t bring them back. Sometimes the ideas were silly, but they were still also essentially nice.

Johnny Twinklehead went to quite a number of places.

One time he wandered through a forest, and there in the forest was a clearing, and there in the clearing was a hill, and there in the hill was a cave, and from out of the cave he could hear animated conversation:

“Extraordinary!”

“Remarkable!”

“Disgusting!”

“You’re misinterpreting it! It’s obviously not intended to be taken literally!” “That looks like a hieroglyph.”

“If you ask me, it’a loweroglyph.”

“I’m not even sure the action described in the last sequence is even physically possible.”

“Certainly not before the discovery of fire and the invention of the wheel.”

“Is that animal what I think it is?”

“I hope not. Besides, I don’t think that yaks were an indigenous species during the period in question.”

Johnny Twinklehead decided not to intrude, so he walked off and continued on his way.

That’s why he never realized that he had overheard a group of Anthropologists discussing their most recent find: the earliest known obscene graffiti. 94. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 2

Presently Johnny Twinklehead came upon another clearing. This clearing was decorated with a number of different-colored balloons, all bearing the same message: “It’s a balloon!”

These were not the first decorative balloons that Johnny Twinklehead had seen: there had been balloons bearing messages like “Congratulations!”, “Happy Birthday!”, “It’s a Boy!”, and “It’s a Girl!”, among others. But of all the balloon-messages he had yet seen, this newest group brought him the greatest satisfaction.

Later on, he found a small scrap of limp rubber which bore the caption “It was a Balloon.” 95. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 3

Then Johnny Twinklehead heard a sound. It was a sound like something small moving among dried leaves, or maybe it was the sound of leaves brushing against one another, having been set into motion by something small moving among them.

Before Johnny Twinklehead could make a further analysis of the nature of the sound, a squirrel popped his head out from behind a shrub, and said “It’s me!”

Ever prepared (except for those occasions on which he wasn’t), Johnny Twinklehead tossed a peanut to the squirrel, who said “Thanks! I don’t get very many peanuts here in the middle of the forest. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Russel, and the sound you heard is my trademark, or, if you will, my audible signature.”

But then there was another sound nearby, and Johnny Twinklehead turned to look. There he saw two squirrels of roughly equal size engaged in some sort of physical contest at close quarters. Sometimes one of the squirrels would be on top, but then the other one would reverse the position, and although neither seemed to be sustaining any injury, they both kept up a frenetic pace.

“Oh, don’t worry about them,” said the first squirrel. “They’re just playing, as usual. The one on top is my brother Rassel, and the other one---the one on the bottom---no, wait, now he’s on top---oh, now he’s on the bottom again---well, anyway, the other one is my other brother Tussel.”

“They certainly have a lot of energy,” observed Johnny Twinklehead. “Do you have any sisters?”

“Only one,” said Russel, “but I don’t see her very often. She’s gone into show business in town, they say. She supposedly performs under the name of Tassel. We don’t talk about her much.”

“That’s because it’s not fitting,” said another squirrel.

“Oh,” said Russel. “I didn’t see you come up. Let me introduce my cousin Yussel. He’s kind of traditional.”

“This whole forest is traditional,” said Yussel. “It’s founded on Nature’s Laws. That’s why we call it Natural Growth Forest.”

“Did someone call me?” said a rasping voice.

The squirrels immediately scampered back into the underbrush at the sound.

“I didn’t think so,” said the voice. Johnny Twinklehead turned to face the figure from whom the rasping voice came. He was old, ragged, and partially covered with wet leaves. His grey hair was long and matted, and his beard was a tangle.

“Who are you?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“Well,” replied the figure, “that seems to be a matter of opinion. I like to call myself Natural Growth Forrest, but most folks refer to me by my nickname, which is Natural Gross Forrest. I don’t mind, really. It comes from sleeping outdoors in the rain, I guess.”

“I couldn’t help noticing that the squirrels ran away when you came up,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Oh, that’s just because I ran out of peanuts a long time ago,” replied Natural Gross Forrest. “Nowadays they think I’m just a nuisance.”

“Let me introduce myself. My name is Johnny Twinklehead,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

(Note to discerning readers: You may feel that it is redundant, or at least unnecessary, to specify that it was Johnny Twinklehead who introduced himself as Johnny Twinklehead. That may be so, but consider the other possibilities: a. One of the squirrels could have returned and attempted to impersonate Johnny Twinklehead. b. Natural Gross Forrest could have declared himself to be Johnny Twinklehead, possibly another effect of sleeping outdoors in the rain. c. Some large carnivore could have introduced himself as Johnny Twinklehead with the object of lulling everyone into a false sense of security and thereby gaining some sort of advantage. d. The reader might have felt such a strong sense of identification that he (or she) felt compelled to declare himself (or herself) (or itself) (or plantself) (or rockself) (or some sort of being not hitherto accounted forself) to be Johnny Twinklehead. e. A great nation, nay, an entire civilization, could have arisen as one and boldly declared “We Are All Johnny Twinklehead, sort of.”

Therefore, discerning readers are requested to indulge the author in the occasional clarifying statement. After all, are you entirely certain whether or not this parenthetical aside even applies to you?)

“Never mind all that,” said Natural Gross Forrest (who had an extraordinary ability to perceive parenthetical narrative comments), “come with me to my cave and I will show you my collection of discarded bottles which I have carefully cleaned and filled with a special beverage of my own invention.” “Sure,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “Anything to get away from those parenthetical narrative comments.”

And so Johnny Twinklehead followed Natural Gross Forrest into his cave.

It was better than you’d expect, actually. It was dry, and orderly, and when the candles were lit it was fairly impressive with its rows upon rows of bottles of various shapes and sizes neatly arrayed upon the shelves. When the candles were not lit it was dark, but on this occasion the candles were lit. Also Johnny Twinklehead’s hat was twinkling (remember?).

(Note to discerning readers: Shut up and leave well enough alone.)

“Have a seat,” said Natural Gross Forrest. “The journey of ten thousand drinks begins with nine- thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine drinks, so we’d better get started.”

Natural Gross Forrest took one of the bottles from a nearby shelf, opened it, and offered it to Johnny Twinklehead, who took a precautionary sniff.

“Don’t worry,” said Natural Gross Forrest. “There’s no alcohol content at all.”

“This smells like root beer,” said Johnny Twinklehead, and he took a sip.

Natural Gross Forrest just sat and smiled patiently.

“It even tastes like root beer,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

”It is root beer,” said Natural Gross Forrest. “Here, try this one.”

And with that, Natural Gross Forrest pulled out another bottle, opened it, and handed it to Johnny Twinklehead.

Johnny Twinklehead took a sip from the new bottle, and said “This tastes like root beer as well.”

“I know,” said Natural Gross Forrest. “I just really like root beer.”

So they sat awhile and sipped their root beer.

"Don't put all your metaphors into one aphorism," said Natural Gross Forrest.

“What?” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Oh, it’s just a wise saying I made up,” said Natural Gross Forrest, “and, although it occurred to me only today, if anyone had said it to William Makepeace Thackeray back in the 19th century, Thackeray would have been credited with the invention of the popular expression ‘Meh’.” And it was at this point in the conversation that all the readers, both discerning and otherwise, completely lost interest in the doings and sayings of Natural Gross Forrest. 96. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, Part 4

One day Johnny Twinklehead walked a long, long way, even for him.

This was fine for awhile, but then it occurred to him that he had been walking continuously for several hours while carrying nothing but a leftover drinking straw from a soft drink he had finished earlier.

“Even the greatest boxers of the modern era got to sit down every three minutes,” he reflected.

Then he reflected some more.

“This seems to me to be a great observation, but maybe I've been walking out in the sun too long,” he thought.

So Johnny Twinklehead sat down.

It was then that he had a visitation from The Leg Cramp Fairy.

Zing, went the Leg Cramp Fairy.

“You are very generous,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

Sproing, went the Leg Cramp Fairy.

“Really, you are too kind,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

Woggeda-woggeda-woggeda-woggeda-woggeda, went the thing that goes Woggeda-woggeda- woggeda-woggeda-woggeda.

