(Today we reach the end of book three. There are many fables and you should either look forward to them or be thankful that they end right here for the time being–LA)

Program note: Book Four, the Great HeXopatha will appear in September

Now for our featured presentation…

The Wishingwellwraith and the Trade Rats

Flo and Andy were a Trade Rat couple who lived at the edge of the Chihuahuan Desert in southern New Mexico. Flo had dug their den (aka “midden”) on an abandoned ranch, close to an old well that had dried up ages ago. Although they weren’t exactly in the desert, the land was thick with mesquite, chaparral, agave cactus and peyote.

Little did the couple know that the ranch had been a hideout for famous bandits and desperados in the nineteenth century. Or so the new owner, who’d recently moved in, claimed. And if Flo and Andy had been cynical Trade Rats attuned to human affairs then they might have made the connection between the advent of the new highway that passed less than a mile from the ranch and its heretofore unknown history as an outlaw hideout. And if Flo and Andy knew how to read, they would have understood the sign that the new owner had erected at the ranch’s entrance:

Renfield’s Wild West Ranch

The James Gang, Billy the Kid, Pancho Villa,

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid All Ate Peyote and Drank Tequila Here

Guided Tours: Three Dollars for Adults, Five for Each Child

Also, a Real Live Wishing Well (Reasonably Priced Wish Menu)

According to her mother, Flo hadn’t married well. Andy was a lazy Rat who spent nearly all his time loaded on peyote and fermented agave, and tom-ratting about with his like-minded, worthless friends. While he was passed out in the midden one day, Flo had watched the smiling young woman who now owned the spread attach another sign, this one to the dilapidated well near their midden. Although it has been established that Trade Rats are illiterate, we aren’t. The sign on the well said this:

Wish Menu:

Luck: Fifty Cents

True Love: Ten Cents

Termination of True Love: Seventy-five Cents

Contextual World Peace: Fifty Cents

Wisdom: A Quarter

Lesson Learned: A Quarter

Happiness: Function Currently Out of Order

Results Vary

Then, incredibly, after hanging the sign, the smiling young woman looked directly where Flo was hiding. She took three steps in that direction, stopped, held up a disco ball keychain, which glinted gloriously in the ceaseless sunshine, then tossed it in the well; still smiling, she walked away.

Trade Rats (aka “Pack” Rats) are the famous characters of Ratdom known for their adoration of shiny objects–Glitters, that they immediately procure with haste. Trades are also known for “paying” for Glitters by replacing them with other objects. This leads to things like the mysterious transformation of a carelessly stored heirloom pocket watch into a pine cone.

After the woman had gone, Flo wasted no time climbing down the old bucket rope that led to the bottom of the dry well, which was no more than ten feet deep, and likely never a source of water. She located the keychain, danced about, and swapped it with one of the dozens of pebbles lying on the well’s floor.

And just as Flo was about to climb the rope back up with her prize, a Wishingwellwraith Spirit suddenly spoke to her. His name was Smythe.

******

“He wants us to do what, pet?” Andy asked that night over his supper of peyote and fermented agave cactus. Even though Flo had already explained the deal to him twice, Andy was fixated on the keychain she’d brought home, besides, he wasn’t much of a listener to begin with.

“‘Us?’” Flo said with a contemptuous little snort. “As in we, as in you and me? As in a joint effort called ‘work?’”

“No need to bring your mother into your voice, love.”

Whilst Andy was eating, Flo had already begun work on the short tunnel that would connect the midden to the bottom of the well. As was so often the case in their marriage, their conversations involved him sitting there consuming, paying little heed to her words, whilst she labored back and forth. This would go on until he’d say something ugly about Mom, which would cause her to hurl a stone at him. Flo had a pretty good arm for a Trade Rat, and Andy excelled at ducking hurled objects. Therein lay their compatibility.

But this time she did her very best to explain the situation to him, if only to gain a better grasp on it for herself.

“It’s like this,” she said, “the ghostie–remember me telling you about him, by the name of Smythe?”

“But of course, pet,” Andy lied.

“He told me that the human that’s come round wants us as business partners. Says that there’s going to be lots of other humans coming round to the well fairly soon. Furthermore, the ghostie is of the wishing well persuasion, which means–”

“I know what that means,” Andy said. “He’s the middleman.”

And for once Andy had caught the gist. All animals, no matter how “low,” can communicate with human Spirits (who, by the way, resent being called a “ghostie”), but, for maybe a thousand reasons, animals cannot talk to living persons. Andy’s constant intake of peyote gave him an especially keen knowledge of ghosties. For instance, without being told, Andy knew that Wishingwellwraiths were personages of low character; grifters who enjoyed the hunt far more than the spoils. ‘Wraiths had a knack of parting fools and their belongings even though the ‘Wraith, being dead, had no use for material goods.

The peyote, more than Flo, made the situation clear in Andy’s mind. “So, the human wants us to fetch the money from the well and bring it to her in exchange for Glitters.”

“Precisely,” Flo said. “That’s why I’m digging this tunnel.”

“Don’t let me keep you from it, pet.”

******

The smiling woman’s name was Renfield. She no more cared about the history of the Wild West than she did for Smurf genealogy. But as a professional Supernaturalist, Renfield had coaxed a large cash grant out of congress for the study of the interactions between Wishingwellwraiths and Trade Rats. The ranch Renfield had bought from the government for a bid (the only bid) of twenty dollars was the blind from which she’d observed the doings in the well on multiple spy cams she had arranged down there on the sly. A tiny portion of the grant was spent at various New Mexican Dollar Stores; anything small and shiny was cleared off the shelves. Anyone wanting to purchase a keychain or a compact mirror at a southern New Mexican Dollar Store during that time had to drive to either Arizona, Texas or Tijuana.

The ranch and the new highway opened the same day. Smythe, the Wishingwellwraith Renfield had engaged for the study, worked his silent magic on people from his place at the bottom of the well. The “Grande ” Opening grossed nineteen dollars, thirty-seven cents, four pesos, two bus tokens and a washer.

