The Unnamed adventures of Roger Weaver

The Unnamed adventures of Roger Weaver

Chapter 6

     The Story The Authors
Roger soon grew tired of walking. He wasn't even sure where the city dump was exactly. Wasn't it floating on a barge in the harbor? he wondered to himself. So Roger decided to hitch a ride to the dump. He stuck his thumb out enthusiastically and the very first auto, which happened to be a pickup truck, stopped to pick him up. Roger climbed into the cab of the '83 Ford Ranger and thanked the driver for stopping.
"I'm trying to get to the city dump." Roger explained.
"Hee hee hee hee," the driver laughed an evil laugh. "We're not goin' to no dump."
"We're not?" Roger asked nervously.
"Naw, we're headin' for Death Valley, ain't we Rufus?" the man said to a person who was clearly not there and he spat a glob of tobacco juice out the window.
"No, I don't want to go to Death Valley!" Roger cried. "Just drop me here. This is fine right here. You can just stop here and let me out here." Roger pleaded.
"Naw," the man spat again. "Rufus wants some company. He wants you to come to Death Valley with us."
"Aw shit." Roger sighed and slouched back in the passenger seat.

Meanwhile, back in Old Boar's cave...
As the recently crowned "Florence Nightingale of the Irresponsible Bourbon Drinkers' Morning-After Set," Anita had her hands full. Things One and Two were so debilitated by their hangover they were unable to rhyme (and consequently, unable to speak.) Old Boar shuffled about mumbling to himself like an Alzheimer's patient, and The Cat in the Hat (although the famous hat itself was nowhere to be seen) remained comatose upon the cold stone floor, snoring loudly, drooling in his sleep. Philip
She produced her battery powered espresso maker and set about making quadruple shots for everyone. She passed cups around to the Things and Boar, which they gratefully accepted, and poured the Cat's share down his throat. Within minutes the Cat sans Hat was sitting upright. They were all still hung over, mind you, but at least now their eyes were wide open and Anita felt sure that they would at least be able to listen to what she was about to say. cuddles
Anita cleared her throat and surveyed the most bleary-eyed, pathetic excuses for literary anthropomorphism she had ever laid eyes on as they sat hunkered around Boar's kitchen table, useless but for the regular infusions of java she kept them supplied with. Ah well, she thought. It could be worse: Roger could still be here... Ahem. She began the little speach she'd been internally rehearsing all morning.
"Er, gentlemen... We have a serious problem on our hands. Code Red."
"I do not want to hear of this," replied the Hatless Cat
"My head is full of rocks and piss,
My eyes are full of lint and scuss;
I do not like it, Sam I was."

"Hey!" warned Anita, sharply, swatting at him with a fly-swatter. "None of your lip. Anyone else?" She brandished the flyswatter in the air before them. Boar and the Things said not a word. The Cat sulked into his espresso. "Now, here's the deal. There's this old man called Jake. He's supposedly been in a coma for the last twenty years. In reality he just refuses to wake up. The whole twenty years he's been asleep, he's been dreaming about sex " she punctuated the word with a terrific thwack of the flyswatter on the table "and his dreams have gotten so deperate, they've begun to infect reality! Everything's becoming oversexed. Roger's been unbearable, and my boss at work, and the construction workers turning the old tenements across the street from my apartment into overpriced condominiums for yuppies who themselves have become inextricably oversexed, and the dogs in the park, the beasts of the field, even the goddamn clouds in the goddamn sky have taken on certain too-familiar shapes recently, chasing after each other in the stratosphere... And it'll only get worse. Soon every interaction will occur in the realm of the sexual, the simple act of riding the subway from Point A to Point B will take on the dimensions and complexities of a Roman orgy... Oh, we have to stop him, can't you see? We have to wake him up! Otherwise the world as we know it is doomed! Not with a bang or a whimper, but with a resounding, multiple, mutual, premarital, final orgasm! We'll all go to Hell in unison!" With which solemn pronouncement Anita broke down sobbing. The others, sufficiently restored by the magic of coffee, did their best to comfort her.
But it was an empty gesture. After all, they didn't really think it was such an awful fate for the world. Heck, it might be kind of fun. But Boar, being the southern gentleman and staunch upholder of proper manners that he was, knew that Anita was ultimately right. Sex in itself was not a bad thing but it had it's time and place. Discussing sex, let alone performing the act, in public would cause the breakdown of polite society and the breakdown of polite society meant the end of civilization as they knew it. Boar put his hairy, hooved foreleg about Anita's heaving shoulders and reassured her. "Naw, naw, don't you fret, Miss Anita. I aims to do ev'rything in mah powuh to help y'all stop this horrifyin' disastuh from ocurrin'." Anita gazed up at Mr. Boar with red, swollen eyes. "Thankyou, Boar." She smiled. "You are a true gentleman." The Cat Devoid of Hat and the Thing duo just shrugged and agreed to follow along. cuddles
"Let's stop at the Seven-Eleven for a quick Slurpee," he stuttered hurrily. Frank Mom
"No, you fool!" cried Anita. "There's no time for that." She slapped the bareheaded Cat repeatedly about his naked bean. cuddles
the cat cried in alarm and jumped away from anita. "meow you old bag!" anita laughed and grabbed a broom. "i'll show you who runs this house!' chris
She chased the cat through the house, laughing at the eccentric behaviour of a cat so young. When Anita tired of this she sat down in the kitchen with a coffee. She could see the cat watching her from the corner of her eye. Just sitting there staring.
"Ma'am, suh, I beg of you to desist with this rathuh unnecessary behaviah this momen'. This is mah home an' Ah will cannot abide by it in mah presen' condishun. Theah ah things that need to be done an' ah suggest we should bes' staht on ouah expedishun post haste. Now, if theah is no objecshun, let us continyoo."
Hyped with caffeine Thing One and Thing Two were revived enough to add
We must start
There is no doubt
The time has come
The truth is out
Jake's coma dreams
Mold our lives like putty
So move we must
Before they're naught
But smutty