“That last bit wasn’t really necessary,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Sorry,” said the thing that goes Woggeda-woggeda-woggeda-woggeda-woggeda. “I thought it might take your mind off of the leg cramps.” Then it went Woggeda-woggeda-woggeda- woggeda-woggeda again as it disappeared into the distance.

“I wonder if there is some kind of Leg Cramp Relief Fairy,” thought Johnny Twinklehead.

Then there was a faint light, a kind of flickering at the edge of the path. It grew brighter and brighter, and gradually coalesced into the translucent image of a tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue.

“Are you the Leg Cramp Relief Fairy?” asked Johnny Twinklehead. “Are you nuts?” asked the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “Do I look like the Leg Cramp Relief Fairy? I mean really, gimme a break.”

“Sorry,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “I guess it was just wishful thinking.”

“Sure,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “Wishful thinking is what brought me here.”

“Who are you?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“Well,” said tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue, ”for this bit I’m the Fairy Fairy.”

“The Fairy Fairy?” asked Johnny Twinklehead. “Please forgive me, but I’ve been walking out in the sun for a long time, and I fear that my judgement is somewhat impaired. Could you explain?”

“You’ve probably heard about fairies granting wishes,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue, “but haven’t you ever wondered where the fairies themselves come from? I mean, seriously?”

“After all those hours walking out in the sun, I think I was probably just getting around to that,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Well, wonder no more, Kiddo,” said the Fairy Fairy. “They come from me.”

“How ever do you do it?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“I just wave my wand, and a fairy appears,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “It’s kinda my thing, ya know.”

“Can you show me?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“I dunno,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “I think I left my wand somewhere.”

“I’ve got a leftover drinking straw from a soft drink I drank earlier,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “Will that help?”

“Have you got any leftover soft drink?” asked the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “I wanna wet my whistle.”

“Sorry,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “Well, gimme the straw anyway,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “I mean, how bad could it be?”

And so Johnny Twinklehead gave his leftover drinking straw to the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue.

“This straw is bent,” she said.

“It probably happened when I sat down just before the Leg Cramp Fairy came,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

It was that kind of conversation.

“Now that I think of it,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “I wonder what became of the Leg Cramp Fairy after she was so generous to me.”

“What?” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “You want more?”

Then they both decided to change the subject, so no-one ever said that the Leg Cramp Fairy had ridden away on the thing that went Woggeda-woggeda-woggeda-woggeda-woggeda as it disappeared into the distance, so perhaps that woggeda bit really was necessary after all, or, if not strictly necessary, at least somewhat advantageous for Johnny Twinklehead. It seems that some creatures just go woggeda-woggeda-woggeda-woggeda-woggeda when they run (regardless of whether they are approaching or retreating).

At least that one did.

And they never got to thank it.

“Shut up,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue to the Overly Busy Narrator, “and lemme just wave this stupid straw already.”

So the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue waved the slightly bent leftover drinking straw, and, in the twinkling of an eye, a Fairy appeared.

“Hello, I’m the Bad Pun Fairy,” It said.

“You sound more like the Exposition Fairy,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Hey, what do you expect from a leftover drinking straw?” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue.

“Sorry,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “Yes, well, I’m still the Bad Pun Fairy,” said the Bad Pun Fairy, “just in case you had forgotten about me.”

“Do all the girls love you?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“No,” said the Bad Pun Fairy, “a lot of girls don’t much care for bad puns, but it doesn’t bother me.”

“Why not?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“Because I don’t care,” said the Bad Pun Fairy.

“Oh,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “I couldn’t help noticing that you haven’t made a single bad pun since you arrived.”

“I’m on my break,” said the Bad Pun Fairy. “Besides, I prefer to play to a larger audience. Bigger groans, you know. Are you sure you don’t have any leftover soft drink?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “Sorry.”

“Well then,” said the Bad Pun Fairy, “is it OK if I leave now? I’ve got a calling to invade the head of some guy who’s in the middle of delivering a sermon.”

“Far be it from me to stand in your way,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Actually,” said the Bad Pun Fairy, ”it’s not that far. Could you scooch a little to your left so I can get a good takeoff?”

And so Johnny Twinklehead scooched a little to his left, and the Bad Pun Fairy flew off into the distance.

“That was some pretty fancy scooching,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue.

“Thanks,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “I think it worked out well for everyone concerned. And thank you for the fairy-summoning demonstration.”

“Wait,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “I’m not done yet.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “I don’t really need any more Bad Pun Fairies.”

“Yeah,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue, “but I got an idea.”

And so she waved the straw again, and another fairy appeared. “Well?” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue.

“Well what?” asked the new fairy.

“Are you the fairy I tried to summon?” asked the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue.

“I dunno,” said the new fairy. “Who were you trying to reach?”

“I was trying to get the Wand Fairy,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “Using a leftover drinking straw for a magic wand isn’t good for quality control.”

“Sorry,” said the new fairy. “I’m the Asinine Fairy.” 97. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, Part 5

“What?” said Johnny Twinklehead. “The Asinine Fairy?”

“But of course, and Yes!” replied the Asinine Fairy. “And now I would like to perform The Song of the Urban Cyclist:

Please don’t open your car door, Momma, Please don’t open your door, Y’know I like things just the way they are…

Please don’t open your car door, Poppa, Please don’t open your door, Please don’t open the door of your parked car.

When you see me comin’, rest a beat, Just stay put in the driver’s seat, Please remain exactly where you are…

‘Cause when you open the door as I ride by, It hits my bike and off I fly, Please don’t open the door of your parked car.

If you want to drive away, Just signal first, it’ll be OK, As long as you pull out nice and slow I’ll be glad to wait and let you go, but

Please don’t open your car door, Brother, Please don’t open your door, Y’know I like things just the way they are…

Please don’t open your car door, Sister, Please don’t open your door, Please don’t open the door of your parked car.”

“Yep,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “Hearing is believing. Now show me what can you do with a leftover drinking straw.”

“Oh, Goody Goody and Mirabile Dictaphone!” said the Asinine Fairy as she seized the leftover drinking straw. “Just watch this!”

Then the Asinine Fairy waved the leftover drinking straw while uttering an incantation that doesn’t even bear repeating, and there was a puff of red-and-yellow polka-dot smoke, then suddenly the Asinine Fairy was either gone and replaced by, or had been mysteriously transformed into, a tall grey-haired man of stately bearing.

“Red-and-yellow polka-dot smoke?” said Johnny Twinklehead. “Now, that was impressive.”

“And Asinine,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “Okay, we get it. Now who are you supposed to be?”

“I…” said the grey-haired man, “I…am...Dramatis Personae!!”

“Oh,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue.

“Oh?! Just ‘Oh?!?!?’” said Dramatis Personae. “That will never do! Do you not realize who you are dealing with?!? I am Dramatis Personae!!”

Yeah,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “So?”

“So?! Just ‘So?!?!?’” said Dramatis Personae. “That will never do! Do you not realize who you are dealing with?!? I am Dramatis Personae!! I make everything More Exciting!”

“Do all the girls love you?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

Dramatis Personae gave Johnny Twinklehead a look somewhere between disdain and pity. “Sir…” he said, “all the ‘girls’, as you call them, regard me with awe.”

“Oh, okay,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “So how does it work? Gimme a demonstration.”

“First,” said Dramatis Personae, “give me a situation!”

“Okay,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “I think I’ve got one: suppose I can’t remember where I put my house-key?”

“You wish to learn the Unknown!” cried Dramatis Personae.

“Yeah, I guess,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “but can you help me find it?”

Dramatis Personae paused, then shook his head gravely.

“So what CAN you do?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“I can provide you with a colorful way in which to express your vexation at your predicament!” said Dramatis Personae. “Look closely at my costume!” Johnny Twinklehead blinked. He had been so overwhelmed by the grey-haired man’s posture and manner of speaking that he had never really examined him.

The man was dressed elegantly, in a kind of quasi-nautical costume resembling that of a Ship’s Captain of the Victorian Era. His tall boots were of elegant black leather. His trousers were a pristine white. His coat was a deep, dark blue. But on each shoulder he bore the vilest-looking scrub-brushes, all caked in brown and green slime, that Johnny Twinklehead, the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue, or you, or I, or anyone and their relatives (both living and deceased) had ever seen.