Three-thirty-seven (along with the pesos, tokens and the washer) of the take was spent on wishes. As planned, Renfield had dropped an empty felt marble’s sack that had a drawstring into the well, the night before. She then told the ‘Wraith to have Andy (who actually came along, but did none of the work) and Flo fill the sack with the coins and leave it on the back step of the house. In keeping with the Trade Rat business model, Renfield had left two small mirrors, a tin charm bracelet, a packet of ball bearings and a Yosemite Sam keychain on the back porch. The Rats emptied the sack on the step and filled the bag with their pay and scurried off to the midden.

This process repeated itself for a week until (as Renfield had predicted) the ‘Wraith got bored and decided to cause strife. She smiled as she watched the following unfold in her laptop, which communicated with the spy cams in the well.

Flo was busily collecting another couple of dollars in coins when Smythe began talking to Andy, who was just sitting there, dazed on peyote.

“You’re being played for a sucker, friend,” said Smythe.

“How so?”

“These bits you exchange for cheap Glitters are worth ten times what you are paid. She puts all the money in a little wood box and does nothing with it.”

“We know.”

Those two little words stunned the ‘Wraith. “‘We know?’”

“It’s like this, friend,” Andy said, “you offer services you cannot possibly provide for money you cannot possibly spend because you are an…what’s that people word pet?”

“Asshole, dear,” Flo said, as she dutifully arranged a pile of pebbles and cactus seeds as payment for the loot.

“Yeah,” Andy continued, “an asshole. You get a kick out of conning, and when that bores you, you look to cause trouble.”

“You seem to know a lot about Spirits, for a Rat,” Smythe said.

“More than you know about Rats, friend,” Andy said with a wink.

After Flo and Andy left, The ‘Wraith, who knew about the cameras and microphones, translated for Renfield what the Rats had said to him.

******

The next phase of the study involved the duplicity of Rats. Despite their attitudes, Renfield knew that what the ‘Wraith had said to the couple wasn’t forgotten. So, she decided to pay a little less for the coins and told the ‘Wraith to explain the concept of taxation to the couple.

It didn’t go over well.

“I won’t work unless we are paid in full,” Andy said.

“As far as you go, there’s no difference,” laughed Smythe.

Flo didn’t say a word. Renfield observed the female Rat; she looked thoughtful, twitching her whiskers, as though she had a big idea.

After filling the sack with that day’s take, Flo conked Andy on the back of the head with it.

“Why’d you do that for, pet?”

“Never you mind,” she said. “Just follow me.”

The Rats disappeared into the tunnel, beyond the reach of the camera, microphones and the nosy Wishingwellwraith.

Renfield wondered what kind of rebellion that Flo, who was obviously the brains of the outfit, had planned. If it was interesting, it might pry more money out of congress for future Supernatural studies.

She switched to the back step camera. Under normal circumstances the Trades would be out there in a couple of minutes.

Renfield began to record her voice on her phone:

“Oh, here comes Flo, now,” she said. “But no Andy–shit, hold up, that is Andy, but not Flo. Where in hell’s name is she? Oh my God, Andy is actually doing work! He looks chagrined. Maybe rats can’t count, but they must know what fewer looks like…Paid them with a pair of fingernail clippers, the bus tokens and the washer they brought me a while back…”

Andy took an awful long time going about his tasks. Between each movement, he’d take a rest and gnaw on a wad peyote he had in his cheek. Even with fewer items to load, he took ten times longer than Flo to put them in the sack. Then Renfield heard two sharp whistles from somewhere out behind the house. Andy had heard them too, and he scurried off with the sack in the direction the sound had come.

Something’s up, but what? Renfield thought as she collected that day’s wishing well take. The mystery was solved the instant Renfield discovered that the wood box she kept the change in was open, the twenty dollars or so in coins were gone and that one of those weird bulb-like blooms of peyote had been left as payment.

Fortunately the entire house was on one camera or another. And that evening, Renfield laughed and laughed over her Cutty Sark and ginger ale, watching over and again, Flo fill a Dollar Store shopping bag with the loot and drag it swiftly out the open window.

The Amoral: You Can’t Cheat an Honest Rat

End Book Three

Renfield Awesomenicitizes the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost

( Prefatory Remarks by Ms. Allison’s Employer)

After almost three years in the making, Leila Allison Studios has informed me that something called Renfield Awesomenicitizes the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost: A Feckless Fable of the Fantasmagorical has opened its pitiless eyes and is currently slouching off to anywhere but Bethlehem to get itself born. Although this… whatever it is… exists in print only, Ms. Allison insists on bringing her productions forward as though they were motion pictures, complete with a cast, crew and an expense voucher that I am hesitant to look at.

According to an urban legend whose popularity exponentially expands with that of the increasing population of congenital idiots, it takes three years for swallowed chewing gum to pass. Ms. Allison feels that the audience should view Renfield Awesomenicitizes the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost: A Feeble Fable with the soul of that urban legend in mind. For reasons unchallenged by critical thinking, Ms. Allison is certain that any audience able to identify with a wad of Juicy Fruit, grimly determined to survive a perilous journey through untold miles of intestines only to wind up someplace a little less than heaven, is probably the sort of audience who will embrace Renfield Awesomenicitizes the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost: A Feeble Fable for whatever the hell it might be.

Leila’s (here I make like Pilate and wash my hands of the affair) little whatever it might be “stars” four members of the Union of Pen-names, Imaginary Friends and Fictional Characters, to which Writer-Producer-Director Ms. Allison reluctantly belongs. The players include Renfield Stoker-Belle typecast as Renfield Stoker-Belle; a “literary turkey” named Krook briefly essays the role of the TomTom Ghost until he’s suddenly (and inexplicably) replaced by Miss Izzy (Queen of Shoeboxes), who chews the scenery (as well as a bit of Mr. Krook) as the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost. There’s also an old car named Lucille involved. She has no lines but I’m told that she drives the action. Ms. Allison so wanted a celebrity fictional car for the role, but union rules forced her to settle for one of her own construction. My guess is that Titty-Titty Gang Bang and Herpes the Love Bug were both unavailable.