And so it was agreed upon that the journey would continue. The Cat's magic chapeau was located in the freezer filled with ice (some sort of fuzzily remembered hangover preparation that had seemed like a good idea at the time)and following a hearty breakfast of ham steak with red eye gravy and generous helpings of grits, they set off following the next set of initials.
At the back of Boar's cavernous livingroom (corners heaped high with the bones of previous trespassers and other unfortunates) another arrow, crowned with the initials A.S., pointed towards the further, narrower reaches of the cave.
"In mah youth, befoah the Wah of Nawthun Oppression dee-stroyed the South of mah foahfathers, ah used to spee-lunk in this heah cave with mah first love, a lovely maiden who went bah the name o' Becky Thatcher... We used to get loast in theah foah days awn end without evah reachin' the cave's nethah cawn-clusion..." He sighed nostalgically. "Since then, howevah, the sizeable, er, girth I acquired due to mah first wife's pro-pensity foah cooking almos' evuhreething in lahd has por-hibited me from resuming mah explo-rations of the cave. Thanks to the Slim-Quick diet my esteemed colleague Doctah Benway put me awn last yeah on account of mah angina, I believe I have shrunken enough foah me to be up to the task, heh heh heh..."
Anita regarded her butt in the mirror and said nothing.

Down the dark esophagus of the cave they set, then, our spelunkers five, Old Boar leading the way, his pendulous buttocks jiggling in his fine gabardine trousers, a kerosene lantern swaying in his forepaw...
Next up came the two Things, still stumbling a bit with the after-effects of the previous night's festivities, and giggling self-consciously under the matching miner's-helmets which Boar had provided them;
The Cat in the Hat followed them, needing no artifical light due to the naturally absurd radiance which emanated from his bewhiskered countenance;
And Anita brought up the rear (she didn't want anyone looking at her butt...)

Meanwhile, in the twenty-years-and-counting slumber of Jake, the Tooth Bitch was strutting back and forth in front of a blackboard, lecturing Jake on the anomalies of female anatomy. Mr. Tickles ran the overhead projector, beaming genitally provactive transparencies onto a pull-down screen.
"No'mally I stay away from littyratchure, but they ain't nobody what said it bettah than the sadly deaprted Texan writer Donald Barthelme (even if he did insist on that hideous Amish beard... 'The clit-o-rice is not a do'bell,' he wrote. 'No mashing down!'" S/he looked up. "You got dat, Jakey-wake? You takin' notes?"
From his tiny desk, Jake stared back at her with the uncomprehending look of a dummy. The empty first page of spiral-bound notebook lay open on the desk before him. A thing tentacle of drool ran from his mouth to a growing pool on the egde of the desk.
"Tut-tut," clucked the Tooth Bitch, tapping her retractable pointer along the chalk-gutter basing the blackboard. "Somebody's gone have to wear the dunce-cap again..." At this pronouncement, Jake began to emit a series agonized whines reminiscent of a senile, incontinent dog upon the return of its abusive master. The Tooth Bitch was meanwhile rummaging in her desk (atop of which sat a pyramid of rotten brown apples, redolant with fruit-flies) and here! At last! She found it! At the sight of the thing she held up, Jake whined twice as loud as heretofore, and Mr. Tickles (muttering curses under his breath) shrank back into the shadows of the cloakroom.
It was an iron codpiece. Spikes were set into the lining of it, pointing inwards of course, in much the minature manner of a medievel Iron Virgin (or Iron Sausage). An adjustable belt of whalebone crowned the horrible thing.
Savoring every moment, the Tooth Bitch crossed the room in a perfect two-step imitation of Cardinal Richelieu returning from his lunch-break to the scene of an inquisition-in-progress. She dangled it in the air, giggling. "Okay, girlfriend," she said giddily to Jake. "Y'all know de routine. Down wif yo' drawers, honey..."