“Oh,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “I get it: those are military epithets. I guess that’s what happens when you hang around with a lot of sailors.”

Then the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue grabbed the leftover drinking straw from the hands of the grey-haired man and waved it. The man disappeared in a puff of relatively normal-looking magic smoke (it was a bit of a letdown) only to be replaced by a tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige.

“Hello,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige. “Would you like me to tell you a story?”

“No,” said tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue. “I want you to get me a decent magic wand.”

“Sorry,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige. “I only tell stories.”

“Maybe you could tell us a story about someone finding a decent magic wand somewhere around here,” suggested Johnny Twinklehead.

“I can try,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige. “We’ll just see where the story goes.”

“Yeah, well, whatever,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue.

And so the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige began her story:

“This is the story of The Old Man and the Young Lady.”

“What’s with all the old men in this rag?” asked the Reader.

“Do you really want to start asking questions now?” said the Overly Busy Narrator.

And so the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige resumed her story: “Once upon a time, there was a Nice Young Lady. One day when she was walking in the park, she noticed an Old Man sitting on a bench feeding bread crumbs to the ducks. She was a little surprised by this because there was no duck pond for miles around, but nevertheless, there they were -- the ducks, that is -- gobbling up the bread crumbs as fast as the Old Man could toss them, or at least at a competitive rate. Some tosses were faster than others.

And so the Nice Young Lady sat down on the bench next to the Old Man, and she watched as he fed the bread crumbs to the ducks.

Finally the Old Man spoke.

‘How do you do?’ he said. ‘You may be wondering why it is that I am feeding these ducks when there is no duck pond for miles around.’

‘Why yes,’ said the Nice Young Lady. ‘I was wondering that very thing, and, by the way, I’m doing very well, thank you.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said the Old Man. ‘I wonder about it myself sometimes. Then, after I’ve wondered about it for awhile, I usually stop wondering about it.’

‘Why is that?’ asked the Nice Young Lady.

‘At my age,’ said the Old Man, ‘I sometimes forget what I’m doing, and then I wonder about it, and sometimes I figure it out, but later on I forget what I figured out. I have found that sometimes it’s enough to just know that I’ve figured something out without having to remember exactly what it was. Then there are other times when I don’t figure it out, but I’ve decided that sometimes it’s not necessary to figure out everything…and then, eventually, I run out of bread crumbs, and it’s time to go get some more. Does that make sense?’

‘Sure, it’s great,’ said the ducks. ‘Just keep throwing.’

‘Would it help if I threw some bread crumbs too?’ asked the Nice Young Lady.

‘That would be fantastic,’ said the ducks.

And so the Nice Young Lady helped the Old Man feed bread crumbs to the ducks every day, and in time they became good friends. The Nice Young Lady and the Old Man, that is: the ducks were actually indifferent, as long as the crumbs kept coming.

There was one thing that made the Nice Young Lady sad; she was young and healthy, but the Old Man was weak and frail. She sometimes wondered what he must have been like when he was younger, but she didn’t mention it to him for fear of hurting his feelings. Nevertheless, each night at bedtime, the Nice Young Lady would make a wish that the Old Man could be made young and strong and be well again.

The Old Man just wished that the price of bread wouldn’t keep going up.

Several weeks passed this way.

Then, one night, a Magical Fairy appeared before the Old Man.

‘I have heard your wishes,’ said the Magical Fairy, ‘and I have come to help you. Would you like to have a decent Magic Wand of your Very Own?’

‘No thanks,’ said the Old Man. ‘At my age, I’d probably just forget and leave it lying around somewhere. Can you do anything about the price of bread?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said the Magical Fairy. ‘I’m not allowed to interfere with the mechanics of the marketplace.’

‘That’s all right,’ said the Old Man. ‘One of the nice things about being an Old Man is that I don’t need much, or if I do, I can’t think of it.’

‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’ asked the Magical Fairy.

‘Not that I can think of,’ said the Old Man. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ said the Magical Fairy, and she flew away.

Later on, the Old Man decided he could use a glass of cool water.

‘Nuts,’ he said.

And so, later on that same night, a Magical Fairy appeared before the Nice Young Lady.

‘I have heard your wishes,’ said the Magical Fairy, ‘and I have come to help you. Would you like to have a decent Magic Wand of your Very Own?’

‘No thanks,’ said the Nice Young Lady.”

“These people are idiots,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue.

Then the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige continued her story:

“’Is there anything else I can do to help you?’ asked the Magical Fairy. ‘Why, yes,’ said the Nice Young Lady. ‘I have a very dear friend who I meet in the park every day. He’s kind and gentle, but he’s also old and weak and frail. Could you cast a magic spell to make him young and strong and healthy again?’

‘What a lovely wish,’ said the Magical Fairy. ‘So unselfish. Yes, I will be happy to grant your wish. Go to sleep now, and when you awaken your wish will have come true.’

And so the Magical Fairy waved her wand once, and the Nice Young Lady went into a deep sleep. Then the Magical Fairy waved her wand once more, and flew away into the night.

And the very next morning, the Old Man woke up and saw that he had become young again, and he bounded out of bed, got dressed, and went to the market and bought a double-load of bread for the ducks. Then he raced over to the park and beheld a familiar figure waiting on the bench in the distance.

‘Hello!’ he said. ‘You’ll never guess what has happened.’

The figure looked up. “Oh, I’ve got a pretty fair idea,’ she said.

It was the Nice Young Lady, only she was no longer young and healthy. Just overnight, she had become as old and weak and frail as the Old Man had been the day before.”

“What a disappointing ending,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige. “They both died later on anyway. Even the ducks. Especially the ducks.”

“Why do you say ‘especially the ducks’?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“Because there were so many more of them to die,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige.

“You know,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue, “you’re a pretty lousy storyteller.”

“I’m just more honest than the others,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige. “All those people in the other fairy tales who lived happily ever after? They died, too. That’s the way it goes, even in Fairy Tales.”

“I forgot to ask,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “What kind of fairy are you?”

“Me?” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige. “I’m the ‘Yeah, Well, You Know’ Fairy.” “I think it’s time we met another Fairy,” said the Reader.

“What kind of Fairy would you like to meet?” asked the Overly Busy Narrator.

“How about the Going Somewhere Else Fairy?” said the Reader.

“OK by me,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue.

“That reminds me of another story,” said the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in beige.

But before she could start her new story, the Going Somewhere Else Fairy appeared carrying two wands, gave one to the tall, beautiful, magical Winged Lady all dressed in blue, waved the remaining wand, and you’ll never guess what happened next. 98. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, Part 6

After that, Johnny Twinklehead went to a lot of places.

In the Land of Non Sequitur, Johnny Twinklehead tried eating sleep. “There’s no telling what you can do with a good nap in your stomach,” he said.

“What an idiotic thing to say,” said a voice from The Future. Only not yet, because it was in The Future.

In the Land of Anachronism, Johnny met a Wooden Indian named Running Gag who was sitting outside a cigar store. Both were out of favor. That is, both the Wooden Indian and the Cigar Store.

“Hello,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Are you intoxicated?” asked the Wooden Indian.

“No,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “Why do you ask?”

“You are the first person who has ever spoken to me who wasn’t intoxicated,” said the Wooden Indian. “Most other people don’t like me very much.”

“Why wouldn’t they like you?” asked Johnny Twinklehead. “You seem nice enough.”

“Some people don’t like me because they say I represent tobacco products,” said the Wooden Indian, “and that tobacco is unhealthy. Some people don’t like me because they say I represent a stereotyped depiction of an oppressed people. As for other people, I don’t know. All I know is that people who are not intoxicated don’t usually talk to me. That makes you unusual. My name is Running Gag. Who are you?”

“My name is Johnny Twinklehead,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“That may explain why you are not terribly selective in your choice of company,” said the Wooden Indian. “But never mind. Perhaps you would enjoy a gathering with some of my friends in the back room of the store.”

