|The Story||The Authors|
|The metal tho twisted was still attached to an amazing vehicle that could power thru the limestone debris. So Roger and Boar clambered up thru the limestone to see if they could get into the cockpit of the vehicle and drive out of the cavern. They were met with great difficulty trying to dig thru the limestone with bare fingers that were quickly torn and bleeding. Haggard and feeling defeated, they finally found a hatch and were able to release the pressurized door.|
Sparks flew from the impossible-looking innnards of control panels
rent in pieces as if by an earthquake. Red Alert lights blinked in
monotonous tandem with the miter's piercing, interminable warning
signal — "Danger! Danger! Will Robinson!" — which made it impossible
to ascertain whether or not the Giant Pope-Head's cras had left any
survivors until they rounded what had formerly been a corner, entered
the splintered remains of the bridge, and heard the first groans
emitted, seemingly, from somewhere behind the heaped debris of the
Navigator's station. Still woozy and stumbling with bourbon, Roger
and the Boar crept forward. |
"Whadya shink itsh ish?" mused Roger.
"I shweah, not in awl mah yeahsh ash a shentlemen an' a Shouverner hash ah evah..."
— but the sight that greeted them otherside of the Navigator's station cut him off mid-shentenshe. For there, wound about and bruised by a jumble of wires and framing, bleeding from a plethora of minor flesh wounds, lay the broken form of The Cat in the Hat...
Don't just stand there|
like a bunch of goons
Help me Up!
Bind my Wounds!
I've had a crash
(It was a doozy)
I'm losing blood
I'm feeling woozy
I need aid!
I need succor
so quick about
"Wah, bless the grey Confed'ret blood in mah soul, if it ain't the
Cat in th' Hat! Mehcy me, son, bihnd his wounds, ah say, an' be quick
abaht it, while ah see to the health o' his soul!" And so saying,
while Roger tore strips of cloth from his shirt and staunched the
bloodflow coming from the Cat's sundry wounds, Boar withdrew from
his pocket a pint of the finest, 97 proof, aged 18 years in barrels
of charred oak, private stock special reserve Kentucky bourbon whiskey
and held it to the Cat's bruised and bloodied lips. Of this the Cat
made short work, emitting a resounding belch after swallowing the
last dregs of the bottle, standing from the wreckage around him,
dusting himself off, and exclaiming: |
But for your aid
"Gee thats nice," said Roger. "Now coould you help me get out of this
cave and destroy the evil remote control?"
"Sure," said the cat in the hat,|
"YOu saved my life
So now I'll help
you; with no strife
I will now yelp:
Just climb that cliff
And fight the lion
And someone's fingers
Will be prying
To break the 'mote
Set Janice free
And save the world
and you and me.
Just be careful
Where you step.
A few grey stones
Spray lots of pep-
Per, make you sneeze,
And lose control.
Then down the cliff
Your head will roll!"