Chapter 9
| The Story | The Authors |
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Suddenly, a horrible record rip tears through the air. Mr. Tickles' eyes glow
red as the ground begins to buckle and tear. Unthinkable terrors began
spilling out of the ground, adding their growls, yells, and screams to the
tearing and rending of the earth.
The two catsuited figures are quickly overwhelmed and reduced to a pile of quivering, bloody heap of flesh. The creatures do not stop with them. They rear as one howling, screaming mass and turn on the cameramen... | |
| "Cut!!", screams the director, until he realizes his untimely mistake. | |
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Meanwhile, Oskgar Templeton, propieter and front desk clerk of the Please Don't
Fall Inn of Smucker's Gorge, Arizona, eyed the boy on the other side of the
counter suspiciously. Something about the boy just didn't seem quite right. A
huge tabby meowed forlornly in its carrier beside him.
"You gotta name, kid?" "I'm Timmy. This here's my cat. He's Mr. Tickles." "Nice to meet ya, Timmy. What can I do for ya?" "You 'llow pets, don't you?" the sandy haired kid asked with a beaming grin. "Yep. That's what the sign out front says." "Goodie, I got my cat with me. Can I get a room?" Another runaway Oskgar decided, already planning his call to the state patrol. "Sure thing kid, but just exactly how do you intend to pay for it?" "Merican Press" he replied, wielding the green card like a paper airplane he was about to set loose at the innkeeper's forehead. Stole his parent's credit card too. "You don't mind I just have a look at that do you? Gotta check it out like, you know? Can't be too careful days like these now, can you?" "Okay" said Timmy happily surrendering his credit card. | |
| Timmy set the pet carrier silently on the counter and quietly unlatched the door. The cat leapt out of it's plastic box and landed on Oskgar's back. Mr. Tickles caught the hotel proprieter in a half-nelson and with his claws at the man's throat, the cat advised him to hang up the phone and register the boy at the hotel without any further delay. Oskgar, startled at being threatened by the cat, did as he was told. Timmy smiled and signed the register with a large X. | |
| Oh, Timmy thought as he patted his suitcase, if only the cat knew what horrible fate was in store for him later on. | |
| Those Pitt Bulls can be pretty tuff customers, but I still think Timmy can take care of himself. After all they can't climb a tree or run as fast as Timmy can, besides it's what I have in this suitcase that will make the difference. | |
|
little legs with big teeth | |
| made him a little topheavy. Sometimes, especially while running to second base, he would topple over. At the last game, it took the shortstop and the second baseman AND the centerfielder to get him upright again. | |
|
pickachu and mewtwo sitting on a tree
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k-i-s-s-i-n-g --
first comes love -- they move into a hovel -- and leave their mindless postings on the tan-dem novel... | |
| la la la la! | |
| She sang as she drove down the highway.(She had forgotten the words) | |
|
"Very good there Mr. Templeton," breathed Mr Tickles into Oskgar's ruddy ear.
One long sharp claw poised threateningly over Oskgar's pulsing jugular, "now
just slide the key to the boy. Easy...easy. Good. Now you will go back into
your office shut the door and sit there. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.
Wait for me. I'll be back. I have something for you to do"
"Ye..yes sir, Mr Tickles.", stammered Oskgar. | |
| As Oskgar stood there behind the closed door of his office he deliberated on whether he should tip off the boy as to Mr. Tickles impending intentions. He sighed to himself in his weak, been kicked in the teeth too many times way and quietly sat down in his uncomfortable chair behind his meticulously manicured desk and thought to himself; I have to replace this chair of mine. At that moment a knock came on the door and a sweaty browed Oskgar timidly responded with a deafeningly weak;"uh... co...co...come in. | |
| In walked a large man in a steel grey suit carrying a large breifcase. It thumped, sounding as if it was empty, as it was placed not too gently on his desk. "Mr. Tickles sent me to work out a little business deal with you". The ever-timid Oskgar scrunched down in his chair and imagined himself in Idaho. He wasn't sure why Idaho was the first place to come to his mind. It's only redeeming quality was it was a thousand miles from this office and this square-jawed, spiky haired, thinly veiled goon. He imagined himself in Boise, Idaho Falls, or Poccatello. He would sit behind the tinted window of a Burger King, wear dark glasses, occasionally pick at his Whopper Value Meal, and bask in the confidence of knowing he was far distanced from the situation he was now in. | |
|
"Idaho" mumbled Oskgar absently.
