(Today we conclude this look at HeXy and the boys–but they will be back someday–again, fair warning-LA)

billigitmania

-1-

It’s hard to ignore five shadows cast on your desk by as many hovering beings outside the window. I do not know if there is an achievable degree of determination to successfully ignore such a situation; if so, it lies beyond my level of sticktoitiveness.

With a sigh I closed my computer and without looking I motioned to the hovering individuals outside to come in. I heard the window go up and I sat there at my desk, staring straight ahead at nothing until Penrose the Flying Weasel and the four billigits–by name, mothball, weasel (coincidental to Penrose), pinto and flounder appeared in my sight. (billigits do not believe in capitalization.)

“You guys still working for HeXopatha?” I asked because all five are minions of the Witch HeXopatha.

I heard “We serve our magnificent master.”

Each spoke one word of that– starting with “We” at Penrose and ending when flounder said “master.”

“Excellent,” I said. “You guys must be lost and need directions home. Just head toward the Enchanted Wood, thatta way,” I added, pointing out the window.

The crystal ball on my desk flashed red. That happens when the Magnificent Master herself has something to tell me. HeXopatha’s fair yet damned face appeared in the crystal.

“What now?” I said.

“‘Hello, HeXopatha, how are you on this fine day?’” she said with a mixture of sarcasm and some other smartass quality that no word can precisely describe; a sort of benign affection that can go malignant at any time.

“All right,” I said, “pretend you heard me say that, but remember it is the sort of thing a person asks but doesn’t mean. Anyway, funny you should call right now–since there are five of yours loitering in the office.”

“I sent my darlings to you for career advice,” she said. “They want to break into show business and since you are an endless source of inspiration for futile dreams, enjoy their company.”

The crystal went dark, but I could hear her standard bray of evil Wiccan laughter echoing. At that moment, my second in command in the make believe realm of Saragun Springs, Renfield, who bears an uncanny resemblance to HeXopatha, entered the office. There was an expression on her face that suggested she had just finished laughing maniacally at one of her own witticisms.

“Hi fellas!” Renfield said. “So you want to form a Boy Band!” All five of the winged fiends nodded enthusiastically.

I scrolled back through this story that we were acting, and, as I had thought, no one had yet to mention “Boy Band.”

“Didn’t know you read minds, Renfield–considering only these guys and HeXy knew the score on that.”

Renfield scowled–a sort of nose crinkle– in the “eww” manner that only pretty girls can do correctly–at the mention of our Witch. Despite their uncanny physical resemblance neither Renfield nor HeXopatha are willing to appear “on stage” at the same time as the other. And yet both always know what the other is thinking in a telepathic way that defies even the loose standards for such in Saragun Springs.

“Never mind, never mind,” I said.

“I’m going to be the manager, the Brains behind it all,” said Penrose.

“Yes, I can see a Weasel in charge of the money,” I said. “That’s the way it usually goes.”

“You other four have to adopt a type,” Renfield added.

“Type?” asked either mothball or weasel–billigits are identical and a bit hard to keep track of.

“Indeed,” Renfield said, “one has to be the bad billigit that the fans will want to reform.”

“Another has to be the sensitive billigit, the billigit you know who will listen and care about your miserable existence–preferably closeted Gay,” I said.

“What’s ‘Gay?’” All the billigits asked at once.

I had forgotten that billigits are a tad innocent. Since it was in nobody’s best interest to shine a light on their ignorance, I made like Penrose and Weaseled my way out of the topic.

“Um, happy in an old timey bicycle built for two sort of way,” I said, “but never mind that–whoever can feign a sympathetic ear to whining best should be that type.”

“And one has to be posh, the spoiled billigit,” said Renfield.

“And one gets to be the billigit who tells the backstory,” I said. “That’s going to be you, flounder. Lucky you. Congratulations.”

The expression on flounder’s face was contrary to that you’d expect to see on a face that had just received good news. But it brightened when Daisy Kloverleaf, the Pygmy Goatess and the lead FC in the realm, entered the office.