“What kind of gathering is it?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“It is a meeting of Whimsically-Named Roman Emperors,” said the Wooden Indian. “Your name will not be conspicuous there.” And so Johnny Twinklehead went to the room in the back of the cigar store. There he found several stately-looking marble statues, all gathered around a marble table while sitting on marble benches, and they were engaged in convivial conversation.

“Hello,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “the Wooden Indian sent me.”

“Oh yeah,” said the one of the statues. “He’s out of favor in his old time, so he’s come here to live in the Land of Anachronism with us.”

Johnny looked closely at the statue as the Overly Busy Narrator described it: it was made of white marble, wonderfully carved, but it looked much older and heavier than the others. Indeed, its stomach protruded so that it appeared to sway slightly as it hung down from behind its white marble robe.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the statue. “I am the Emperor Pendulous.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “I’m Johnny Twinklehead.”

“That explains why you were sent here,” said the statue. “You are probably not terribly selective in your choice of company. But never mind. Allow me to introduce my companions.”

A tall, shrouded statue arose silently from its seat at the table. It appeared to be surrounded by clouds.

“I can introduce myself,” said the shrouded statue. “I am the Emperor Nebulous.”

As the shrouded statue sat down, another statue rose. It actually leapt to its feet with a flourish. “And I,” it exclaimed, “am the Emperor Fabulous!”

“You know,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “that would be a wonderful thing to call a horse. I am pleased to meet you.”

“’A wonderful thing to call a horse’?” asked another statue. “What kind of a thing is THAT to say?!”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” said the Emperor Fabulous. “And don’t pay any attention to my friend here. He’s always like that.”

“Of course I’m always like that!” snapped the offended statue. “I am the Emperor Querulous!”

“I meant no offense,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Never mind that,” said the smallest statue, “but you’d better beat it anyway!” “What’s the problem?” asked the Emperor Fabulous.

“You-Know-Who is coming!” said the little statue.

“Oh dear,” said the Emperor Fabulous. “That would be the Emperor Garrulous. Once he gets started, there’s no shutting him up. But I wouldn’t worry about it. After all, he’s one of us.”

“Don’t you believe him!” said the little statue. “You’d better run while you still have the chance!”

Johnny Twinklehead looked questioningly at the Elder Statue.

“Perhaps it would be safer if you did leave,” it said. “I never believed the saying that the Emperor Garrulous could talk the ears off a marble statue, but it appears that you are not a marble statue, and may therefore be vulnerable.”

And so Johnny Twinklehead bid a precautionary farewell to the Whimsically-Named Roman Emperors Pendulous, Nebulous, Fabulous, Querulous, and Heebie-Jeebie.

Going out the back door into the alleyway, Johnny Twinklehead accidentally took a detour through the Land of Sex and Violence, but no-one one took any notice of him as they all seemed to be busy. Johnny did learn a couple of things through observation, but he never used them except maybe metaphorically.

Then Johnny Twinklehead wandered into The Land of Uncertainty, but he may not have actually been there.

Wherever he was, he was walking along when he heard a roaring sound coming up from behind him. When he turned in the direction of the sound, he saw a man dressed in black leather riding a large motorcycle. The motorcycle pulled up alongside Johnny Twinklehead and came to a halt.

“Howdy,” said the driver. “My name is Flaming Rex, and this is my motorcycle which has no name. Where are you going?”

“Well,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “ultimately, to Death and Dissipation.”

“What a coincidence!” said Flaming Rex. “That’s where I’m going too.”

“It’s a fairly universal destination,” observed Johnny Twinklehead.

“Maybe,” said Flaming Rex, “but I know a shortcut! The only thing is, is it ‘Death and Dissipation’, or the other way around?”

“I think ‘Death and Dissipation’ sounds better,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “Funny, I always preferred ‘Dissipation and Death’,” said Flaming Rex. “It sounds like more fun.”

“True, but ‘Death and Dissipation’ is quicker,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Good point,” said Flaming Rex. “How can we decide?”

“I know!” said Johnny Twinklehead. “Let’s take a vote.”

“Okay,” said Flaming Rex.

“Now then,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “all those in favor of ‘Dissipation and Death’, raise your hand.”

Nobody raised a hand.

“What happened?” asked Johnny Twinklehead. “I thought you preferred ‘Dissipation and Death’.”

“I do,” said Flaming Rex, “but I only vote in Presidential Elections.”

“Oh,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“I have an idea,” said Flaming Rex. “Let’s go to the World’s Most Intimate Nightclub.”

“All right,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

So they went to the World’s Most Intimate Nightclub.

“Hello,” said The Man Outside, “Welcome to the World’s Most Intimate Nightclub.”

“Oh, goody,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “We’ve come to the right place. Table for two, please.”

“Sorry,” said The Man Outside, “but there’s only seating for one.”

“Seating for one?” asked Johnny Twinklehead. “What if I wanted to bring a date?”

“If you want a date,” said The Man Outside, “I recommend that you just bring a photo of someone you like.”

“Boy,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “this really IS the World’s Most Intimate Nightclub.”

“You bet it is,” said The Man Outside. “The drinks are served intravenously to save space. The Standup comedian leans in through the window. Your Waitress slides food through a slot in the door. Open Mic night means you can sing to yourself. Playing with yourself is not usually allowed because there’s no room for instruments, and if you smuggle in a harmonica or a kazoo, you had better watch your elbows.”

Johnny Twinklehead and Flaming Rex exchanged glances. For those who are keeping track, they came out about even.

“I guess that means the two of us can’t go in together,” said Flaming Rex, “but I’m still kinda hungry. Do you have carryout?”

“Sorry,” said The Man Outside, “there’s no room for the machine. Like I said, you just have to sing to yourself.”

“No,” said Flaming Rex, “I mean, can we just buy something to take with us?”

“Oh, that,” said The Man Outside. “Yeah, sure.”

So Johnny Twinklehead bought a bottle of cold cola.

Flaming Rex ordered a Cheeseburger to go, but it just stayed where it was so he had to pick it up and take it with him.

“I’ve decided to eat it at my house,” said Flaming Rex as they walked back to the motorcycle.

“You own your own house?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“Yeah,” said Flaming Rex, “I recently had it redecorated in the Classic Uncertainty Style.”

“What kind style is that?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“Well,” said Flaming Rex, “it’s part Old French, part Modern American. Beyond that, I’m not sure what it is. I call it ‘Chez Wha?’”

“What a terrible thing to call a house,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Yeah, I dunno, peut-etre, or at least maybe,” said Flaming Rex. “Remember, we’re still in the Land of Uncertainty…I think. You wanna come along?”

“Doubtful,” said Johnny Twinklehead. 99. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, part 7

And so Flaming Rex rode his motorcycle home, and Johnny Twinklehead kept on walking until he reached The Land of Encores.

He could tell that he was in the Land of Encores because there was a brightly-lit banner which said “Welcome to the Land of Encores”.

Below the banner there was a band of six pretty girls who sang the following song:

“Welcome to the Land of Tout Encore, Where everyone comes back and does a little bit more, And even though you feel you’re getting near the end, It’s nice to see that everyone is back again.”

Then The Guy Who Explains Everything came out and said:

“Some of you will be pleased by the news I am about to relate, and some of you will be disappointed. I have been studying the various rumors which have been circulating about what people refer to as “The Beastings”. Some stories I have heard speak of a strange new kind of animal life which lurks unseen but propagates at a prodigious rate. Some say that these creatures are wilder and more ruthless than any previously known. Some are working on developing a screenplay in order to cash in on this fearful phenomenon.

However, I have discovered that the original warning referred merely to avoiding getting stung by bees. And so another piece of potentially lucrative folklore bites the dust.”

Then Johnny Twinklehead noticed a beautiful but passionless figure standing next to him. The figure held a small jar in her hand. The jar contained a small amount of water and a Trilobite, who was heard to say “I couldn’t make much sense of that. I suppose it’s another one of those new things that came about after my time.”

“That’s all right,” murmured the figure into the jar. “You didn’t really miss anything.”

Then the figure calmly walked away, carrying the jar and its occupant off into the woods, past a small four-toed horse who was browsing on the leaves of a bush.