Anyway, I figure that I should step in and issue this fair warning: Something in Leila Allison Studios has opened its pitiless eyes and has slouched off, possibly, in your direction.

Your Obedient Servant,

Ms. Allison’s Employer

Now For an Unscheduled Crafted Insincere Apology

I have returned to post a crafted insincere apology. The innocently meant “Titty-Titty Gang Bang” and “Herpes the Love Bug” comments shared above have provoked the ire of corporate congenital idiots. Someone in my organization leaked the prefatory remarks early, hence the necessity of a crafted insincere apology.

In this case the two injured parties (Chitty-Chitty so and so and Herbie the etc.– to both I’d meant only passing offense) work for “The Ears.” Disney has moles everywhere that regularly report instances of “non-Mouseketeerishness” to the head of Uncle Walt–which, according to reliable intel, is currently located in a meat locker outside Encino, California.

The Big Diz aimed to get tough with me and sent over a couple of goons with voices like Bob Hoskins and Mike Reid, but in form were actually interchangeable Goofy and Pluto in fedoras and raincoats. I had to think of something quick. Fortunately, I am in possession of a “sex-toon” in which a certain corporate fairie (whose name ryhmes with “jinkle hell”) is so jazzed up on pixie dust that she overlooks the age (mainly the lack of it) of a famous woodenboy/nosedildo.

My collection of sex- and sin-toons keeps me out of the mortuary. Just last year the teetering Speed Racer franchise got a small dollop of what a sin-toon can do when some person unable to come to an accord with virtual Edo-mafia posted a few cells which depicted Pops losing Spridel and Chim-Chim at a Casbah gambling den. I informed the comic-canine goons that I’d post the sex-toon and some serious #MeToo doggie-doo concerning their past hump-the-leg activities (some of it goes back to the 30s) that would Kevin Spacey both of them into an early retirement if we couldn’t work out a solution amenable to #MeOnly. Thus I got out of the tight spot by promising a crafted insincere apology.

I live a blessed life. I’ve managed to issue a crafted insincere apology without saying sorry to nobody nowhere no how. I rock. Oh, yeah, don’t forget what I said about the slouching thing with the pitiless eyes. It’s definitely headed your way.

Always Your Obedient Servant,

Ms. Allison’s Employer

Ms. Allison’s Feckless Fable (aka, “The Slouching Thing With Pitiless Eyes”)

Renfield Stoker-Belle exited her haunted house in the wilds of Torqwamni County one sunny Saturday morning and cheerfully hopped in behind the wheel of a “cherry” 1967 Dodge Charger convertible named “Lucille.” She engaged the motor and spoke to her beloved automobile.

“There’s awesomenicity in the air,” Lucille,” she said. “At long last we are off to the Great Torqwamni County Leftover Food Storage Device Symposium–where I, the one and only Renfield Stoker-Belle, will proceed to awesomenicitize the gathering with my revolutionary double-smack corner burping system.”

The location of the symposium was in a part of the county unfamiliar to her, so Renfield plugged the coordinates into her TomTom. The instant she did that a weird little voice that sounded like a cross between John Geilgud and Porky Pig blurted “Hulululu-lah-too-too” out of the TomTom.

An extremely perplexed, vexed and perhaps even hexed WTF expression entered Renfield’s pretty face. This condition was in no way eased by a snap of static and the sudden emergence of a purring second voice inside the TomTom, who growled “Get out before I fricase you.” This was followed by what sounded like the panicky ruffling of feathers and the beat of tiny talons running off into the distance.

“What the hell’s going on in there?” Renfield asked as she beat on the TomTom with her fists.

“Stop that, woman,” the purring voice said. “I am the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost. I demand that you take me to a wishing well that’s on the way to your asinine convention. There I will assume my vocation as a Wishingwellwraith.”

After a couple of years living in a house that’s a portal routinely used by ghosts to cross-over from one side of reality to the other and back, Renfield sighed with the same degree of annoyance one displays when encountering an encampment of cookie selling Girl Scouts strategically placed at the supermarket’s main entrance.

“We ain’t going nowhere until you tell me A, what happened to the other dude, and B, how can you be a ghost of a ghost?” Renfield said. As an experienced supernaturalist (as well as a leftover food storage device icon) she knew that the best way to deal with ghosts was to keep them talking. For whatever reason, ghosts cannot lie.

“The ‘other dude’ is a pain in the ass who cut the line and hopped this device even though I had already laid my claim to it long ago. I’d kill him if it were possible, but since he’s dead to start with the best I could do was give him a good whack of electricity, which, as you know, can be highly uncomfortable to accept no matter what side of the grave you call home.”

Renfield considered the situation. She eventually whatever shrugged and placed Lucille in gear. “All right, fiend,” she said, “I’ll take you where you want to go, but it better be on my way, or I’ll plug your butt into a wet generator.”

It was three miles north to the well where the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost wanted to go. It lay at the end of a reasonably level dirt road, which Lucille didn’t find objectionable. The well looked as though it had fallen out of a fairy tale, with its little stone circle, bucket draw and thatched roof. Somebody had even affixed a quaint wooden sign with “WISHES TAKEN FOR A FEE” engraved on it to the tiny roof.

“How do you know about this?” Renfield asked, still seated behind the wheel.

“This is my property and I had it built before I died,” the purring voice said as it vacated the TomTom and began speaking from the well. “Thanks for the ride. Hope you awesomenicitize them at the dumbass meeting of yours.”

“Just a minute, buster,” Renfield said. “Why a wishing well?”

“In life I was the president of a large payday loan company,” the former Ghost of the TomTom Ghost, now a Wishingwellwriath, said. “I so love taking other people’s money away from them. Just watching it stack, don’t you know?”

“I get it, it’s all clear to me now,” Renfield said. “You’re an asshole. It explains everything. Tell me, wishy, do you have the power to grant wishes?”

“After the ‘asshole’ crack, I’m afraid that answer will cost you,” the Wishingwellwraith said. “We both know I cannot lie, but I’m not required to reply.”

Renfield laughed and reached into her purse then flung a dollar coin into the well and listened for the splash. She replugged the coordinates to the symposium into her TomTom and placed Lucille in gear.