Faint whiffs of sulphurous fumes greeted our spelunkers as the passed into the first chamber. It was a long hallway like room about the size and length of a fancy double wide trailer (but without the amenities.) Our intrepid band slogged along a narrow trough down the center filled with a good two inches of yellowish brackish water. At the far end a narrow opening led onward and from which came the incessant gush, drip, and gurgle of water. There was uncomfortable silence among the quintet as they made their way. It'd been only an hour since they'd left the relative comforts of Old Boar's den and the espresso was beginning to work its diuritic magic upon all of them.
Old Boar led the way. "Good Lawd!" he excalimed, "why I declah it smell lahk a Tex-ass bunkhawse aftuh a baked bean dinnah in heah!" and he hurredly doused the kerosene lamp. "Ah sutenly wish Ah had me a cuh-nary 'bout now. Now heads up y'all this nex' openin's a bit narrah. P'haps you Things shud go'head (bein' you's tha smalles')an' shine them lights to lead us on."
Bringing up the rear Anita began inwardly cursing her ancestors for bequeathing her large childbearing hips and counting up every piece of chocolate cake she should've/could've done without.

And somewhere, in a distant dream, Jake was hollering like a tree full of howler-monkeys...

The five explorers came to a bend in the tunnel. No sooner had the vanguard of Things rounded it than they returned, seemingly running for their lives and looking for all the world as if they'd just seen a ghost.

"Jesus, Redd Foxx, Joseph and Mary," they stammered in unison
"We just saw something really SCARY!"

"Wah, y'all is jest a payah o' nambeh-pambehs," declared Boar with a hearty guffaw. "It appeahs ah'll hafta be the one to envestergate this heah distuhbance.." So saying, rolled up his sleeves and entered the darkness of the next segment of tunnel.
Seconds later an even heartier guffaw came out at Anita, Things One and Two, and the Cat in the Hat, followed by Boar's booming voice.
"Y'all come ahn in heah. Ah b'lieve ah've fahnd us a cuh-lue!"
Gosh, a clue, thought Anita. There may be hope for us yet.

Boar held his kerosene lantern aloft, and in the weak yellow light by which it barely managed to illuminate the Stygian blackness of the cave, they saw a skeleton curled up against an outcropping of rock. Silver shackles still encircled its wrists and ankles, and in the cave wall above it, underneath an arrow similar in design to the ones they'd been following all along, were scratched the enigmatic words, "URNS MASK ENEMAS."
"Looks lahk we've found ouah Mistah Ahne Saknussem," said Boar.
"But should we put him in a box?" inquired the Cat in the Hat, who hadn't spoken in an inordinately long time.
"Or should we pause, to lunch on lox?
I've brought the bagels and cream cheese,
So help yourself, do, have some, please!"

Everyone thought that was an incomparably decent idea, and soon enough they were all hunkered down on the floor of the cave, gobbling away, munch-munch-munch, so hungrily, in fact, that they never noticed the sound of footsteps approaching them from the deeper recesses of the cave.

By the time they realized that someone was coming, he was already there aiming a submachine gun at their little impromptu picnic.
"See heah, suh. That's mightuh rude of ya'll to be pointin' that thar weapon at us whilst weuh's tryin tuh eat." said Old Boar.

"You're holding a great big gun, you know
Away our heads it'd surely blow!
So big! So big! So big you see
You could kill that pig, 1-2-3!
But what we are tyin' to figure
Is if your penis isn't bigger.
But most importantly by far
we'd like to know who the hell you are!

Asked Thing One and Thing Two.
"I am Gurn Blansten." said the man with the gun. "And these," he said indicating a group of thugs who had approached unseen and unheard behind our intrepid spelunkers, "Are my assistants."

"I don't like this,
This is no fun."
said the Cat in the Hat
To Thing number One.


