September’s Spa Sunday

Pong

(Although the stars in this story are working on Sunday, the Union allows for reruns. It is somewhat of a paradox working on Sunday when you are actually off. Paradox and irony are fancy dive words that writers use to inflate the more accurate “contradiction” and “coincidence.” So be it. Regardless, HeXy and the ‘gits will be back tomorrow–LA)

Pong

I was strolling through the Enchanted Wood in my realm of Saragun Springs seeking inspiration. It was Honor a Dead Writer Day in the realm; this year it landed on 28 April, the birthday of the honoree of this year’s event, Sir Terry Pratchett. In the past Dorothy Parker, Kurt Vonnegut, Shakespeare, Shirley Jackson had been so honored, and I had no problem doing something for each–but this year I was flummoxed.

As the ruling Penname, I’d created all that I surveyed, and the two-hundred-twenty-nine (soon two-hundred-thirty) Fictional Characters (FC’s) who live in Saragun Springs. Yet at the same time I didn’t know how any of it worked; for I’d endowed every last atom and FC in Saragun Springs with intractable Free Will. Sometimes various displays of Free Will affect my concentration.

For instance, we have a sun in our sky named Pong. I recall once thinking about whipping up a little thinking sun for Saragun Springs named Pong (which I thought might be a better name for a star than Atari), but blew the notion off, figuring that no one would care about what was in our sky. But I guess thinking about it was good enough to cause Pong to fire into being–a tiniest wisp of a notion who seized a heaping helping of Free Will.

So, unannounced, Pong showed up the day after I’d glancingly thought about creating him, and has been on the job ever since. Nobody and no thing in Saragun Springs is obliged to follow the natural laws of the Universe any better than I understand them. And as more years creep between me and my high school education, it should be no surprise that, mechanically speaking, Pong is a celestial scofflaw.

As an object, Pong is a fiercely radiant little orb, the color and relative size of an unripened blueberry held at arm’s length. Pong is either very small and close or huge and far away. Sadly, Saragun Springs lacks an Archimedes-type to study Pong in the scientific way. Nor has anyone dared to launch an Icarus inspired project. This is because a Creator of a Universe cannot make someone who is smarter than she is. She can only make individuals who are certain they are smarter than she is on the basis of their own opinions alone; a circumstance, which, of course, leads to atheism and unhappy surprises in the end.

Pong’s first day began reasonably enough; he rose in the east at 6 A.M. on the nose and set in the west exactly twelve hours later. Adequate, when measured by the flexible standards of Saragun Springs normalcy. But the tone of the process changed when he rose again precisely at six the next morning, but this time from the exact same spot in the west he’d gone down the evening before. Pong headed north that day and Pongset there, then rose from that same spot at six the next morning. The only constants with Pong are that he works from six to six, twelve hours, without as much as a millisecond of variance, dawns from where he goes down the night before, and never appears to change his relative distance. Everything else is up to Pong’s whims. I’ve seen him double back and set where he had risen; I’ve watched him do loops, feign heading one direction then go another, and zigzag across the sky. And that only touches the truly bizarre stuff he does. Pong can also stop without first slowing down and travel at various speeds. Sometimes, he will sit way high and wait until 5:59:59 P.M. then zoom toward his setting point at a rate of speed that should be impossible to achieve, yet make it on time. Pongspotting, as in wagering the exact place the next Pongset will happen, is a big sport in Saragun Springs.

Speaking of a person who is convinced that she is the brainiest in the realm, the Enchanted Wood I was in is on the Witch HeXopatha’s estate. There was no point in attempting to conceal my presence, for HeXy has spies everywhere. Overhead, I heard the caws of Crows sending word down the line, which would eventually reach the castle. I was also being shadowed by a sleek black Weasel. A bullet-shaped head, adorned with a spycam fixed to a tiny fedora, often peeped over peasantberry and hand o’ glory bushes (flora that grows only Wiccanlands); Ponglight reflected off the little fiend’s shiny ebony noggin and spycam arrangement, but I pretended not to notice. I figured if a Weasel had Secret Stoat Fantasies, far be it from me to salt the whimsy. I assumed that the cam fed intel to HeXopatha’s crystal ball.

I was carrying a lightweight pack which contained various medicinal fluids, items for bribes, my phone and a small folding chair. Enchanted Woods feature a variety of mini-meadows. At the first such opening, I set up my chair so Pong wouldn’t be in my eyes, sipped from a pint of restorative amber fluid, activated the sound recorder app on my phone and dictated the following:

“Just my luck, I packed all this tasty Stoat Chow and have no friend to share it with.”

Weasels, Minks, Ermines and so forth are calorically venal. Any critter who can eat half his/her body weight in a day is the sort of individual that a Free Lunch appeals to. The Weasel’s head popped over the cover of a Sadiefinger shrub at the edge of the clearing. I had Stoat Chow in the pack because I knew about the lurking Weasel population in the Enchanted Wood beforehand. Chalk it up to Mysterious Ways, which Universe Creators often (but cannot always) use in lieu of plausible explanations.