“Oh, hell no,” the Wishingwellwraith said. “But I do sell them false hope, which, nowadays, is a marketable commodity.”

Renfield gave the wishing well and its contents the Finger before spinning Lucille around and driving off to make awesomenistic history.

The Amoral:

The Optimist forgets that things are only at their brightest when the sun explodes.

****

One More Crafted Insincere Apology For the Road

Just heard from an indignant Wishing Well Ghost who objected to the character of miserly, grifting Ghost of the TomTom Ghost/Wishingwellwraith just presented. Told him I’d say sorry for real if for fifty grand if he could either triple the president’s IQ or endow him with a sense of taste. I even gave this ghost a method of accomplishing both at the same time: “Just turn the S.O.B. into a Spam sandwich.”

If we should see this event unfold before the next election, then I’ll say sorry. Until then I will reach out to the readership to raise the necessary funds.

Awesomenistically Your Faithful Servant,

Ms. Allison’s Employer

To conclude this book we present a three parter to finish the week–LA

-1-

The Renfield/TomTom Ghost Debacle

All writers have that one bugaboo story that refuses to finish. It’s as though the damned has something against you, and would do anything to mess with you, even to the point of sacrificing its chance of appearing anywhere in the Universe. My bugaboo story is called Renfield and the TomTom Ghost. It has been in production for two years, yet not even a hundred words have been “shot.”

Although I have finally figured out a way that might move Renfield and the TomTom Ghost across the finish line before I die, I’m determined leave a record of my suffering in this matter just in case it does kill me.

The Union of Pen-names, Imaginary Friends and Fictional Characters (from here, UPIFFC) is responsible for both my woe and the possible solution. It is important to know that the woe part was inflicted on me by the union with intent while the solution came up by accident.

I’m a humble pen-name, and when I came along my union was known as the Amalgamated Union of Pen-names and Imaginary Friends. I get along just fine with my fellow aliases and the imaginary friends–hell, the way I see it, everybody should have a dozen of each. Unfortunately, about two years ago (which is not coincidental to when Renfield and the TomTom Ghost began to shoot), my dues-hungry union decided to expand and include under its incompetent wing all fictional characters. And I mean all of them. No exceptions. Everybody and thing ranging from the facehuggers in the Alien franchise on up to Hamlet is in the UPIFFC (almost wrote “on up to Jesus Christ,” but I’ve got enough people mad at me as it is). As a pen-name, when I create fictional characters, I also create fellow union members. It is an insipid situation that causes me to be both a comrade and “The Man” at the same time.

There once was a time when I just wonked-up (yes, busybody autocorrect, I mean “wonked-up,” not “worked-up”) a character and went on my way. “No, no, not so fast,” said the union after the inclusion of fictional characters. “You now have to offer the parts in every new story to all of your previously created fictional characters, before you can create new people or creatures.”

My trouble stems from the fact that since I’m a pen-name, I’m also a fictional character, and possibly even an imaginary friend to my “employer.” (Right here, I am resisting all temptation to bash on that rat.) Persons who have the nerve to publish under their own names are not obliged to follow UPIFFC rules. Moreover, as a virtual type of person, the way I “write” is completely different than what goes on inside the tweedy, elbow-patched, pipe smoky, oak panelled studies in which you breathing writers produce works of genius during the narrow interval which lies between the cessation of one drunken orgy and the start of the next. My productions resemble movie sets at which I am the producer, director, screenwriter and, sometimes, an actor.

{Now for a word from Ms. Allison’s “employer”: “Have you ever noticed that some writers begin new paragraphs with information that really should be in the old paragraph? It happens because, in this case, the writer read somewhere that modern day readers are turned off by long-assed paragraphs of, say, greater than eight lines–which happens to be the length of the previous paragraph. If I know Ms. Allison as well as I think, an example of this is about to happen.”}

I arrive “on set” at hell o’clock in the morning, hair askew, clad in a ratty bathrobe, a novelty-sized coffee cup in one hand, a cigarette in the other, one slipper on, the other MIA, and one eye closed in an unconscious effort to balance out for the missing slipper. The “script” we shoot from is just an outline with only a few set scenes and lines in it. It’s what my actors do with it that creates the story’s final draft. So when I, even in my slovenly condition yell “Action!” I do it with the high hope that the magic will ensue–or, at very least, the literary equivalent of that truthful crudity “It’ll make a turd” ensues.

Not so with Renfield and the TomTom Ghost. It is to be a simple story about Renfield driving her “cherry” 1967 Charger named Lucille into the wilds of Torqwamni County to attend Tupperware-Con (Renfield is a food-storage device fangirl and expert). She’s to plug the coordinates into her TomTom, but a ghost has gotten into it and refuses to direct her to the convention until they locate and return the ghost to the wishingwell it “wishes” to haunt, but cannot find. All right. Fine. Whatever. So it ain’t Lord Jim; but I dare you to find anything else like it.

I had written the piece for one of my major fictional characters, Renfield Stoker-Belle. Although she loved the idea of “at last seeing my name atop the marquee, where it belongs,” she was still a touched pissed at me for making her look both duplicitous and a bit of “a weirdo, in general” in earlier pieces. Realizing from the title that I couldn’t shoot the yarn without her, she went diva on me. Her demands caused her to come off as both duplicitous and a bit of a weirdo, in general.

“I want my own dressing room,” she said. “No more sharing a john with anthromorgraphic rodents and peeping tom shadowghosts,”

“All right. Fine. Whatever,” I said.

“I also want a bowl of Skittles–a big mo-fo of a bowl, fresh everyday, mind you, in my dressing room–minus the purple ones. If I see even one purple one, I will not perform until you remove the offending Skittle, personally.”

“All right. Fine. Whatever.”

“Also, I’ll do the script as writ, but I insist that three words be included. Word one: ‘awesomenicity’ as a noun–as in the state of awesomenicity that I inspire. Word two: ‘awesomenicitized’ as in a verb–by such I mean–”

“I know what a fucking verb does, fink.”