Gurn, the big Swedish-looking fellow in the knit cap and the lumberjack jacket, rubbed his hands together and grinned malevolently at his posse. "Oboyoboyo, boys I been looken forward to this for a laawng time. Remember when we chopped down those trees where the Spotted Owl sissies were haven their little Hillary Clinton hippie lesbian communist sit-in? I wasn't looken half as forward tot hat as I was to these pieces a un-American trash..."
He turned to the five. "So whatta we got here? Two retarded children, a fucken cartoon kittycat, a boar dressed like Quentin Crisp, and this" he gestured bruskly at Anita "This tramp. This troll who wants to de-sex the world. Wants to wake the Boss from his beauty sleep. Probably has plans to outlaw beef, whiskey, football, tobacco and hunting after that..." He turned back to his band of not-so-merry men. "So whatta you think about that, gents?"
"Uh, I'm thinkin', maybe, uh, Salem, circa 1692, chief, huh?" replied one of Gurn's goons. "When the presence of the, unh, diabolical, uh, precludes the, um, uh, workings of the greater community, uh, duh, the, uh, Malleus Maleficarum is brought out in a, er, timely fashion and uh, dum de dum, witches are dealt with accordingly, uh-huh, as heretics."
"Good boy!" snapped a new voice. "I see you've been memorizing your catechism with that thick cinderblock you were given in place of a brain. Catch!" and a dog-biscuit (in the shape of a fish, no less) flew through the air, and was snapped up between the pearly whites of the aforementioned flunky, just as (none other than) Cardinal Richelieu stepped from the shadows...
Sharply shoving Gurn out of the way, he stood before Anita and company, fingering a barbaric-looking iron rosary with his chubby, sausagelike fingers, lips pursed in a cold hmmm, eyes brightly glacial as stars in the cloudless moonless sky of a sub-zero night...
"Well, well, well," he said. "You weren't much more effort to catch than your pathetic excuse for a 'boyfriend' (oh, the devils we pulled from the throats of the users of such obviously Satanic terminology in my day, I tell you...) Roger Weaver was only this morning, now, were you, my dear? Whoever sent word that you were a threat was, well... even more foolish than you. AT least you have that going for you, my pretties." And he laughed then at that point and it made them all very uncomfortable, that laugh did, being as it was like a black widow waltzing lazily down her web toward a trapped fly five trapped flies, to be exact and only Boar, who was farthest away from the Cardinal, was able to look away from the Grand Inquisitor, and mumble, if only to to his shoes, "Ah cainnot tahlahrate so perfidious a co-lection a Yankees stinken up mah cave, ah simpleh cainnot. Mah pappy neveh raised a fool, nor a coward, nor a tolaratoah of Yankees..."
Philip E. Lee
But the slightest verbal transgression, yea and verily even one upon the part of a lowly gnat, would not fail to reach the ears of Cardinal Richelieu. "What was that, you porcine buffoon?" he hissed, stepping forward and up against Boar (with the combined fervor of a U.S. Marine Corps bootcamp sergeant and a stilletto slipped secretly between two unsuspecting ribs into a less-suspecting heart or lung) "Would you repeat that for all the present company "
"Ah sayed," replied Boar, chest forward, sout fellow!, "Ah sayed ah wasn't expecting the Spayanish Inquisition..."
St. Philippe d'Assissi
you smell like poop kaite
There was a gasp of fear even among the hardened lowlife that comprised Gurn's crew of nefarious ne'erdowells. Riechleu sneered the full width of his narrow face and pinched the curl of his teensy french moustache.
"One seldom does." He leaned closer to Old Boar's ear and hissed. "No, my swinish friend, there'll be no "soft pillows or "comfy chairs for you at my little party. Take these heretics away and put them through their tasks.Except this one" indicating Anita,"I want to oversee her confession myself."
Lanark Dumas
And thus it was that Boar, the once-again-hatless Cat, and Things One and Two found themselves thrown roughly into a dank, windowless cell, replete with rusty chains, hungry rats and weirdly phosphorescent mildew.

"It seems that we are in the shit.
I feel up to my neck in it.
I furthermore hypothesize:
Aforesaid shit is on the rise.

...remarked the Cat, for all of them, and when the ensuingly pregnant silenced that followed these apt musings on their predicament was broken, it was not by any of them, but by a froggy groan emanating from the far corner of the cell.
As the clever reader has doubtless not failed to anticipate, the emitter of this groan was none other than Roger Weaver, at long last reunited with his co-hangover-sufferers in a damp and hopeless dungeon...