"huh?" said the man. He was sweating profusely. Large oily globules of perspiration rolling from his shining bald skull down into the cracks of fat of fat scrunched up beneath his chin by the tight collar of his dark suit. A too tight dark wool suit in July at that. Large soaked spots under the arm pits. "The French Fries are always fresh in Idaho." offered Oskgar by way of explanation. The large man decided it best not to continue on that vein. The large man spoke in a heavy Eastern European accent. "Meestir Tickles requires uff you to put dis briffcase to you for to seff keepink." He thrust it across the desk.Oskgar, still contemplating the beauty of a well scrubbed Yukon Gold, reached across to open it. Immediately the big man's hammy fists crashed down on over Oskgar's liver spots. "Ah, Ah, Ah, Curiousity is what kaput the cat, my frent. You stash. You no peek. Capeche?" | |
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At which point, a dental floss salesman rushed inside, screaming at the top of
his lungs, " There is no logic in love, do you not see the signs?, up thy nose
ye snort a dove, tread lightly upon the lines!"
| |
| "Ah, fuck it," murmured his best friend, soothingly. "Let's go to Disneyland, okay?" | |
| "Never!" she cried, her cheeks flushed, her bosom heaving. "Never will I submit to such an indignity! You do insult me, knave, minion, son of a serpent!" | |
| He knew of course that that was one of the worst things to say to Peter as he thought that there were no rabbits there. | |
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"Why the hell, Disney land?" he replied "We've got an entire jumbo jet albeit
slightly charred." He passed a massive hand over the burnt relics of seats.
"Besides," he added a touch foolishly, "There's no good babes at Disneyland."
His best friend muttered "Not so loud!" and they both turned to see Athena, Greek goddess of wisdom standing my by them. If they had read their history books they would have known that she was not in favour of women exploiting themselves. She had almost closed down 'Playgreek', but settled herself by setting fire to their general manager. | |
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(time warp - pause story)
In a not so distant parallel universe called Mots, the superhero Flatman hears a cry for help. He recognizes the voice of Lanark, the reincarnated soul of his departed ward and trusted sidekick "Sphincter boy". Flatman, realizing that Lanark is vastly outnumbered, knows just what to do. He quickly drops trou, aims his buttocks, and releases an atomic blast that permeates the Public tandem turning all cretins, morons and stooges into the creative, talented writers (and spellers, let's not forget that) they wannabe...or else they all burn in a fiery hell. (resume story) | |
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In this universe, the latest craze in art is called explosiam where the artist
consumes massive amounts of butane gas and ignites himself on a canvas.
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There was one man who consumed so much Butane, that when he ignited himself he
blew himself from Mars to Venus. When he got there, he thought he had died and
gone to heaven because it is a true fact that all people who live in Venus, are
women. This caused a great deal of problems because, his secret success got out
and all the other men from Mars, used his notes to establish the exact dosage
which he consumated and all decided to join him.