“And…’awsomenistically’ as in an adverb. Everybody knows that you are keen on adverbs and collect them all adverbally-like.”

“All right. Fine. Whatever. Will there anything else, Sire?”

“Just one itsy bitsy thing–a non-issue when you think about it,” Renfield added with a duplicitous bat of her pretty green eyes. “I want to chose my co-star. I’ve got the perfect dude in mind.”

Although I didn’t give a rat’s ass one way or the other about who played the TomTom Ghost, I figured that I should show token resistance to at least one of her demands. “Hold on a minute there, weasel-girl,” I said, “the union says that I’ve got to cast all parts from my own stable of fictional characters. If you have one of those bohunks you see on one of those fingerbang romance novel covers in mind, you’re S.O.L.”

Renfield’s vocabulary is often as profane as that of a whorehouse parrot. Yet she feigned great offense to what I had said to her, as though she were one of those mass produced Disney princesses introduced to the concept of farting. “Could you be less crude in the presence of talent?” she said haughtily. “Rest assured my co-star is one of yours. I had to sift through many two-dimensional cardboard persons to locate someone who will both serve the story and at the same time remain aware of who is the star of the piece.” Then she smiled and whispered: “I can see that you’re getting twitchy because we have just entered the seventh line of this paragraph. Relax. I told my supporting actor to come see you at hell o’clock tomorrow morning in that cat-pee reeking slum you call an office.”

Sure enough, at hell o’clock the next morning there was a scratching at my office door. Not a knock, but a scratching, like that made by a rat in the wall.

“Come in,” I said confidently, because I had “Security” on hand just in case things got uglier than they already were. There’s no better protection against the loathsome critters that dwell in the sub-basement of my creative dungeon than the virtual version of my fuzzy white cat, Miss Izzy. (For the record, the virtual version of my corpulent black cat, Sir Dudley, adheres to the Falstaffian Code as far as the relationship of discretion and valor go–they meet at a homonym, for both Sir Dudley and Sir John like to hit the “sack.”)

The door creaked open, and standing there, all eighteen inches of him, was a turkey. Not a turkey as in that staple of 70’s sitcoms, the “jive” turkey; nor was he even a real turkey nor a virtual representation of such. He was a literary turkey–meaning he had at one time been an oft-rejected and subsequently retired piece I had written a long time ago, thus released into my “Turkey Pen,” where he (according to my muse) took the shape of a cartoon turkey composed of the printed words and numbers that had been present when he was an oft-rejected story. He (and dozens of others of his kind) had evolved into a fictional character when I had a story called Out in the Turkey Pen published a few years back.

The dynamic that exists between feline and fowl in the virtual world of pen-names, imaginary friends and fictional characters is the same as what it is in your so called “real world.” The little turkey cringed at the sight of Miss Izzy, and Miss Izzy began to chatter at the sight of the turkey.

“Oh for the love of cranberry sauce,” I groaned. “You can be the TomTom Ghost. Now get on out of here before Miss Izzy strews your giblets all over the rug.”

I should have vetted the little turkey, whose name was “Krook.” He turned out to be a ham–not as in Hormel, but Shatner, And he was a belligerent little fucker as well. For two goddam years he emoted and chewed the scenery and got in the way of the story. I have abandoned the thing over and again just to return to it because, I guess, I am curious to see what it is like to repeatedly punch myself in the face. Renfield finds the situation she has caused highly amusing and often pelts me with purple Skittles because I had found out, a bit late, how hard it is to imagine a bowl of Skittles without the purple ones in it. Damn near impossible.

Just yesterday I had another go at the christless thing. It went like this:

Renfield leapt into her cherry ‘67 Dodge convertible named Lucille with great

enthusiasm. “There’s awesomenicity in the air this morning, Lucille,” Renfield said,

awesomenistically. “We’re off to Tupperware-Con, where I am the featured after lunch speaker.

The topic is Burping in the 21st-Century. I’m going to awesomenicitize the audience with my revolutionary double-corner snap and release.”

She started Lucille, who greeted the sunny morning with a throaty purr. Renfield proceeded

to feed the convention’s coordinates into her TomTom, unaware that a ghost had gotten into the device overnight.

“Guide us to Tupperware-Con, trusty TomTom,” Renfield said, once again awesomenistically. Instead of repeating the coordinates the ghost in the TomTom said, “Hulululuzipppptbuthum….”

“Cut!!! I screamed as I leapt out of my director’s chair. “Krook! You’d better be having a goddam stroke in there. I don’t recall writing ‘TomTom Ghost, here, why not make a weird-ass noise instead of reciting the dialog as writ?’”

Krook popped his head out from under the dashboard. “It’s called improv, young lady,” he said as though he were goddam Peter O’Toole. “I was speaking in Ancient Gobblish–I’m not surprised that you’re unfamiliar with it.”

“Read the shit as writ or I’ll familiarize my foot with your—”

“Director abuse! Director abuse!” Renfield laughed as she pelted me with purple Skittles. “Miss Leila’s just one private part noun away from a meeting with a union rep.”

“What an excellent idea, Miss Renfield,” I said. “I’m going to do just that! After all, it’s our union.”

The Union of Pen-names, Imaginary Friends and Fictional Characters is a ramshackle structure located at the corner of 12th and Never in a part of town where it’s best to keep one hand on your wallet and the other on the pepper spray. The guy who represents me and my characters is named Lennie. No surname, just Lennie. He also happens to be one of my fictional characters, so I guess you could say that there’s a conflict of interests.

Lennie is a dim version of Mark Twain, and he has perfected the art of feigning dementia as to cut down on unnecessary conversation (which is all of it). You’ve got to read between the lines with Lennie to locate the wisdom. Hell, you’ve got to write what lies between the lines with Lennie, just to ascertain whether he’s still breathing. Although his tutelage inevitably leads me to anxiety and despair, I figured “any port in a storm will do”–an old cliche, which pretty much means the same as “any rat in a plague will do” when dealing with Lennie.

I entered Lennie’s office without knocking still clad in my robe, hair askew and one slipper missing. From his chair behind a desk that had been very old in 1903, Lennie regarded me with the same degree of awareness a mannequin has for other mannequins.