Then suddenly a trumpet sounded, and many cries arose from all around. Soon Johnny Twinklehead found himself in a great swarm of people who were running about in panic. Soon he was able to make out a few of the cries which rose above the din:

“Look out! He is coming!”

“Run for your lives!” And “Quickly! Quickly! To the cells!”

And then Johnny Twinklehead found himself carried along by the crowd, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting inside a jail cell in a great stone dungeon.

He turned to the shivering inmate next to him, and asked “I’m sorry, but I’m new here. Could you tell me who is coming?”

“Shhh!” warned the inmate. Then he whispered, “That trumpet signals the arrival of the Scary Emperor Ominous.”

And there in the crowded cell there came the sound of shuffling and whimpering and the mere mention of the name.

But then a pair of fleet-footed runners burst in through the door. Each one carried a scroll. The first runner stopped, unrolled his scroll, and handed it to the Jailer.

The Jailer frowned, then summoned his Chief. The Chief examined the scroll, stood before the prisoners, and announced:

“The Scary Emperor Ominous has died, leaving neither an heir nor a will.”

There was some confused stirring among the inmates.

“What does this mean?” asked one.

“I’m not sure,” said the Chief. “Send for the KeyBoy!”

The jailer fetched the KeyBoy.

“How do you do?” said the KeyBoy. “My name is KeyBoy, and I operate the keys around here, and I’m opening up the cells. Since the Emperor Ominous is dead, I have decided that you’re all free to go do whatever you want to do. By the way, are there any girls in here?”

There was a slight confused stirring, and then the inmate next to Johnny Twinklehead said “no”.

”Nuts,” said the KeyBoy, but he unlocked the cells before he left.

“Freedom…”

The word was murmured again and again throughout the cells. Then the inmates started out, tentatively, as if not quite believing their good fortune. Then as the sunlight hit their faces, the murmur rose to a chant, then a joyous cry. Johnny Twinklehead and the two runners watched as the inmates disappeared into the distance.

“Well,” said the Jailer, “that’s what happened to that one.”

“What happens now?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“I guess that means that I’m free as well,” said the Jailer. “No need to hang around here anymore.” So the Jailer went off to follow the inmates.

“How about you?” said Johnny Twinklehead to the Chief.

“Back to the Cigar Store, I guess,” said the Chief with a wink.

Then the runner whose scroll had been read turned to the other runner, whose scroll was still in his hand.

“Say,” he said, “how come you didn’t deliver your scroll?”

“Oh, this thing,” said the other runner. “This is just an old scroll left over from the Battle of Marathon. It was the alternate message.”

“What kind of alternate message?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“Well,” said the runner ---

“Which runner?” asked the Reader.

“The runner with the scroll,” said the Author.

“What about the other runner?” asked the Reader.

“Oh, he was still there,” said the Author.

“This is kind of confusing,” said the Reader.

“Well,” said the Author, “that’s the way it was with runners in those days. No real telling one from another.”

“Couldn’t you try making some artificial but serviceable distinction between the two, just to keep the narrative clear?” asked the Reader.

“Such as…?” said the Author. “Well, maybe one was taller than the other,” suggested the Reader.

“Nope,” said the Author. “Both runners are of equal height.”

“How about of one runner was thin, and the other runner was fat?” tried the Reader.

“You forget,” said the Author. “They are both runners, and are therefore in peak physical condition.”

“Maybe one could be the runner with the scroll and the other runner could be the runner without the scroll,” said the reader.

“Let me see your scroll,” said the runner without the scroll.

“Okay,” said the runner with the scroll, and he handed the scroll to the runner without the scroll.

“Now you’re just being difficult,” said the Reader.

“May I see the scroll?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“Now we have two runners without scrolls,” said the Author.

“Yeah, it’s kind of difficult being a runner,” said one of the runners.

“I guess the lack of identity can be discomfiting,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Well, there’s that, of course,” said one of the runners, “but then there’s also all that running.”

“I thought you guys liked running,” said Johnny Twinklehead.

“Well, sure,” said one or the other of the runners, “but only up to a point. Remember Pheidippides.”

“Oh yeah,” said one or the other of the runners, but, whichever runner it was, it was the runner other than the one who said “remember Pheidippides.” “Whatever happened to him?”

“He collapsed and died upon delivering the message of triumph after the Battle of Marathon,” said the runner who knew what had happened. “You see, I survived because I had been given the alternate message.”

“So this is the alternate message?” said Johnny Twinklehead as he examined the scroll. “Yup,” said the runner who knew. “My message was the one to be sent if we had lost the battle, but since we won, I wasn’t sent.”

“So how come you’ve been running anyway, following me around?” said the runner who hadn’t known before, but was now beginning to get a glimmer.

“This is only a very slight improvement,” said the Reader. “Couldn’t you give one of the runners a funny hat or something?”

“I’ll see what I can come up with,” said the Author. “Now, where were we?”

“I said, ‘so how come you’ve been running anyway, following me around?’” said the runner who hadn’t known before, but was now beginning to get a glimmer.

“You know, man,” said the runner who knew. “I’m a runner. That’s my ‘thing’.”

Just then, there was a faint glow in the sky. It grew nearer and nearer, and then suddenly there appeared before them a magical winged lady all in blue.

“Okay, guys,” said the magical winged lady all in blue. “Just open the scroll and read it already.”

So Johnny Twinklehead opened up the scroll, and read it aloud. The scroll contained the following message:

Sorry, Bro.

“So much for that,” said the magical winged lady all in blue. Now, about this identity thing. You guys are tired of being mistaken for each other, right?”

“Yeah, that’s true,” said both runners.

“And you’d like to get a break from all this running, right?” said magical winged lady all in blue.

“Yeah, said one or the other of the runners. “Now that you mention it, I’d like to just lie around.”

“Personally, I don’t care if I ever run again,” said the other runner.

And so the magical winged lady all in blue waved her wand, and the runners were transformed.

One of them turned into a bowl of Oatmeal, and the other turned into a bowl of Mashed Potatoes. “Well,” said the Reader, “at least they’ll be easier to tell apart.”

Just then, the inmates came trudging back to the jail.

“We got confused out there,” said one. “At least here we know where everything is.”

“All that freedom was kinda scary,” said another. “I didn’t like not knowing what to do.”

“Ya gotta go with that you know,” said the Jailer as he returned.

“Idiots,” said the magical winged lady all in blue. But she waved her wand again, and suddenly there was a nice caravan bringing food. The driver of the caravan waved merrily.

The bowl of oatmeal and the bowl of mashed potatoes were much relieved, and they engaged in the following dialogue:

OATY: Will ya look at that?

MASHY: What is it, Oaty?

OATY: It’s a whole big caravan, bringing food!

MASHY: What’s a caravan?

OATY: Well, in some cases, it’s a series of vehicles, or a group of travelers, but in this case, it’s one great big wagon.

MASHY: Oh. It’s a good thing it’s bringing food.

OATY: Hey, I just noticed something! I’m not hungry!

MASHY: I think that’s because we don’t eat anymore.

OATY: So what’s so great about a caravan bringing food if we don’t eat?

MASHY: It means that we’re not on the menu.

Just to be on the safe side, the magical winged lady all in blue waved her wand again, and Oaty and Mashy were transported away to other parts of the story.

“This wand is finally getting a decent workout,” said the magical winged lady all in blue.

“Come one, come all, let’s have a ball,” said the Driver of the caravan. “Let’s eat up hearty, it’s time to party!” “This guy is kind of corny,” said the Reader.

“But first,” said the Driver, “let us all pause to recite the Appetite Prayer.”

So everyone bowed their heads, and the Driver solemnly intoned:

“Keep us all from really knowing Where this came from or where it’s going.”

The Reader thought awhile, and said “when you think about it that way, it’s pretty disgusting.”

“Well,” said the Author, “the fruits and vegetables came out of the dirt, and the meat came from creatures that got killed, and a lot of them ate the fruits and vegetables that came out of the dirt, and then there are the fish that ate worms, and the things that ate bugs, and—“

“I may never eat again,” said the Reader.

So Johnny Twinklehead kept on walking through the Land of Encores.

“What about the Three Little Kittens?” asked the Reader.

“Transformed for this bit,” said the Author. “This time they’re the Three Little Bricks.”