The moral of this story is, when you hatch a plan to be constantly surrounded and worshiped by members of the opposite sex, make sure you burn your notes first. | |
| Of course the Venusians had to live in Venus rather than on it because the burning gases on the surface of the planet would consume them instantly. This would also explain why no one knew they were there until now. (But what I really want to know is how you consumate a dosage of butane!) Anyway, the foolish and horny Martians were all captured and made to be pool boys for the Venusian women. They spent their lives cleaning subvenusian swimming pools and bringing mai-tais and pina coladas to their mistresses while the women secretly plotted to invaid the Earth all the while wearing revealing string bikinis just to torture their martian slaves. | |
| But one brave Martian, Marvin by name, was secretly plotting agains the Venusians in an attempt to free his people and overthrow the bullies. He contacted his friend the cow fairy, who was stationed temporarily on the planet Earth, via the amazing ELEPHAMOO transmitter. The cow fairy, seeing her friends in distress, sent a whole army of cow fighters to Venus. The mighty cow army snuck up on the Venusian headquarters and easily took over the government. From there they banned slavery and made the Venusian women start covering their bodies more than they had previously been doing. The extremely grateful Martians went happily back to Mars, where a new danger awaited them. | |
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"Goddam Puritans" snorted Mr Tickles back in his room at the Please Don't Fall
Inn. He tossed the newpaper down. "Let me tell you Timmy, those Venusian babes,
best tits in the galaxy. Cow Fairy, that's for sure." A massive stirring
began under Mr Tickles silk robe as he ruminated thoughtfully over the time
he'd spent on the planet, a "personal guest" of Queen Moab. Ah! Those were the
days, yessiree! The food, the serving wenches, the way all the bathrooms
sparkled with antiseptic cleanliness, Not to mention the ahem,
"entertainments" that had been arranged for him. (Being an Amazonian race they
had to keep the ranks full somehow.)Why just thinking about that baby
oil hot tub was enough to make him..."Uh, Timmy, I'm going for a walk."
"OK, Daddy." | |
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so he went walking and fell off the end of the earth
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Well, not exactly the end of the earth, but certainly the Pointy Shoe Bar &
Grill was close enough for most folks.
In many places and cultures there is always an end of the line. A fabled place where all things go to die like the fabled elephant's graveyard. The Pointy Shoe was just such a place. Just run down shack in the back forty of the Arizona desert, it proved to be the last stop for many a previously popular artiste who wokeup one bleak morning and found their life's work suddenly passe A-ha were the house band, switching off for their nights off with the final incarnation of Modern English. Behind the faded scarred pine plank bar Paul Young traded barbs and hairstyling tips with the night janitor/soundman Howard Jones. It was a dreary place to be. A near permanent stink of defeat, stale beer and Brute clung to the walls. Dejected former hairmetal superstars slunk around the corners cadging drinks from the dessicated sagging wrecks of aging groupies. It was not a happy place. | |
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But then she walked in. The air seemed to be sucked, vacume like out the doors. Her hair, her eyes, her grin. Her walk. Magic, thought Paul as he walked her ooze across the floor and slide her ass onto a barstool. Yeah - the barman asked. She raised her eyes. Her eyelashes like leaves in autumn. Dry and torn. She hardly spoke. Her voice a shrill siren of sound in the stillness of the bar. All forms of speach had died down when she walked in. All eyes were turned in her direction. Damm, she's ugly - thought Paul. Only then he realised he'd spoken the words upload. Too late. She turned. Her eyes like peanuts baring into his scull. I like ugly - he replied, lifting his shoulders as a child might when put on the spot and forced to lie. She grinned. Toothless. He should have guessed. Thank god he was gay. He could have been in trouble. | |
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"Ah yes," thought Paul, "Gay, footloose and fancy free. Without a care in
his head. The rest of his life an open door, now that his career was over, but
with a loyal fan base that wasn't getting any younger who would always
appreciate a little bit of attention from a former Tiger Beat crush. He
may have been reduced from the London Palladium to the depths of the Pointy
Shoe Bar & Grill, but he'd never lack for nookie." He immediately began
chatting her up.