“Still running the senility gag, I see,” I said, less than awesomenistically, as I plopped down in the severe wooden client chair in front of his desk. “I know you’re in there because I created you. Keep on playing turtle or ostrich or pin the tail on the Julian Assange with me, rat bastard, and I’ll never go away.”

He sighed. “And who may you be?”

“I may the the person who relocates this sonofabitchin’ building to the North Pole unless you come out of hiding in plain sight.”

“A worse neighborhood? I tremble at the thought.”

I recalled the wino I had to step over on my way into the building; I recalled all the strewn trash on the cracked sidewalk; I recalled all the dregs of society milling about the grounds; I recalled blending in with it all perfectly. “All right,” I said, “I’ll improve conditions around here as best as my budget allows. I’ll do it even if you are your usual less than helpful self. All I ask is that you actually listen to me for a minute or so, before I let you drift back into your inner sanctum. Deal?”

“You’re that Allison woman, aren’t you?”

It was my turn to sigh. “All right. Fine. Whatever. Have it your way. But since you seem almost able-bodied verbally, perhaps you could advise me on what to do with an FC of mine named ‘Krook.’ The little jackwagon is deliberately ruining a story, which should’ve gotten him fired for cause a long time ago, if not for the union.”

“”’Krook?’” Lennie said softly. “From Bleak House? Using other writer’s characters is forbidden.“

“No, no,” I said. “Not him–not the real unreal him,” I said referencing the ugsome would be blackmailer of Lady Dedlock in Bleak House. “I don’t steal from Dickens anymore than anyone else does. My Krook is a literary turkey whom I had writ for a different story. There were dozens of turkeys in that thing and I named each one after a character from Dickens. I had a Krook, Twist, Fagan and so forth…”

“Seems unkind,” Lennie said, gazing at a point in the wall behind me, “that Mr. Krook should now suffer a fate worse than spontaneous combustion.”

I was in the process of mentally filling in the blanks after “Listen, here, rat bastard,” when I found myself in a blissful state of awesomenicity. Could say I had an epiphany. Could say I asomenicitized a kidney stone. Round here, it’s all pretty much the same thing.

“Eureka!” I shouted and I leapt to my feet and began my “happy dance.” I’d say that a confused expression entered Lennie’s face, but that would be redundant.

At hell o’clock the next morning I called the Renfield and the TomTom Ghost team together, armed with a new script. I showed the altered copy to Renfield only, who glanced at it, shrugged her shoulders and said, ”All right. Fine. Whatever.” Apparently her highness had had enough of the pugnacious poultry’s antics as well.

After I yelled “Action!” the same old bullshit wafted the same old steam heavenwards until the TomTom Ghost spoke. As Krook once again proceeded to “improv” gibberish, which sounded like Yoko Ono singing an aria backwards, the new script kicked in. A flash of fire and ozone emanated from under the dashboard, and Krook, though unharmed, exited that area with great haste.

“Cut and print scene one,” I said. “Thank you Mr. Krook,” I continued. “You have essayed the role of the TomTom Ghost to perfection. But the new script outline requires a new actor to play the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost because the original TomTom Ghost has spontaneously combusted. Our story is now called Renfield Asomenicitizes the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Krook said.

“You’re just now catching on to that?” Renfield said through a mouthful of green Skittles.

“We’ll see what the union has to say about this,” Krook puffed.

“It won’t say a goddam thing, you little a-hole,” I said. “I gave you the role of the TomTom Ghost, and now that the TomTom Ghost has been vaporized, a new player will assume the role of the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost.”

Before Krook could get even shittier about the situation than he already was, I summoned the great actor I had secretly cast in the role of the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost. “Miss Izzy, we are ready to shoot scene two.”

Miss Izzy strode onto set and once more the uneasy and extremely one-sided feline fowl dynamic presented itself. Miss Izzy lit out after Krook who beat a hasty retreat to the Turkey Pen and hasn’t been heard from since.

Only God knows how well casting a virtual female cat in the role of a male ghost of a ghost will go. But if you ever do see Renfield Awsomenicitizes the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost coming your way, I hope you will read it and come away with renewed appreciation for of suffering of the artist.

Yet Another Introduction

Aside from dealing with the Boss, Renfield’s idea of “Great News!”, Team G.O.A.T., The Union, Other Earth, and the litany of ugsome vexations that come with The Big Chair, there was the Spirit Refugee issue. We are all for immigration in Saragun Springs–but for whatever reason we attract individuals whose personalities soon make it clear why they wore out their welcomes elsewhere. If I had religion, I’d say that some people are blessings while most are tests of faith. The same applies to FC’s and Spirits of all stripes and origins.

Whenever a new realm in the multiverse (or metaverse or whatever-verse) is opened, Ghosts can get in at inception, only. The entire process takes milliseconds. Usually on the run, Ghosts can’t be too choosy about the realms they dash into–pretty much any port in a storm.

And although the ones we gained instantly became Free-willed FC Union members upon entry, there was a realm-specific transformation process that happened to each Ghost who sought sanctuary in Saragun Springs. You see, the Boss and I knew about this sort of immigration the and placed a condition of entry on the phantoms, prior to the endowment of Free Will. For each one to “be” in Saragun Springs they had to become a certain type of Ghost. They retained their personalities and would have Free Will, of course, but each one was to be a specialist who can manifest in one way only. So, we have Shadowghosts, Mirrorglimmers, Pantrydrafts, Tippleganagers and so forth. These designations will become clearer ( I hope and pray) in the productions that appear in this section.

The first thing the Ghost element did was issue payback for the requirement of entry and took offense to the word “ghost.” So, from here on they will be, mainly, called Spirits–because the “G-word,” so the phantasms say, “infers a state of being inferior to the original article”–even though it was they themselves who had coined the word. Yet the Shadowghost insists on the name they have always had, for they claim “Shadowspirit sounds clunky.” This is unusual because of all the Spirit classes, Shadowghosts are by far the least assertive.