“Oh,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “did they build a house out of pigs?”

“No,” said the Author. “They’re just waiting around the chimney in eager anticipation of the annual Yuletide visit from Cinder Block.”

Fortunately, Johnny Twinklehead then rounded a corner that had been put there just in the nick of time, and discovered eleven ladies named Jennifer, all singing the following song:

“Look out! Here comes that older guy With a wicked grin and a gleam in his eye But the ladies love him and you know why: He’s Adorable Horrible!”

This caused Johnny Twinklehead some confusion until he noticed that the ladies were not looking in his direction. He followed their gaze, and beheld a man in a trench-coat with a battered fedora hat shuffling along, with another, elegantly-dressed man not far behind.

The ladies continued their singing: “Adorable Horrible, Adorable Horrible, So unique, it’s the Anti-Chic! Adorable Horrible, Adorable Horrible The look we’ve come to love!”

The man in the trenchcoat stopped and shrugged, while the elegant man behind him applauded vigorously.

“Hello,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “What’s going on?”

“Just a show of appreciation for my client,” said the elegantly-dressed man. “Allow me to present Mister Eddie Gumshoe, Man-About-Town.”

“I never did understand what’s so special about walking around town,” said the man in the trench-coat. “Just call me Eddie. It keeps things simple.”

“Perhaps you’d be interested in subscribing to my newest publication,” said the elegantly- dressed man, and he extracted a glossy magazine from his coat and handed it to Johnny Twinklehead.

Johnny Twinklehead examined the magazine. The cover bore the title “Hider’s World”. There was a picture of the 1940’s boxer Joe Louis above a caption which read “He can run, but he can’t hide.” Then below the caption was another caption in larger, italicized letters which seemed to emanate from behind a trash receptacle. The second caption read “Oh, yeah?”

The magazine itself seemed to be a listing of various hiding places, generously illustrated, and with numerous photographs of locations that appeared to be unpopulated.

“So what is this, actually?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“That’s what I said,” said Eddie. “Let’s face it, Mac, this thing just isn’t gonna work.”

“Nonsense!” protested Mac, flustering a little within his elegant suit. “You just haven’t checked the better class of newsstands lately. They’ve got magazines for swimmers, they’ve got magazines for hikers, they’ve got magazines for hunters --- they’ve got a magazine for just about every hobby, sport, and special interest you can think of! And of course they’ve got magazines for Runners! So the next big thing is obviously this: A magazine for people who would rather hide! Think of all the groups it will appeal to: people who don’t want to be dragged into household chores or yard work, people who don’t want to get shot by the hunters, people who don’t want to get splashed by the swimmers, people who don’t want to get knocked over by the runners, people who don’t want to get stepped on by the hikers --- not to mention the folks who are just plain paranoid! This is sure to be The Next Big Thing! The best investment I’ve ever made on your behalf!” “So what does this have to do with the ‘Adorable Horrible’ song?” asked Johnny Twinklehead.

“Nothing,” said Eddie. “My ex-wives just like to try to cheer me up sometimes, that’s all.”

Johnny Twinklehead looked at Eddie, and Eddie looked at Johnny Twinklehead.

Then they both shrugged, and kept on walking their separate ways. 100. The Adventures of Johnny Twinklehead, Part 8.

Johnny Twinklehead kept on walking beyond the Land of Encores.

After awhile, Johnny’s lights began to fail.

He took even longer walks, searching in vain for compatible batteries.

He would sing to himself as he searched.

“Oh I wonder what became of Captain Dog (‘Captain Dog!’) I wonder what became of Captain Dog (‘Captain Dog!’) It’s kinda hard to say, He was prob’ly born that way, Oh I wonder what became of Captain Dog (‘Captain Dog!’)”

After many days, Johnny Twinklehead found himself coming up behind a man who was walking two dogs of indeterminate breed.

“Hello,” said the man, “I’m Captain Dog.”

“Oh,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “I was wondering what had become of you.”

“Nothing, really,” said Captain Dog. “I figure I was born this way.”

“Well,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “I guess that clears that all up. What sort of dogs are those?”

“These?” said Captain Dog. “These are just dogs. You know, dog-type dogs. I don’t try to breed dogs anymore.”

Captain Dog talked a little about his unsuccessful dog breeds: 1. Wolveroodle 2. Great Chihuahua 3. Siberian Hairless 4. Trauzer Schnauzer 5. Cat 6. Squirrel

“After all that,” said Captain Dog, “I’ve concluded that sometimes it’s best to let the dogs decide things. Say, did you know that your lights are getting dim?”

“Everything’s getting dim,” said Johnny Twinklehead. “That’s true,” said Captain Dog. “Time to take these dogs home to bed.”

After that, it was just Johnny Twinklehead walking alone in the dark.

Even in the daylight when there were other people around.

Then the Overly Busy Narrator decided it was time for some more Bedtime stories. He just took over, and didn’t even bother putting them in quotation marks.

This is the story of CinderUgly.

Once upon one of those times there was a little girl whose mother died when she was an infant, and then her father married a woman with two daughters, and then the father died as well because it was a long time ago and people died a lot in the good old days before the advent of medicine, education, and sanitation.

So that left a family consisting of a single mother, her two natural daughters, and her stepdaughter whom they referred to as CinderUgly.

There wasn’t a whole lot of money to go around, but whatever there was got spent on the two natural daughters. The stepdaughter was assigned to do all the housework and cleaning. This story took place in the days of wood-burning heat, and the climate in which it occurred was sufficiently cool that there was almost always a fire needed in the fireplace, sometimes for heating, sometimes for cooking. This system of heating resulted in the generation of quite a lot of burnt wood remainders, and, since it was the job of the stepdaughter to clean it all up, she was exposed to a lot of ashes and soot. Predictably, this wreaked havoc with her already precarious complexion (adolescence being what it is), and the drudgery into which she was forced did not constitute any form of healthy exercise, so, regardless of her genetic composition, her appearance was sufficiently degraded so that the name “CinderUgly” didn’t seem to be too far off the mark. The fact that she was only fed table scraps and trimmed-off greasy bits didn’t do her any good, either. Oh yes, and she wasn’t ever spared water with which to bathe.

It has often been said that Beauty is only Skin-deep, but the soot, grease, and grime that was ground into CinderUgly was positively subcutaneous.

In addition, all of the training in reading, writing, personal hygiene and social graces was reserved for the two natural daughters of the mother, so CinderUgly was also left uneducated and uncultured.

In that limited home environment, it wasn’t too surprising that the two natural daughters grew to be more attractive, better educated, and more socially adept than CinderUgly. It also wasn’t too surprising that the single mother of three girls thought it practical to groom those who seemed the most promising for marriage into a life of wealth and comfort. She reasoned that, given the laws (or absence thereof) of that time, her own chances for future security were better if she was installed as “mother-in-law” than “stepmother-in-law” of the Bride of Wealth. The latter legal status just seemed a bit too tenuous.

“It isn’t easy being a single widowed mother of two teenaged girls,” thought the mother to herself, “in addition to being the custodian of an unrelated dirty brat. Therefore, I must be pragmatic.”

Then one day the news circulated that The Prince Who Enjoys Heavy Lifting had finally reached a marriageable age, whatever that is, and that he would be giving a Grand Ball during which he would select his future bride.

This was exactly the sort of news that the mother had been hoping to hear, and she redoubled her efforts to prepare her two daughters for the event. She obtained for them the finest fabrics she could afford, and pondered how to fashion them into elegant gowns for her daughters to wear.

Well, it seems that the education that the daughters had received, although rich in social graces and engaging banter, was a little bit thin in the sewing department. Fortunately, since CinderUgly had been compelled to do all the mending for the entire family, she had developed a certain aptitude for the work of a seamstress, and, with extra care and effort, she fashioned a pair of serviceable gowns for her two stepsisters. She even managed to avoid smudging them in the process.

However, given the limited resources available to a single mother of teenaged girls, there was not sufficient material left for a gown for CinderUgly. No extra perfume, either. Nor extra soap.

Besides, someone had to remain at home to keep up the fire in the fireplace.

And so the mother and her two hopeful daughters left for the Grand Ball.

