The Unnamed adventures of Roger Weaver

Chapter 2

The Story The Authors

Old Boar's eyes narrowed. He didn't take well to being made to look foolish, even if the only witnesses were a ratty pair of Wikka birds snacking on rancid giraffe entrails. He had a reputation to keep. "Venegence will be mine!" he snorted to no one in particular but in the general direction of the disinterested Wikka birds. "Ere this day is out I'll be chewing on your insides!" Boar didn't really mean it, but appearances needed to be upheld. Law of the jungle and all that.
With a little shake of his tail Boar proceeded to trot off in the opposite direction from Roger. spackle

Roger, meawhile, trudging through the bush and sniggering to himself, suddenly found himself in the midst of an unearthly quiet. He stopped. The sun was getting high, and it was hot. All around him the baobob trees writhed up from the ground like Rodin's damned fixed in the postures of agony at the maw of Hell. No birds disturbed the silence, not even the chatty parrots, and even the monkeys were silent. He looked around himself. He became aware of an incredible radiance, seeming to beat from the very center of things. The sun pulsed on him, The air whirled in his lungs. His heartbeat raced and his breath came in short, rapid gasps. He thought of Anita, then, back in gritty Manhattan; What the hell is happening to me? he thought, seeing varicolored TV snow dancing in the air around him. Am I going to die here? In a strange land, friendless, surrounded by savages...?"
And it was then, strangely, as if in answer to Roger's unvoiced thought, that the voice boomed down (from whence, he was unable to identify):
"NO! You shall not die here, young man! We have other things planned for you!" Philip

There was a small metallic whir from the gnarled trunk of a boabob tree a dozen steps to Roger's left. A door popped open revealing an apparent elevator with bright red shag carpeting floor to ceiling. It appeared unoccupied.
"Get in" boomed the disembodied voice. spackle

Roger step in and presses the number 13 The elevator rises none

In fact the whole tree rose, leaving a scorched spot in the brush and scattering the lazy Wikka and Jub-jub birds lazily dozing on its branches. spackle

Inside the trunk of the old tree it was so dark that Roger couldn't see a thing. He could certainly feel, though — sticky! Everywhere was slippery-gooey with a substance the consistency of vaseline petroleum jelly. Only the smell of it — sheesh! Hooo-eee! Philip

Being trapped inside the tree, Roger couldn't escape the gooey matter and was soon covered head to toe with the stuff. Some of it got into his mouth and it tasted worse than it smelled. The tree finally came to a landing, Roger had no idea where, and the door in it's trunk opened. Roger stepped out of the trunk and immediately tripped on a tree root. He fell headlong into a great pile of goose feathers and down which stuck fast to the gooey stuff that coated the poor man. Behind him he could hear the tree close it's door and fly away. cuddles

A cluster of feather stuck fast to the five-day growth of moustache beneath his nose caused him to ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah — chooooooooooooooooo!
This was answered by a sinister, reverbed giggle from somewhere off to his left, and then a second giggle from his right.
"Show yourself!" he demanded, wiping curdily glutinous feather-pudding from his eyes.
Show yourself...ow yourself...elf...elf...elffffff came the echo. From the sound of it, he seemed to be in a large, cavernous interior.
Tee-hee-hee-hee-hee, came the giggle again, and Ti-hii-hii-hii-hii, came its response.
Roger was really getting angry, and a vitrioic tirade quivered at the tip of his tongue, when a great booming voice, the same one he'd heard outside the magic baobab tree, thundered through the room so thunderfully that before Roger knew it he was on the floor, cowering among the gooey shmeg and feathers.
SILENCE! SILENCE! Silence ye little fools, raritans, and nin-com-poops! Silence, I command you, or suffer my wrath! it boomed, as a great, glowing, disembodied face began to materilaize from out of the fog and goosedown. Philip

The Story	The Authors
Old Boar's eyes narrowed. He didn't take well to being made to look foolish, even if the only witnesses were a ratty pair of Wikka birds snacking on rancid giraffe entrails. He had a reputation to keep. "Venegence will be mine!" he snorted to no one in particular but in the general direction of the disinterested Wikka birds. "Ere this day is out I'll be chewing on your insides!" Boar didn't really mean it, but appearances needed to be upheld. Law of the jungle and all that. With a little shake of his tail Boar proceeded to trot off in the opposite direction from Roger.	spackle
Roger, meawhile, trudging through the bush and sniggering to himself, suddenly found himself in the midst of an unearthly quiet. He stopped. The sun was getting high, and it was hot. All around him the baobob trees writhed up from the ground like Rodin's damned fixed in the postures of agony at the maw of Hell. No birds disturbed the silence, not even the chatty parrots, and even the monkeys were silent. He looked around himself. He became aware of an incredible radiance, seeming to beat from the very center of things. The sun pulsed on him, The air whirled in his lungs. His heartbeat raced and his breath came in short, rapid gasps. He thought of Anita, then, back in gritty Manhattan; What the hell is happening to me? he thought, seeing varicolored TV snow dancing in the air around him. Am I going to die here? In a strange land, friendless, surrounded by savages...?" And it was then, strangely, as if in answer to Roger's unvoiced thought, that the voice boomed down (from whence, he was unable to identify): "NO! You shall not die here, young man! We have other things planned for you!"	Philip
There was a small metallic whir from the gnarled trunk of a boabob tree a dozen steps to Roger's left. A door popped open revealing an apparent elevator with bright red shag carpeting floor to ceiling. It appeared unoccupied. "Get in" boomed the disembodied voice.	spackle
Roger step in and presses the number 13 The elevator rises	none
In fact the whole tree rose, leaving a scorched spot in the brush and scattering the lazy Wikka and Jub-jub birds lazily dozing on its branches.	spackle
Inside the trunk of the old tree it was so dark that Roger couldn't see a thing. He could certainly feel, though — sticky! Everywhere was slippery-gooey with a substance the consistency of vaseline petroleum jelly. Only the smell of it — sheesh! Hooo-eee!	Philip
Being trapped inside the tree, Roger couldn't escape the gooey matter and was soon covered head to toe with the stuff. Some of it got into his mouth and it tasted worse than it smelled. The tree finally came to a landing, Roger had no idea where, and the door in it's trunk opened. Roger stepped out of the trunk and immediately tripped on a tree root. He fell headlong into a great pile of goose feathers and down which stuck fast to the gooey stuff that coated the poor man. Behind him he could hear the tree close it's door and fly away.	cuddles
A cluster of feather stuck fast to the five-day growth of moustache beneath his nose caused him to ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah — chooooooooooooooooo! This was answered by a sinister, reverbed giggle from somewhere off to his left, and then a second giggle from his right. "Show yourself!" he demanded, wiping curdily glutinous feather-pudding from his eyes. Show yourself...ow yourself...elf...elf...elffffff came the echo. From the sound of it, he seemed to be in a large, cavernous interior. Tee-hee-hee-hee-hee, came the giggle again, and Ti-hii-hii-hii-hii, came its response. Roger was really getting angry, and a vitrioic tirade quivered at the tip of his tongue, when a great booming voice, the same one he'd heard outside the magic baobab tree, thundered through the room so thunderfully that before Roger knew it he was on the floor, cowering among the gooey shmeg and feathers. SILENCE! SILENCE! Silence ye little fools, raritans, and nin-com-poops! Silence, I command you, or suffer my wrath! it boomed, as a great, glowing, disembodied face began to materilaize from out of the fog and goosedown.	Philip

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