Although he denies it, the Spirit of my (and the Boss’s) Great Great Great Great Grandfather, Judge Jasper P.Montague, he of the gold gilt gavel on my desk, I imagine that as a member of the Shop Steward panel, he has something to do with the proliferation of contrary Spirits currently on the FC roster. And I must underscore “contrary” because the gang refuses to play any other roles in my productions other than themselves.That is actually good news for me, but it still pisses me off because it was their idea.

Everything that lives leaves a ghost. But only human shades are vain enough to loiter about conveyable dimensions. Most people (and all animals and plants and microscopic life) enter that famous “Light”–but there are the malingerers who insist on sticking around at this level of the tellable Multiverse.

All animals and non humans can see Spirits, but few people do because it requires an accurate perception of reality that isn’t constantly undermined by superfluous bullshit like TV, phones, and money. Still, some people have the correct sensitivity in this area, which is awful goddam convenient for a Pen who sometimes wants a human to interact with a Spirit in a story.

Then sometime during yet another dark soul of the night, I hit upon the idea of casting the Spirits in a series of “B” stories once called Feeble Fables of the Fantasmagorical, but since I don’t want prospective publishers to find a hit on that title when I submit this, I’ve changed the series to Feckless Fables of the Phantasmagorical. That might be something that I shouldn’t write out loud–but there you have it.

To gain a better perspective on the Saragun Springs’ Spirits, I now briefly turn you over to my Great X4 Grandfather, the Judge.

Versatur Circa Quid!

I am what you knaves sometimes call a Ghost. It’s best to get that out in the open, right away, for the benefit of those persons who still support the notion that the dead cannot possibly communicate with the quick. I am neither the walking nor the talking dead; but I am of the writing dead, whom living “literary types” resent for they feel that they have enough competition in their field as it is.

For the record, my name is Judge Jasper P. Montague. I was born in the village of Hanged Crone, Massachusetts, on 15 February 1810 and met my demise on 1 July 1902, at Charleston, Washington. I spent sixty of my ninety-two years as a circuit judge, travelling a route which included Hanged Crone, Stringwitch, Pillory, and the entirety of Wiccanfire County. I dispensed, in accordance with my 17th century ancestors’ beliefs, a stern, Puritanical interpretation of the law. Upon my retirement, several colleagues presented me with a small yet hefty gold-gilt lead gavel, into which the following sentiment was engraved: “Versatur Circa Quid”–roughly “what comes around goes around.” No one at the presentation could explain precisely what that was supposed to mean, but I assumed that it had to be flattering, and I vowed to always keep my ceremonial gavel close to my person and heart.

On my ninety-second birthday, my great granddaughter, Leila, was shocked to discover that in all my years I had never been farther west than Flaming Hag Valley. She suggested that I ought to chaperone her (at my expense) on a train trip to the Pacific Northwest. Although I was as spry as a man half my age (which is how Leila put it, “Why, Great Grandfather, you’re as spry as a man half your age”), I also knew that even “half my age” still exceeded the average lifespan of the day. Although I was ninety-two, Leila wholeheartedly insisted that I still nurtured unfulfilled dreams of youthful wanderlust (that’s how she put it “Dearest Great Grandfather, in my breast I believe you still nurture unfulfilled dreams of youthful wanderlust). The truth be told, I had never thought much about wanderlust at any time in my life, but Montague women do have their charming ways, so, come spring, I agreed to fund our adventure.

Back then there was no such thing as an “express” from coast to coast. Our journey took about six weeks, and every new train we boarded seemingly extolled its own infectious disease, as though the highlighted illness were a candidate for office. Some trains promoted diphtheria, others backed typhoid, cholera had plentiful support, and nearly all carried tuberculosis and amebic dysentery. Fortunately, both Leila and I had the benefit of the hardy and spry Montague constitution (aided in no small measure by the Montague family axiom : “If a pint of applejack a day keeps the sexton away, then a quart is all the better”). While the others among us dropped like overtaxed plough horses, we (and Leila’s eerie black cat, “Rebecca Nurse”) gazed out the windows at the endless prairies, tippled ‘jack and dined on room temperature chicken and undercooked pork.

Ironically or tragically or howeverly you want it, I died the instant we arrived at our final destination. The latch to an overhead storage compartment gave way in my sleeping quarters (which I reluctantly shared with Rebecca Nurse, whom I had caught glimpse of during the final seconds of my mortal existence), and the satchel which contained my inscribed gold-gilt presentation gavel landed squarely on the only place a Montague is vulnerable, the skull. Everyone surmised that I was dead before I hit the floor. (That’s how Leila put it: “I know in my breast that my dearest great grandfather was gone before he hit the floor.”)

Leila decided to remain in Charleston, and had me buried in a local cemetery so she could lovingly tend to her dear great grandfather’s grave (that’s how she put it “So I may lovingly tend to my dear great grandfather’s grave”). Since my demise netted her an ample inheritance (she had beguilingly convinced me that my will required some serious editing while we were in St. Louis), and since there were persons back in Hanged Crone who would have many questions about that, Leila decided that the width of a continent was space enough between her and our nosy relations. After a brief marriage, which produced yet another female Montague named Leila, the original wound up living ninety-nine years and was in the habit of collecting black cats and sleeping on a bed with an upside-down crucifix hanging on the wall behind the head. In the ornament she had “Versatur Circa Quid!” inscribed. I have yet to meet her on the otherside, yet I look forward to it, although I anticipate the meeting with no special sense of hurry.

I’m forbidden by the statutes of the Afterlife to tell the living what happens to a person upon death. Let’s just say there is a certain amount of “Versatur Circa Quid!” levied by a Higher Power then let it go at that. On the seventh anniversary of my passing, I was returned to Earth as a Spirit (nay ghost!)-a state in which I remain to this very day. Although I have a certain amount of freedom to explore, I cannot travel no more than ten paces from my ceremonial gavel–which still remains in the possession of my kin.

Every generation of Montagues, no matter which new surname the child is born under, has at least one Leila in it. Like the consumption of applejack, the passing down of my presentation gavel from Leila to Leila is a family tradition. I, too, have become a part of the family tradition; each new Leila who springs from the Montague line inherits me along with my gavel. And now, nearly a hundred and twenty years after I had shed my mortal coil, and over two-hundred since my birth, I am going to Mexico with my great great great great granddaughter, Leila Allison, who so much reminds me of the Leila who stood in her place three greats ago.