CinderUgly was still cleaning up and hoping that the minor puncture-wounds she had sustained during the dressmaking would be spared too much infection when there suddenly appeared before her a Magical Lady All Dressed in White. Or maybe a very pale pink. I forget the details.

“Who are you?” lisped CinderUgly. The fact that she lisped a phrase containing absolutely no sibilants serves only to demonstrate her extreme lack of education.

“I dunno,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink. “Some people call me ‘Deux ex Machina’. I come from the Land of Not Bloody Likely, and I’m here to fix you up so you can go to the Ball. Stand up and let me look at you.” So CinderUgly stood up and let the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink look at her.

“This is worse than I thought,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink. And she took out her Magic Wand and waved it in the air three times.

Suddenly there appeared three more Magic Wands.

“This is gonna be a big job,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink.

CinerUgly just stood there while the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink assessed the situation.

“Well, you’re much too short, and kinda dumpy,” she observed,” but that’s probably due to the lack of proper nutrition and exercise. Try smiling.”

CinderUgly just looked confused. He life experience had not given her any opportunities to smile.

“Oh, never mind,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink, “just show me your teeth.”

So CinderUgly showed her teeth, and the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink said “I was afraid of that. No Dental Hygiene, either. Well, let’s get you cleaned up, anyway.”

And with that, the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink waved the first of her three new magic wands, and there was a Great Swirling and Twinkling, and then the wand began to sputter and finally fizzled out. However, when it was done, CinderUgly was no longer covered in ashes, grease, and soot, and all of the rags she was wearing were clean and dry. Her hair was no longer tousled or matted, but hung limply, for these were olden times, before the advent of shampoo or conditioner. As for highlights, forget it.

And CinderUgly looked herself up and down as well as she could in the absence of a mirror, with nothing but a point-of-view perspective, and said “Do these ragth make my butt look too big?”

“Where in the world did you learn that phrase?” asked the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink.

“I picked it up from my thtep-thithterth,” said CinderUgly. “Perhaps it’s better if, throughout the course of the Grand Ball, you don’t speak,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink. “And, since you brought up the subject, yes, they do. Come to think of it, your butt’s too big anyway. And you’re still too short. Probably due to the lack of proper exercise and nutrition. Oh, well, let’s see what we can do.”

“Can you change me?” asked CinderUgly.

“No,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink. “I do Magic, not Miracles, remember? But here goes, anyway.”

And with that, the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink waved the second of her three new magic wands, and there was a Great Swirling and Twinkling, and then the wand began to sputter and finally fizzled out. However, when it was done, CinderUgly was no longer dressed in rags, but was now wearing a Fine Fancy Gown with lots of padding in certain places, and lots of squashing in other places, with things pushed up and things flattened out, and things poking in various directions. In addition, she was now wearing ten-inch high Glass Platform Slippers, a Marvelous Tall Glamorous Wig, and a Pretty Mask with Delicate Features.

“I’m gonna faw down,” lisped CinderUgly through her mask.

“Remember what I said,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink. “It’s better if you don’t speak. Come to think of it, it’s better if you don’t move, either. Let’s see…now I’ve got to get you to the Ball. Sit down on that lump of coal next to the twigs.”

So CinderUgly plunked down onto the lump of coal that was immediately behind her, and the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink waved the third of her three new magic wands, and there was a Great Swirling and Twinkling, and then the wand began to sputter and finally fizzled out. However, when it was done, CinderUgly was now sitting in an elegant carriage drawn by a pair of fine white horses, with a driver and two footmen.

“Now remember,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink. “You gotta get back home by midnight, or all this stuff is gonna disappear, and you’re gonna be stranded with nothing but grease, grime, rags and weak ankles. Now, is there anything else?”

“I can’t breathe,” said CinderUgly.

“Oh, stop whining,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink.

And so the carriage started up, and off went CinderUgly to the Grand Ball.

Meanwhile, the Prince Who Enjoyed Heavy Lifting was having a moderately good time at the Grand Ball. He liked to pick up the ladies and twirl them about, but the ladies he picked up had been schooled in the finer points of dancing, and so they sprang with him as he lifted them, and the lack of effort was a little bit unsatisfying. The ladies he enjoyed most were the two stepsisters of CinderUgly, since they were less well-trained than the others, but he wasn’t averse to giving the Mother a whirl either, ballast being what it is. But then he suddenly stopped and stared at the new figure who was dragged onto the dance floor by her two footmen. Maybe it was the impenetrable mask. Maybe it was the massive wig. Maybe it was the gigantic glass platform shoes. But, more than anything else, the Prince was struck by the obvious effort exerted by the two footmen: here, as last, was a True Physical Challenge.

And so the Prince Who Enjoyed Heavy Lifting danced with CinderUgly, and he heartily enjoyed his workout, and the fact that her complete silence spared him the tedium of casual chitchat. He was also intrigued by her mask, since this wasn’t supposed to be a Masked Ball or anything like that, and so he swung her around and around and around until just before midnight.

Then he could contain his curiosity no longer, and declared, “In ten seconds it shall be Midnight! Time to unmask!”

Well, CinderUgly was not in the least concerned about the prospect of unmasking, since she would finally get a chance to breathe just a little. However, the prospect of getting stranded clear across town did alarm her, and she tried to take a single step to get away. Predictably, this one move was enough to bring her crashing to the floor, separated from both of her Glass Platform Slippers. She managed to grab the slippers as she now fled relatively unencumbered, but she lost one of them as she tumbled down the stairway at the front of the palace.

In another few seconds, she was back in her original rags with neither carriage nor driver, nor even the footmen, and she was running through the woods back to her home as fast as her weak ankles could carry her.

Meanwhile, back at the Palace, the Prince picked up the remaining Glass Platform Slipper, which had somehow remained intact despite the fact that all of the other enchanted paraphernalia had disappeared at midnight as predicted, a Major Story Hole that has never, ever, been adequately addressed. I mean, really, what was it about this particular slipper that made it endure beyond the expiration time of every single other enchanted item? And it’s not like it just lasted a little bit longer, either; no, it hung around for days and days, or however long it took it to get lugged around from house to house throughout the entire kingdom, then to the surrounding villages, then finally out to the low-rent section ‘way out in the Boonies where CinderUgly’s family lived. I mean, really, and I mean it again. Really!

But anyway, the Prince hefted the heavy glass platform-slipper and said “I gotta have that girl.”

So they went through the aforementioned ritual of going from house to house, and getting everyone to try on the glass platform slipper, and getting more and more desperate, the Prince, and his Page, and His First Minister, and all the rest of the Princely Entourage that travelled all around eating up the budget. They got to the point where they were auditioning cute guys, then house-pets and livestock, before they finally got to the house of CinderUgly. And the glass platform slipper didn’t fit the eldest sister, and it didn’t fit the younger sister, and it didn’t fit the Mother, so they tried it on CinderUgly, and it fit perfectly.

And the Prince looked at CinderUgly, covered was she was in soot and grease and rags, and then he looked at his First Minister and nodded.

And the First Minister took the Glass Platform Slipper and held it high above his head. Then he hurled it down onto the stone floor with all his might.

The Glass Slipper shattered into a million pieces. Possibly more, as it would have taken too long to determine an exact count.

“Oops,” said the First Minister with a wink.

All the King’s Horses and All the King’s Men were brought around, but the King’s Men said “this job is a little bit out of our line.”

The King’s Horses said “Don’t you think it’s a bit unreasonable to expect us to piece together all these tiny glass fragments, considering that we have only hooves to work with? We don’t even have opposable thumbs.”

And everyone agreed that it was a terrible thing to call in a bunch of horses for.

As it turned out, the Prince had a new Glass Platform Slipper manufactured, and he kept it in the palace as a remembrance of that magical night, but in the end he married a large anvil.

Later on someone stuck a sword in the anvil, and the Right of Succession got sorted out later on. It makes about as much sense as anything else in this yarn.

As for the Mother and her sisters, they hooked up with a couple of dukes and came out all right.

CinderUgly died soon after as a result of her long and constant contact with soot and grime and other irritants, but everyone in those days just chalked it up to Natural Causes. Nowadays there are walks you can go on to dramatize the need for increased awareness of the Dangers of Natural Causes.