Mr. Tickles watched this from his little nook in a corner booth. "Toothless," he said to himself, "Now that has possibilities." He slid from his place and sauntered to a spot at the bar proper. There were about a dozen stools at the bar, all frayed and battered looking. Odd, unidentifiable stains and fist like chunks of banana Bubble Yum clung to the sides like barnacles. Red vinyl seats slashed and squashed by the years of big assed losers and has-beens that had come before them to drown their sorrows into an alcoholic stupor. All, save one. It was covered in red velvet and trimmed with gold. It looked as clean and fresh as the day it was made. The very silver nails that held it together seemed to sparkle with opulent glee. One specially turned lamp from the track lighting bathed it in a special and particular glow as if this lone barstool existed only to support the butt cheeks of the Pope himself in the unlikely event that he should pass through the doors. Mr. Tickles naturally gravitated towards it. At the penultimate moment to that whence Mr. Tickles’ great left gluteus maximus was to alight at last on its cushiony comfort, a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. “Hey Buddy, that seat’s reserved.” Mr. Tickles looked around the room. There were maybe a half dozen folks there (not counting the occasionally reappearing figures of Men Without Hats as they loaded in their equipment.) and all eyes staring at him with thinly veiled disgust. “Nobody’s using it now” “I won’t tell you again, Mister. It’s reserved.” “Yeah well, for who?” “Ricky Martin” And the room shuddered with a gale of bitter, bitter laughter. | |
| "I just autopsied Mr. Martin. He won't be in." | |
| "But will you be in Mr. Martin?" | |
| Sure I'll be in Mr. Martin, he's having a colonic tomorrow. | |
|
"Why are you giving a dead guy a Colonic?" she asked
"That's for me to know and you to find out" he replied | |
| "Is this some sort of fetish for you?" she asked. | |
| Paul and the toothless woman were flirting up a storm in a manner that even Mr Tickles found a bit shameless. He prepared to make an attempt to cut in anyway. He pulled himself up to his full height (4'3" to be precise) and adjusted his pants just so to emphasize his prodigious package and sidled over to an adjacent barstool. | |
| In a salacious tone he whispered, "You have a beautiful mouth." | |
| Oh, thanks. And you´ve a cute nose, my dear Kati. | |
| That's why I don't understand what you are doing here. | |
| You walked out and I closed the door and that's it. You weren't supposed to come back. Who are you to think that I want you back? Take your smile and your hands somewhere else because I hate you. You're just a parasite that can't find a host, so you squirmed your way back to me. Well, I don't want you anymore. | |
| But you didn't hear my viscious thoughts, or the things I had wanted to say. How I wished you had. | |
| But you just picked the cotton of your boxer shorts out of your ass and gave me a vacant stare. | |
|
"But who am I to you," I asked. "Just a grocer? Just a mad,
politically-insensitive, gardening grocer? Well I may be all of those things,
but love you, damn it!"
With that, I walked away, knowing I would never see you again. You were my everything-- my declaration of independence, my revolutionary war, my constitution and all three branches of government woven into one. And now you're gone. | |
| So I sit. And wait. For what, I don't know. Maybe your voice or the touch of your gaze. I pass the time cleaning the gerdening fertilizer from underneath my fingernails with a matchbook bearing presidental portraits. This one is of Grant, the old drunkard. I figure I'll take a bill with his face and see how far I'll get in forgetting you in Sam's Tavern. | |
| After ten G&Ts ,I still see your face. will you go home already! | |
| This corner of the cage is mine. The cobwebs are mine. Even the damn spider is mine. Go! | |
| there is no room for another king in this kingdom.find your own! | |
| With that the young prince decided to try his luck in the next kingdom, two fields over. Everyone knew the King there was not picky. Plus he needed a nice, young man to fulfill his daughter's wish and complete the prophecy. If only she weren't so smart, thought the knight as he plucked a hair from his nose. | |
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Distracted by olfactory pleasures, the knight didn't notice the appearance of
the little fellow dressed in orange tights and a green silk hat.
"Good day, brave knight," the little man said as he doffed his funny hat, revealing a bald and rather pointed head. | |
|
"Right," replied the knight as he continued his olfactory pleasures, "What do
you want of me, funny man?"
Because this bald fellow had been derived from a culture quite unlike that of the noble knight's, he was thouroughly insulted by this remark. "Well, I never! I try to be polite, and you, stranger, make a it point to offend me!" cried the little man. "What did I say?" inquired the perplexed knight. | |
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"It's not what you said," the little man replied, "but what you did not say."
"Damn it." The knight had discovered a particularly stubborn hair, and his eyes began to water. "Get to the point, funny man." | |
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"You think I'm funny? Do I amuse you? Am I some kind of friggin clown??"
Bang goes the gun.
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The smoke clears. There is blood everywhere. The man that went down is still laughing. He takes aim and pulls the trigger again, but the bullet does not kill the laughter. It may have killed the body, but it didn't kill the mouth. | |
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For lo and behold, there upon the gorebesmirched ground clacked and
chat-chat-chattered a set of wind-up teeth, replete with oversized clown
tennis-shoes, hop-hop-hopping around and emit a series of horsey guffaws. "Har!
