A Symphony unto Oneself

Chapter 5

The Story The Authors

Stumbling around the corner and into the first doorway he came across, Pencilthinmoustache entered and collapsed into an empty seat at a table near the front window. Hmm...kaff! cough! hack! The arrow through the chest seemed to be impeding his breathing. Working it back and forth seemed to do nothing to dislodge it. Was that "Born to Lose" blaring forth from the jukebox? How frightfully ironic. As he crisply snapped the arrow and withdrew each end separately, he couldn't help but notice the small "Made in Hong Kong" label identifying it as of authentic contemporary American plains Indian use. "Sioux certainly, although perhaps of Crow or Commanche employment," he conjectured as he use the tip and his own blood to add another fastidious note to his notebook. Valetroie eyed him sullenly from behind the bar. "Howdy, stranger...",she opined from across the quiet little neighborhood tavern, "what'll it be?" Pencilthinmoustached paused momentarily to notice he had taken up a perfect observation point as a large gray nondescript moving van, followed by two enormous Monsignors on identical Vespas pulled out of the square. "I believe I should like a gill of Glenfiddoch,a tumbler of ice, and a red-hot branding iron with which to perform a minor cauterization, if it isn't too much to ask?", responded the weary Inspector. Valetroie looked across at her business associate Caitlin and nodded. Caitlin's New York times crossword puzzle would have to wait. Even though their request to the Bull Dyke of Brooklyn for approval of their theme bar, "The Badlands of South Dakota" as an official Lesbian haunt seemed all but assured, the difficulty about the all-women sign erecting crews getting crushed by the first couple efforts seemed to have brought politics into the issue. With their killing course loads as Lit. Majors at Columbia's night school, there was no way they could afford to ignore this apparently well-heeled and cosmopolitan customer, whatever his gender. Tom L.

...Thus the final thoughts and fantasies of Officer Pencilthinmoustache fluttered away like a moth on the breeze, and he expired. Injun Joe, nerfarious criminal mastermind of The Banana Splits, and Native American brujo of song and legend, deftly pulled the moth of Officer Pencilthinmoustache's soul from the air as it headed towrad the Western Lands, the land of the dead, and placed it upon his tongue. Chewing slowly, he savored the life that had been, and spat the now-soulless carcass of the Scotland Yard detective onto the ground. "Heh-heh-heh," he chortled. "An afternoon snack." Philip

As he devoured the strange sensation bit by bit he was becoming transparent. Yes , he was surely going to dissolve into pure nothingness.More and more he was fading away. Xerxes Onica

It was, after all, the late afternoon of a long day of rape and pillage since sun-up, and Injun Joe had much to do before they could pitch their teepees for the evening. Wiping the sweat from his sundarkened forehead, he entered the bar, nodded his head at the stacks of corpses in the one corner, went to the next and began to inspect the captive barmaids, one by one, searching for the one who'd grace his teepee that evening and all night. Philip

"Ah, well, thank you,my dear," said Professor Pencilthinmoustache,eying the bottle of inexpensive Mezcal,the dirty drinking glass with two ice-cubes,and the cold fire-place poker,with which Caitlin had returned. "Perhaps you would care to join me? Events on the square seem to have calmed down considerably!" Caitlin stepped to the jukebox and punched up the owner's code for another half-hour of "Born to Lose", twirled the other chair at Pencilthinmoustache's table so she could straddle it,plopped down with both elbows on the table,snapped her wad of chewing gum,tucked her chin into her clasped fingers, and looked directly into Pencilthinmoustache's soulful face. "Yeah! Sure! Waddever!",she said with a grin. "Looks like you caught an arrow?" The detective had already placed the tip of the poker carefully over the flame in the little table candleholder, and taken up the bottle of Mezcal. "If you drink with me, my dear, the etiquette of this excellent refreshment requires that we not stop until we have reached the bottom of the bottle. Notice the small 'gusano' in the bottom, a plump larval stage of the moth which pollinates the agave cactus from which this beverage is fermented and distilled. Whoever takes the last drink from the bottle is honor bound to also consume this maggot!" Caitlin dashed to the table where she had been working the Times' puzzle, took something from the pile of books and pads, returned and silently handed Pencilthinmoustache a sheet torn from one of her notebooks. He nodded as he took it. "Before I read this, my dear,it is said that some can descry the future from listening to that tiny worm by holding the bottle to their ear,as with a seashell. I wonder if you might do me the favor of trying it while I read this? I've been hearing quite a buzzing about Indians and dead heroes...now this bloody arrow business..." Caitlin had already raised the bottle to her ear as Pencilthinmoustache took up the note page and read the following: Henry James-The Figure in the Carpet "For the few persons, at any rate, abnormal or not, with whom my anecdote is concerned, literature was a game of skill, and skill meant courage, and courage meant honour, and honour meant passion, meant life. The stake on the table was of a special substance and our roulette the revolving mind, but we sat round the green board as intently as the grim gamblers at Monte Carlo." Tom L.