Penrose spoke up: “Meet our press agent, Miss Kloverleaf–please direct all enquiries toward her.”

“Hello Daisy,” I said. “So will it be up to you to put the spin on various sins committed by the boys?”

“The ‘boys’ resent your humancentric label. Please refer to them by name or as a billigit or gits in the pronoun sense,” Daisy said. Great, Daisy, not so innocent, had learned about labeling. Guess it was bound to happen.

“Fine,” I said. “But the next thing I’d better hear is the backstory or the lot of you will be gitting the hell out of here.”

Daisy is now tapping a hoof on the inside of the screen of the device you are reading this on. When it comes to supplying the backstory, Daisy is an Occam’s Razor type of Goatess. The simplest is the truest, and she has no problem removing the fourth wall.

“Hello readerly Readers. The billigitly billigits are wingly winged androgynous folksy folk about eighteen inches tall, orangey orange skinned and are cladly clad in identically identical blue polo shirts and khaki slacks. They also wearingly wear hemp slippers that usually fall off in flight.”

“Thank you, Daisy,” I said, and I cursed myself for giving the narrative to the adverbially inclined Miss Kloverleaf.

“So, you have a band, a manager and a press agent,” Renfield said. She had just mixed a pitcher of VooDoo juju at the bar (vodka, Bacardi 151, grenadine, crushed ice and Fresca).

“And the backing of a Witch,” I said, just to rattle Renfield’s cage.

“A what? Oh, that,” she said.

“You just missed Hexy a while back,” I added.

“‘Dear Diary, today I just missed meeting someone who’s got the combined charm of amoebic dysentery and sandpaper buttwipe. Now I cry myself to sleep.’” Renfield laughed bitterly and took a long pull from her drink.

“All right, gang,” I said. “Sounds like you got all you need–why come to me?”

“We need some songs,” said Penrose.

“Yes, I guess those would come in handy to prevent dead time on stage, but I am a bad songwriter.”

“But Daisy is very good,” Penrose said.

“Oh, I see–you want me to give Daisy permission to write her own material in the realm.” Being the CEO Penname of the Springs requires that I must okay side projects of the other citizens. I try to discourage that, but there are times when it comes in handy.

“Sure, knock yourself out. I was just telling Renfield the other day that there aren’t enough adverbial pop songs in the universe–right Renny?”

“Yeah, fucking-a-doodle,” she slurred (VooDoo Juju is powerful stuff, goes to work almost instantly.)

“Well, now that’s resolved, see you kids on the next Behind the Music. Don’t let the autotune hit you in the ass on your way out.”

The flyers exited via the window, and Daisy trotted happily out of the office on her way to her songwriting gig.

I checked the word count of this production: 1262 of the 3000 budget spent.

It was a critical moment. I had to make a decision then and there. No more putting it off. I either had to think of a snappy way of ending this production now, or go to the top add “-1-” and return and add…

-2-

A month later I was engulfed in one of those little handheld games which feature placing bb’s in tiny holes. It was the constellation Orion. I was going crazy because I could do everything except land the middle star in his belt. Thus occupied, I hadn’t noticed that Renfield had wheeled in the furniture dolly that holds an immense Philco television set, made circa 1950. It‘s a heavy-ass thing with a small circular screen in the middle, which bugs out like one of Marty Feldman’s eyes. We use it to watch programs telecast from Saragun Spring’s sister realm, Other Earth (which can be visited through an interdimensional portal near the foul spring the realm is named for).

“Shitandpissandbastardandbitchandhell! Why does this goddamn thing hate me! I’ve had it!” I screamed, not for the first time that day, but, as always, despite my at quits proclamation, I was going back for more abuse until I glanced up and saw Renfield adding tin foil to the set’s rabbit ears. It had been awhile since the last transmission from Other Earth, but not nearly long enough.

“Oh Jesus,” I said, “what Hell of the day club thing now?” The game was instantly forgotten.