“I’m already walking,” said Johnny Twinklehead, “but my awareness seems to be decreasing nonetheless.”

“Maybe it’s the diminishing light,” said The Overly Busy Narrator. “Perhaps another Bedtime story will help.” And poof, the quotation marks went away again.

This is the story of CinderEgger.

Once upon a time there was a girl whose mother died, and whose father then married a widow with two older daughters. Or maybe the lady with the two older daughters wasn’t really a widow. Maybe the father had been canoodling with the lady with the two older daughters on the side all these years. But probably not, since this is, after all, a fairy tale. Where else would a guy with a young daughter say to himself, “I’m going to remarry, only this time it’s going to be to someone who will treat my kid badly? She’ll probably poison my morning cereal as well, but what the heck, why not?”

Strictly the stuff of Fairy Tales.

Anyway, the father died of natural morning cereal causes, and that left no one around except for the mother, her two natural daughters, and the stepdaughter who became known as “CinderEgger.”

And CinderEgger was forced to do all the washing and cleaning and cooking, and what’s more, she was required to also provide everyone with their morning breakfast, because she could also lay eggs just like a hen. And if that wasn’t enough, she had feathers, too.

And everyone listening to the story said “that’s just too damn weird.”

And Johnny Twinklehead said “I don’t think that second story helped very much.”

“No,” said the Overly Busy Narrator, “I didn’t really think it would.”

This is the story of CinderEgo.

Once upon one of those times there was a little girl whose mother died when she was an infant, then her father married a woman with two daughters, and then the father died as well because it was a long time ago and people died a lot in the good old days before the advent of medicine, education, and sanitation, but it was mostly because he suffered from Low Self-Esteem.

So that left a family consisting of a single mother, her two natural daughters, and her stepdaughter whom they referred to as CinderEgo.

CinderEgo was required to do all the cooking, cleaning, and washing for the whole remaining family, and they kept her dressed in rags and made her sleep in soot, but she still looked gorgeous in spite of everything. What’s more, she took pride in her ability to take care of every single task, no matter how menial, no matter how difficult.

“I make it a point to be the best at what I do,” she would say,” whatever it may be.” So when the news arrived that the Prince Who Enjoyed Heavy Lifting was having a Grand Ball, and CinderEgo’s stepmother said she was going to go shopping for fine fabrics for her daughters’ gowns, CinderEgo stepped right up and said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it all taken care of. I’ve been secretly growing fine fibers in a special clearing I hollowed out back in the woods, and the Silkworms I’ve been raising have produced everything I’ll need to make your gowns for you. So just relax and take it easy while I chop down some trees for your custom-made carriage.”

And so CinderEgo went outside to start work on the carriage, and her Stepmother and her Stepsisters had a private discussion.

“Doesn’t she realize that we intend to go to the Grand Ball without her?”

“Doesn’t she realize that I intend to marry the Prince and keep him all to myself?”

“Don’t you mean ‘ourselves’?”

“Whatever. Anyway, doesn’t she realize that she’s going to be left behind, all alone in this little house in the middle of practically nowhere?”

“Well, I wouldn’t bring it up to her any time soon. At least, not before our carriage is ready and our gowns are finished.”

Then CinderEgo poked her head back inside the door and said, “By the way, I’ve tamed some wild horses to draw the carriage, and I’ve taught them the way to the Castle, so you won’t need a driver or footmen. Oh, well, back to work.”

Then CinderEgo disappeared out into the yard outside.

As CinderEgo worked, there appeared a bright light, and then a Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink came into view.

“Howdy,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink. “You look like you could use a hand.”

“Oh, I’m getting along just fine,” said CinderEgo. “Why don’t you have a seat on that wicker chair I put together the other day? It must be tiring floating around from one story to another.”

“Thanks,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink, “I don’t mind if I do.” CinderEgo whistled a happy tune as she worked, and the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink looked around for anything that might need doing, but she found that the house, the yard, and everything she could see was in perfect order.

“You know,” said the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink, “there’s a Grand Ball coming up in a few days.”

“Yes,” said CinderEgo. “That’s what I’m preparing for. You see, I’ve got to get this carriage finished, then knock out some gowns. It’s a good thing I already trained the horses.”

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do for shoes?” asked the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink. “I could whip up a pair of Glass Slippers for you in no time.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” laughed CinderEgo. “I’ve already fashioned three pairs of ruby- emerald-diamond slippers from the rock that I mined last week. We’re all set for shoes.”

So the Magical Lady All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink bade CinderEgo goodbye and good luck, and she floated right back to wherever Magical Ladies All Dressed in White or Maybe a Very Pale Pink come from.

Within a couple of days, the carriage was all finished, with wonderful natural wood stains and a brilliant varnish job that, while technically nearly inexplicable, looked marvelous. In addition, there were harnesses and other horsey-drivey equipment that had been woven out of sturdy reeds and other materials that the inventive CinderEgo had assembled. Not only that, but CinderEgo had fashioned three elegant gowns which were tastefully displayed on wicker dress- dummies that CinderEgo had made out of fresh, clean straw, or wicker, or whatever.

CinderEgo’s Stepmother and Stepsisters surveyed her handiwork in awe, but were dismayed by the sight of three gowns instead of the two needed for the Stepsisters.

“Do you think we should tell her that we’re not bringing her along?” whispered the Younger Stepsister to the Older Stepsister.

“Not yet,” whispered the Older Stepsister to the Younger Stepsister. “Wait until the night of the Grand Ball.”

“Whatever you do,” whispered the Stepmother, “don’t say anything until you get the shoes.”

“Did somebody say ‘shoes’?” laughed CinderEgo. “I’ve got them right here. See? You’re almost ready now. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll wash, dry, and set your hair so you’ll be all set for the Ball tomorrow night. Now, come along, I’ve got your supper ready.” And so the Stepmother and the Stepsisters sat down to a delicious supper, and then retired to their beauty-sleep while CinderEgo did the cleaning-up.

The next day, CinderEgo did as she promised: she washed, dried, and set the hair of her Stepsisters and her Stepmother as well, saying “the best way to take care of the children is to also take care of the mother”, and then she helped each Stepsister into her gown. Both gowns fit perfectly.

Finally the Stepmother spoke up.

“CinderEgo,” she said,”I’ve been meaning to speak to you. I couldn’t help noticing that third gown.”

“Why of course,” said CinderEgo. “That third gown is for you, so that you may shine along with your daughters.” And with that, CinderEgo helped her Stepmother into her gown as well, and once again, it fit perfectly.

Next came the wonderful slippers made of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, and some sapphire tiaras as well. Then CinderEgo summoned the tamed horses, who came drawing the elegant carriage.

“Have fun at the Grand Ball!” said CinderEgo as her Stepmother and Stepsisters climbed aboard.

Finally, the Stepmother could stand the secrecy no longer, and she asked “CinderEgo, don’t you realize that you’re going to miss out on the opportunity to marry the Prince?”

“Prince, Schmince,” said CinderEgo. “With all the things I can do, what do I need a Prince for?”

And the Stepmother and the Stepsisters rode off to the Grand Ball, and they all lived happily ever after.

Especially CinderEgo.

At the end of this story, Johnny Twinklehead’s last light finally went out.

The Overly Busy Narrator left him there, and went to bed himself.

Once all his lights were gone, he was no longer known as Johnny Twinklehead.

He became known as Open Mike.

Open Mike walked around some more, and had some more adventures you might already know about, even if they occurred outside of the expected sequence. These adventures took some time, of course, but to Open Mike the time seemed to go faster and faster.

For example, the time he spent with the Six Pretty Girls always seemed to go by too quickly.

That’s the way it goes sometimes in Life, and it’s also the way it goes sometimes in Literature.

Then the lights in Open Mike’s head started going out, just as they had gone out in his hat, until they, too, were all gone.

And eventually there came a time where nothing else happened ever again.

Unless it did.

“And the evening and the morning Were the evening and the morning, And that’s about as much as came to pass,

And it seems I have dominion Over practically nothing, And that’s all right with me.”