Har! Har! Har! Har!" laughs the plastic mouth, seemingly choking on its own
lungs.
The man with the gun feels a chill run up his spine, and in his mind, the upper half of a coffin creaks open, a white-tuxedo'd Criswell rises up from it, arms crossed over his chest, countenance the pale ghoulish hue of cave fungus or sweating havarti cheese -- "SOMEONE," intones Criswell, "WALKED OVER... MY GRAVE... AWAKENING ME." | |
| This happened anytime he took more LSD than he should, but what of it? Didn't we all have to die sometime? maybe not. Surely the ground carriers this air. | |
| Tiny fairies danced on his lips. Fingers like mush, he couldn't unzip his fly. Wet pants, what a drag. | |
| got to find a way to dry. A fairy wing? No, i think they will sting. A rose bush? Me thinks that will hurt the tush. | |
| The miniscule light over his head blinked dimly as he searched tediously for a way to dry his now wet trousers. "I know, I know," he hopped around like a rabbit in heat, "I'll get the hair dryer to blow." | |
| "I wouldn't do that, if I were you," a throaty feminine voice whispered near his ear. "It's well known that hair dryers are cursed." | |
| Corley continued picking the skin off his lips. " Fresh cabbage, anyone?" | |
| The wind-up teeth chattered in the affirmative, clackety-clack-clacking across the buckled, glass-strewn pavement and grredily gobbling up the translucent flecks of skin from Lardass Corley's disintegrating lips. | |
| flortle short on oranges' heart chart | |
| But then he saw the spoon. It had been under the chair the whole time! Oh did he feel like a fool. He picked up the spoon, and shook his head smiling. Now he could finally go home. | |
| Home. But, where was home? No. Home would never do. Not any more. | |
| "Ah, but home has a funny way of waiting for you, Sir," chattered the plastic Teeth. "And by the time you finally come around to it again, everything's changed. Even the rules have turned against you. Toast burns, windows slam on your fingers, toilets overflow, the kids and their low-class friends ransack the liquour cabinet (mixing single malt Scotch with 7UP! Too horrible to imagine any further) and your wife sleeps with the goat-nosed Dykemanistani telephone repairman. On more than one occasion." | |
|
"But I don't understand!" I cried. "How can this be? The world does not change
so quickly these days."
"Ah, but it does, it does!" cried the plastic teeth gleefully. "And...and my wife! How could she?! THe Dykemanistani telephone repairman is hideous!" I moaned in anguish. The plastic teeth leered cruelly, "And what's more, she's going to have a BABY with him..." | |
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"Gaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" his eyes bulged out of their sockets. "A baby? My wife? A baby of — of — of mixed ethnic origins?!?!?" "I'm afraid so. The luscious hue of cocoa butter. Most likely the Dykemanistani predeliction for unprovoked violence. Tempered perhaps by your wife's, er unusual talents... Who knows? Perhaps you'll all be lucky and it'll be a girl..." The plastic teeth clacked together and chattered tat-tat-tat along the ground. | |
| He couldn't take this in. How could such a thing have happened? He'd done all the right things, arranged all the objects, just so, performed all the right rituals. Maybe it was the doctor now standing here beside him who had caused his wife to have, not the goat he had been hoping for, but a normal child of mottled tone. | |
| "That's what you get-et-et-etta-tat-tack-clack," chattered the teeth still foraging along the ground for whatever scraps and crumbs the local pigeons might have missed. It ceased its clacking for long enough to wrest a lengthy earthworm from its hole, and gob-gob-gobbled it down with a gusto which Lardass found both embarrassing and repellent. | |
| Why does the mind of the Universe always seem to take on such ungainly, ridiculous forms? mused Lardass Corley philosophically as he watched the wind-up teeth resume their scavenging of food. In his mind, he affected the voice of a clever, koan-posing Zen master. Why must the Buddha dress in ug-ree crothing? Ah-so, grasshopper -- because he rishing to be reft arone! Zen-cog-nee-to." | |
| I disagree. There must be a better way. | |
|
But "better" is a value judgment residing in the consciousness of the
individual. Can you judge my better or any other's?