The Story	The Authors
Stumbling around the corner and into the first doorway he came across, Pencilthinmoustache entered and collapsed into an empty seat at a table near the front window. Hmm...kaff! cough! hack! The arrow through the chest seemed to be impeding his breathing. Working it back and forth seemed to do nothing to dislodge it. Was that "Born to Lose" blaring forth from the jukebox? How frightfully ironic. As he crisply snapped the arrow and withdrew each end separately, he couldn't help but notice the small "Made in Hong Kong" label identifying it as of authentic contemporary American plains Indian use. "Sioux certainly, although perhaps of Crow or Commanche employment," he conjectured as he use the tip and his own blood to add another fastidious note to his notebook. Valetroie eyed him sullenly from behind the bar. "Howdy, stranger...",she opined from across the quiet little neighborhood tavern, "what'll it be?" Pencilthinmoustached paused momentarily to notice he had taken up a perfect observation point as a large gray nondescript moving van, followed by two enormous Monsignors on identical Vespas pulled out of the square. "I believe I should like a gill of Glenfiddoch,a tumbler of ice, and a red-hot branding iron with which to perform a minor cauterization, if it isn't too much to ask?", responded the weary Inspector. Valetroie looked across at her business associate Caitlin and nodded. Caitlin's New York times crossword puzzle would have to wait. Even though their request to the Bull Dyke of Brooklyn for approval of their theme bar, "The Badlands of South Dakota" as an official Lesbian haunt seemed all but assured, the difficulty about the all-women sign erecting crews getting crushed by the first couple efforts seemed to have brought politics into the issue. With their killing course loads as Lit. Majors at Columbia's night school, there was no way they could afford to ignore this apparently well-heeled and cosmopolitan customer, whatever his gender.	Tom L.
...Thus the final thoughts and fantasies of Officer Pencilthinmoustache fluttered away like a moth on the breeze, and he expired. Injun Joe, nerfarious criminal mastermind of The Banana Splits, and Native American brujo of song and legend, deftly pulled the moth of Officer Pencilthinmoustache's soul from the air as it headed towrad the Western Lands, the land of the dead, and placed it upon his tongue. Chewing slowly, he savored the life that had been, and spat the now-soulless carcass of the Scotland Yard detective onto the ground. "Heh-heh-heh," he chortled. "An afternoon snack."	Philip
As he devoured the strange sensation bit by bit he was becoming transparent. Yes , he was surely going to dissolve into pure nothingness.More and more he was fading away.	Xerxes Onica
It was, after all, the late afternoon of a long day of rape and pillage since sun-up, and Injun Joe had much to do before they could pitch their teepees for the evening. Wiping the sweat from his sundarkened forehead, he entered the bar, nodded his head at the stacks of corpses in the one corner, went to the next and began to inspect the captive barmaids, one by one, searching for the one who'd grace his teepee that evening and all night.	Philip
"Ah, well, thank you,my dear," said Professor Pencilthinmoustache,eying the bottle of inexpensive Mezcal,the dirty drinking glass with two ice-cubes,and the cold fire-place poker,with which Caitlin had returned. "Perhaps you would care to join me? Events on the square seem to have calmed down considerably!" Caitlin stepped to the jukebox and punched up the owner's code for another half-hour of "Born to Lose", twirled the other chair at Pencilthinmoustache's table so she could straddle it,plopped down with both elbows on the table,snapped her wad of chewing gum,tucked her chin into her clasped fingers, and looked directly into Pencilthinmoustache's soulful face. "Yeah! Sure! Waddever!",she said with a grin. "Looks like you caught an arrow?" The detective had already placed the tip of the poker carefully over the flame in the little table candleholder, and taken up the bottle of Mezcal. "If you drink with me, my dear, the etiquette of this excellent refreshment requires that we not stop until we have reached the bottom of the bottle. Notice the small 'gusano' in the bottom, a plump larval stage of the moth which pollinates the agave cactus from which this beverage is fermented and distilled. Whoever takes the last drink from the bottle is honor bound to also consume this maggot!" Caitlin dashed to the table where she had been working the Times' puzzle, took something from the pile of books and pads, returned and silently handed Pencilthinmoustache a sheet torn from one of her notebooks. He nodded as he took it. "Before I read this, my dear,it is said that some can descry the future from listening to that tiny worm by holding the bottle to their ear,as with a seashell. I wonder if you might do me the favor of trying it while I read this? I've been hearing quite a buzzing about Indians and dead heroes...now this bloody arrow business..." Caitlin had already raised the bottle to her ear as Pencilthinmoustache took up the note page and read the following: Henry James-The Figure in the Carpet "For the few persons, at any rate, abnormal or not, with whom my anecdote is concerned, literature was a game of skill, and skill meant courage, and courage meant honour, and honour meant passion, meant life. The stake on the table was of a special substance and our roulette the revolving mind, but we sat round the green board as intently as the grim gamblers at Monte Carlo."	Tom L.

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