Renfield shone her best punch me in the face smile. “You are always so negative, darling.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “But it’s been a long time since I’ve had a six-year-old on Christmas Eve buzz about the future. You see, mostly,” I added, holding up the game, “life is a minefield of futile shitbombs to be defused like this effed up thing.”

She didn’t take pity on me and turned on the set. After nothing but a prolonged static whine, Renfield gave it a good kick in the side (which is the accepted method of dealing with ancient electronics), a rolling picture formed on the screen. And there was also semi-sense making sound coming out of the tinny speaker.

The rolling black and white picture tube finally settled and I squinted, and saw Daisy Kloverleaf’s face on the screen. “Greetings, hip Cats and wild Kittens! Welcome to Goatenanny!”

This was followed by the enthusiastic cheering of an unseen studio audience, But the voices sounded like a gathering of “wild Kittens” ages ten to thirteen. I then heard the unmistakable voice of Penrose announce that week’s lineup of guests while stock rock music blared in the background–the generic stuff they used on shows in the sixties as to avoid licensing fees. There was only one guest that week, as it turned out, but the announcement was protracted to squeeze the last drop of teen spirit from the audience:

Penrose shouted “mothball!” And there mothball was–clad in a tiny leather jacket, his hair arranged in a Ducktail, a sulky look on his face–the bad boy billigit.

“weasel!” Apparently the gang had opted to include a “regular kid” billigit–for weasel had put on some weight and wore glasses…yet there was something about the weasel that made you root for him–the underdog, comic relief billigit–perfect for wild Kittens best described as having a “good personality” (billigits have no real gender–but they act like boys).

There was a loud “awww” mixed in with the reaction to pinto’s introduction. He was grinning shyly and was wearing a perfect little Beatles’ suit and tie, and had affected Paul McCartney Puppy eyes. The sensitive billigit, the one you can depend on never having a girlfriend to get between him and your fantasies.

A strange mix of friendly boos and wild hormonal shrieking greeted the posh billigit, flounder. He was wearing a cardigan and holding a polo mallet. He winked arrogantly at the audience and conveyed an “I know” cockiness that made him as slappable as Bieber.

Then Penrose and Daisy appeared together on the screen. In unison they bellowed “Meet the billigits!”

The speaker nearly blew in the set, because the shrieking had reached a tornadic level of sound. I figured that was a good thing because “Foreverly Yoursly Yours” appeared on one of those inserts that television used ages ago. I figured that it must be the name of the song; sounded like something Daisy would write.

The boys were flying about doing little aerial acrobatics, and the “Goatenanny Dancers” (composed ot Black Cats and Rats who are also minions of HeXopatha) jumped enthusiastically on stage.

Then another insert, much larger, informed the viewer that Goatenanny was presented by PDQ Pilsner. The image of Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon (another one of my FC’s) then filled the screen. Below him the “quotation” “Whether it be at work or when you’re screwed blue and tattooed, don’t forget to make it PDQ!”

After a half hour of this nonsense went by, the broadcast ended. I turned the set off. Renfield mixed a pitcher of VooDoo JuJu.

“What year is it on Other Earth now?” I asked, taking the drink she handed me. Other Earth had recently fallen out of time sequence with the Springs and was decades behind us.

“Near as I can tell they bounced off 2023 and went back at least sixty years and are moving forward again. No one there has noticed the disruption, except us. And no one can interfere with their timeline unless they become a part of it–they can’t shoot anyone or prevent it–they exist only in the moment, but the moment can be profitable.”

I was about to opine on the morality of a bunch of Saragun Springs FC’s going into the Other Earth’s past and making a fortune, but thought better of it. Actually the VooDoo Juju made it much easier to overlook.

“Ha!” Renfield said. She had plucked the Orion game off my desk and sank all ten bb’s in under

as many seconds–something I hadn’t been able to do once in two days.

All I could do was drain my glass and say “Fucking-a-doodle.”