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