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Indeed, can one arsehole flying off a cliff make any difference to the rest of
the world?
Doess | |
| Or, to put it differently, can one arsehole posting on the Tandem Novel completely destroy a story-in-progress? Methinks not. -- Cole Mufti III, 1873 | |
| huh? | |
| -- chattered the teeth at the glossolaliacal nonsense pouring from Lardass's foaming, bloody mouth as he thrashed about the debris-strewn ground in the throes of a grand mal seizure. | |
|
And so the sagely plastic teeth gave up on him and chatta-chat-chattered away,
dreaming of miraculous future in which beings of its own kind could be
augmented with platic salivary ducts for the release of plastic saliva.
Then, it thought, I'll be able to SPIT on people again!" | |
| But alas, it was not to be. The plastic teeth leapt from his mouth and fell under a bus driving by, shattering into thousands of pieces. And he wept, alone and toothless once more. | |
| And as his tears mingled with the oil and grit and saliva that coated the destroyed teeth, the realization hit with more force than he had ever been prepared to face. The realization that nothing was real anymore. Every thing that he had held as sacred and true, was thrown back into the blur of random grey realities. In the back of his head, over and over, he heard it: "All that you love is unreal. Everything is broken. Changed forever. Forever." | |
|
"Wait!" Lardass cried out to no one in particular. "This is all wrong! This can
be all there is!" Lardass picked up the shattered teeth and cradled them in his
grimy, oil-stained hands. "You haven't beaten me yet!" he screamed at the sky.
Lardass wrapped the teeth up in his hankerchief and tucked the precious bundle gently in the bottom of his coat pocket, taking care not to grind more damage into the delicate clockwork machinery. With a new hope, for what he was not sure, Lardass shuffled off toward his home. | |
| there he found his friends. Jacob,Anita Bathe and of course, Ben Dover | |
| Ah yes, his dear old friends. Of course, when he first met her Anita's last name was Mann but then she got married. Unfortunately her husband was killed in a freak plumbing accident, God rest his soggy soul. His best pal Ben would probably never get married because it's illegal in most states. The last time he'd seen Jacob, he was still dating Helen Bach and she looked like someone who'd just been through hell and back. | |
| Of course her real name was not Helen Bach, that was just her married name. Her real last name was Mucous. | |
|
Sometimes this willy nilly stew of his coupling and uncoupling, married and
divorcing and endlessly name shifting friends began to confuse Corley. He often
lost track of people and the convoluted trail of what they preffered to be
called and then saw some so infrequently that there might have been up to three
marriages and one religious conversion with a requisite name change before he
might see someone again. (Sister Maryalice Calypso Stewart Walla-Walla Ding
Dong Doobie Allah Is Mighty Jackson nee Karen Smith being a famous
example)
But Lardass almost never forgot a face. He could recognize people he'd met before and instantly recall where and under what circumstances. He became adept at being able to converse without ever having to actually address anyone by name. It served him well. | |
| Until he met a woman with no name at all, a skinny, long-haired, beatnik sort of a lady with black hair, greasy eyes and no lips to speak of. No name either. Not even "hey you." Even avoiding addressing her by name was impossible. | |
|
To avoid her was to predjudice her, to even glance her
way was to force his face not to grimace and then not to stare. | |
|
Word up! Little man!