Before I go to Mexico, I find it necessary to clarify matters pertaining to the “talking dead” versus the “writing dead.” A great deal of slander fills the air on the subject, an amount rivaled only by the reams of libel printed on the topic. For example:

Q: “If you’re dead, as you claim, how can you produce a document?”

A: Thermal dynamics.

I caught you unawares with that reply, didn’t I? I suppose you thought I was going to weave a tapestry of nonsense from threads of mumbo jumbo, did you not? Versatur Circa Quid! Without giving away too much, although we are most certainly ethereal, we ghosts are physical objects. Within microscopic areas we may create both a cold spot and a hot spot, mix them up, then produce tiny vortexes. Although heat rises, the tiny,”confused” vortex drops, just for a millisecond, before it goes up and dwindles to nothing. The micro-bursts of energy are just enough to move a larger physical object, like, say, a

character on a keyboard. I am able to do this hundreds of times per second, and I can produce a document (as long as I am no more than ten paces away from the device) in no time at all.

Of course if my modern Leila was a bit more diligent in regard to powering down or even signing out of her various devices, my task would be harder. She is aware, in a foggy sort of way, that I often seep into her Chromebook, and sometimes she speaks and cackles to herself as she invents new passwords as to thwart my creation of new documents (that’s how she puts it “‘Igglesniff@ixydewlap#22 will surely thwart dearest Great Great Great Great Grandfather’s entry into this device”). She says that even though my gavel (thus I) sits atop her writing desk. Alas, some will say that Miss Leila Allison, by any surname, is still most definitely a Montague. Versatur Circa Quid!

The Mexican adventure sprung up last week from that beloved, traditional wellspring of Montague Big Ideas–namely, alcohol. I watched her pour three fingers of a well known Tennessee potent potable into a tumbler then add something called “Moxie” to it. Like all Montagues, she disdains the addition of ice to her drinks for it takes up space better filled by potent potables. She finished the creation off with a splash of grenadine and slowly stirred the potion counterclockwise with a cinnamon stick. After uttering “Versatur Circa Quid!,” she knocked it all down in one shot. After experiencing some type of seizure, in which her face seemingly imploded and her arms and legs began to involuntarily flail about, she recovered and wound up repeating the original procedure three more times, then, as it is her yearly, custom, she produced a metal tipped dart, which she shakily aimed at the world map she had earlier affixed to the wall.

“Auh-rythe, grat-gran-dath, squared, lessee where weez goin’ dis yar.”

It took three tries before she hit the map. But with the aid of my hotspot/coldspot technology, I managed to urge the thing into Mexico. This is how she selects the location for our yearly holiday.

Leila also has a large poster of the solar system affixed to a different wall in the same room. After hearing the dart hit home she staggered toward it, and said, “Auh-rythe, Marz it iz,” before she slumped onto the couch for a siesta. Upon awakening, hours later, she glanced at the correct poster and muttered “Ariba.”

I’m certain that we will have no trouble getting my presentation gavel in and out of ol’ Medico. I’m overjoyed to know we will be travelling by rail. I’m eager to find out if my hotspot/coldspot technology will be as effective as Rebecca Nurse’s paw (oh, I’ve always known) when it comes to undoing the overhead compartment latch in dearest Great Great Great Great Granddaughter’s sleeping berth. Versatur Circa Quid!

Coda

Dearest not so Great Grandfather squared,

Although I seldom proof what I write, I always take a peek at those strange little files in docs that I do not recall creating. For your information, beloved sir, the inclusion of the Allison blood to that of the Montague has provided me with a skull so thick that you could toss an anvil at it from, say, ten paces, and not win as much as a flinch from Yours Truly. Regardless, heed this warning: although taking you everywhere I go is a family tradition, if any funny business should occur on our vacation, I’ll hock you at a Tijuana pawn shop, burn the ticket and blow town on the next train out. I suppose you might be able to apply that “hotspot/coldspot technology” of yours and move that awkward, heavy-ass weight north; but the way I see it it’ll take you ten-thousand years to push the goddam thing across the Mojave, alone (that’s just how she put it “ten-thousand years to push the goddam thing across the Mojave, alone”). As we both know, ten-thousand years is one hell of a lot of Leila’s from now. Versatur Circa Quid! Rat bastard.

Hugs and kisses,

Leila the 4th

Introduction

August is Spirit Month in the Springs. This new tradition began about an hour ago when I remembered that Book Three is almost entirely composed of Feckless Fables, which feature Ghosts (some object to the G-word due to the inference of it meaning something less there than the original article). Whatever you call them, the days of this month belong to them.

As stated way back in Book One, whenever a new realm is opened in the multiverse, a great many Ghosts will fly in before the borders are sealed for the same reason immigrants came to America. Overcrowding. Lack of opportunity. Belief in “the happily forever after” that they should have learned better about in life.

Still, the dead outnumber the living by a substantial margin, and less competitive Spirits usually seek low impact new lands of make believe to haunt.

Although they are not my creation I feel obligated to give them employment. Yet unlike my stable of FC actors, these dead can only play themselves (so they say).

Only animals can always see and interact with Ghosts. Few people can, much fewer than those who claim to have the gift. That’s because people who interact with Ghosts are not looking to pull a scam. Oddly, the Ghosts who reside and perform in Saragun Springs are one trick phantoms who specialize in one form of haunting.

Much of the following material was originally published on Literally Stories UK over the years. But once you have shuffled off the mortal coil, time matters little. The pieces used to be called Feeble Fables of the Fantasmagorical, but over the course of meaningless time, “Feckless” has emerged as the better adjective.

When the clock tells 6AM international time tomorrow, the first Ghost will appear. He is the only one who is native to the Springs and he has a bit of a preface to get off his chest.

And although much of what I say here will be repeated tomorrow, I figure that placing two explanations might be in order, given the nature of these items.

Leila