The Dodge Dart you is drivin' Refutes your sex-u-al preferences, Sincerely, -- Mrs. Mufti (wife of Ivan) | |
| **To Whom It May Concern: Please do not listen to the woman who places a "Mrs." before my name. She is not yet my wife, and if she continues to cause as much trouble as she is currently causing, I will never -- and that means NEVER -- make a so-called "honest woman" out of her. Having recently taken it upon herself to throw (pre)caution to the wind, she has gone off her psychiatric medication, and now -- once more in the grip of those same morbid fancies which time and again have unhinged her delicately wrought mind -- has imagined for herself a fresh start as "MC Mrs. Ivan Mufti." Even now she has locked herself in the bathroom for the past six hours, where she is practicing her insipid, melancholic "raps" while employing a hair-brush in place of a microphone. Therefore, until the ambulance arrives and those nice young men in the white coats can get her into a straitjacket and return her to the sanatorium, your consideration and empathy in these matters is greatly appreciated. I remain, respectfully yours, | |
|
Corley looked down and read again the letter that the nameless girl had thrust
upon him. It didn't make any more sense the second time he read it. He looked
up at her with a puzzled expression, hoping that this might induce an
explanation out of her. She just looked back at him with the faintest whiff of
a smile and waited for him to speak. He knew her from someplace. She obviously
knew him to. She certainly wasn't unattractive in third runner up Drew
Barrymore lunatic kind of way. A friend of Helen Bach's? An ex coworker from
the overnights at Kinko's he worked in Puxatawny back in his drinking days. The
Pig & Whistle Thursday Dungeon nights? He certainly had met enough women he
couldn't quite place now from back then. (And boffed numerous of them in the
alley behind the club in an indefinable liquor slicked crank fueled haze of
sweaty orifices and post-coital introductions)
The back of his brain went into overdrive. "Ivan Mufti. Ivan Mufti. Mrs. Ivan Mufti. A faux Mrs. Ivan Mufti. Think. Think. It's got to make sense somewhere down the line. He dicided to bluff his way through and ditch her ASAP. "So...umm...how is old Ivan these days anyway?" " | |
|
"Oh, well, you know, same ol' Ivan." She said, flicking her hand in the air as
if to brush Ivan out of the conversation. Corley just nodded as if he knew
what she was talking about. "I didn't come all this way to talk about him. I
came here to see you."
"Oh, really?" He smiled, looking around him for a means of escape. "Yes, and I must say I'm a bit surprised that you aren't more pleased to see me." She took his hand. Corley frantically searched the recesses of his brain for a name to go with the woman's face. Helen? Anita? Freda? Mitzy? Gabrielle? Ilene? Irene? Try as he might, he could not come up with a name for this woman. "Well of course I'm pleased to see you, baby." he said patting her hand. "but it's been so long. Where have you been hiding yourself these days?" "It hasn't been that long." she said with a puzzled look in her eyes. "You know where I've been. I haven't been that out of touch." "Oh, yes, of course, heh heh." He broke out in a cold sweat. What he wouldn't give for a big vicious dog to come up and bite him right now. | |
| "So why haven't you called?" She asked. It was as if she knew that he had no clue who she was. Did this guy not even own a TV? Her face had been plastered all over the news for the last three days. | |
|
"Well, I've been...uh, kinda,...like busy lately. You know, work and shit like
that."
Well, no doubt, knowing him he was plastered himself in an entirely different way. But there just wasn't time for cutesy reintroductions at this moment. the clock was ticking. She grabbed his arm in a rather iron grip and tugged him protesting all the way down the block and shoved him into a cab. Ignoring his protestations, she checked her watch. "Driver, there's an extra ten in it for you if you get us to Penn Station in fifteen munutes or less." With a chiropractic thrust of the swarthy arab behind the wheel hit the gas. | |
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They burst into the line of moving traffic so suddenly that even ordinary rules
of grammer and coherent sentence structure were thrown into confusion.
Time seemed temporarily suspended and the buildings and sidewalks of the city seemed to blur into one long endlessly moving postneoexpressionistic blend of color with a pervasive odor of hot dogs. The up to now nameless woman instinctively reached her hand across Lardass's chest to protective him as the taxi blasted its way into a spray of color. Gasping for a breath whilst the numerous powers of G-force tore at her face and her cheeks puffed chipmunkwise with powerful acorns of air pressure she scrabbled for the inhaler in her purse. Up front, narily a hair was stirred by this burst of hyperspeed on Aben ben Laben, chief cook and bottle washer for the Tardis Taxi Company. He carelessly ruminated on an already days old piece of banana Bubble Yum without any visible sign of chewing satisfaction. Between the odd pulsating bits of static on the AM radio came snippets of the Qu'uran and the long bailful wail of the muzzelah call. | |
| "How long will it be before we reach the Royalton?" asked Lardass, "If we don't meet up with Omar and Z in time to make the exchange, then I might as well break my OWN legs." Aben ben Laben just shrugged. | |