“Well, hello there, little friend,” I said, feigning surprise, “would you like to join me for a delicious lunch?”

Just like everyone and -thing else in Sargun Springs, I am racking up a sizable debt with the Bank of Universal Reality. Like when, say, Pong emits a long string-like tail then goes up and down it as though he were a yo yo, before dropping behind the horizon at 6 P.M., a Universal beancounter marks the impossible event and charges it to Pong’s account. My Creator informed me of this long ago. To which I replied “So?” To which she had no reply other than to mumble something inarticulate about checks and balances. Still, all the debt traces back to her, so it’s her problem. I suggested that she forward the charges back to whoever made her.

I mention this because the ingredients in Stoat Chow (mostly smoked Trout entrails and Duck eggs) though for real, are not culled from genuine sources. No Trout or Duck or any living thing was abused in any way (although all may be offended). “Magic” might be too strong a word for how the Stoat Chow I bribed the Weasel with came to be, but that’s up to you and whoever is totaling your own ledger to decide.

Weasels are proactive little gluttons. He/she bounded over and took the pouch of Stoat Chow I handed him/her without hesitation. I saw that he/she was also wearing a trench coat. The preceding sentences presented an issue that I needed to clear up before I went bonkers wondering if I was dealing with a male or a female.

“Hi, I’m Leila.”

“Penrose,” said the Weasel, speaking in a tone of voice, that, like the name, could go either way gender-wise.

Even in Saragun Springs, it is bad manners to inquire into someone’s sex. And when you consider that I actually created this Penrose, you’d think I’d know whether I was in the company of a Heasel or a Sheasel–but that pesky Free Will has a way of interfering with Mysterious Ways.

The residents of the Springs have one thing in common. Every last one of us is a well-mannered eater. No one gulps or gobbles (unless a Turkey) or slurps or behaves grossly with food, and we understand the concept of the napkin. ‘Tis rare on Earth to see a Stoat chew with his/her mouth closed, but it is the case here. Free Will allows for good things, too.

“So, gotta family? Any Weaselets? Do they chatter about Mom and/or Pop popping about?” This was my second to last go (albeit clumsy) at clearing up the he/she mystery. Figured that Penrose might say something about a husband or wife. I figured wrong.

Penrose swallowed and said “Nope. I serve Mistress HeXopatha.”

I sighed. Here I was fruitlessly playing twenty questions with a Weasel.

“So, Penrose,” I said. “Why the Sam or Samantha Spade (my last go at it) routine?”

He or she smiled, an expression which always looks sneaky on the face of a Stoat. “Mistress HeXopatha has sent me to guide you to the site of her latest triumph.”

I stood, handed Penrose a napkin, placed my stuff back in the pack, considered having another go at the Weasel’s gender, let it go and said, “Lead on, little fiend.”

FC animals in the realm are nearly as lazy as they are venal and prone to gambling. Unless directed to do so by someone like HeXopatha, they avoid needless physical exertion. Sponging rides are as coveted as Free Lunches and Pongspotting.

So Penrose wound up sitting on top of the pack, pulling the straps as though they were reins.

“Dude, or dudette (a half-hearted after the fire had gone out attempt at gender ID), I ain’t a Horse. Just say a simple ’go left’ or ‘take a right.’”

“What’s left and right?”

“Never mind. Just keep working the reins,” I sighed. “But if I feel spurs, consider your ass bucked.”

Penrose drove me onward. We passed a pyramid that HeXopatha recently had built in her honor by minions known as the billigits, and we ventured near the actual Saragun Spring, which is an enthusiastically polluted body of oozing liquid, which reeks like a bathroom does after one’s problem-drinking grandfather has read an entire newspaper in it.

We entered a full-sized meadow. I saw several FC’s had gathered, and they were examining a document lying on a picnic table. HeXopatha was at the head of the table, like Rommel planning an offensive.

“Guess, we’re–Hey! Don’t do that!” I said (somehow withholding a richly deserved “you little fuckstick!” because Penrose had grabbed two healthy pawfuls of my hair, yanked back hard and said “Whoa, Nellie”).

The tiny blackguard jumped down and rushed to then knelt before HeXopatha. “Mission accomplished, Magnificent Master.”

“Excellent work, darling,” HeXopatha said.

HeXopatha was surrounded by her usual assortment of minions and a couple of Hammy Dodger Players (an acting troupe she sponsors). There were several black Rats and Cats scuttling about, an Owl on her shoulder, and two immense Berkshire Pigs, who were actors. By name the Pigs were Tallywhacker and his wife Taffypuller, who was about to make her debut. Everyone had been looking at a star chart on the table.

I was prepared to ask a whole bunch of questions, but HeXy placed her shushing finger to her lips. She nodded at the actor Pigs.

Tallywhacker, talks non-stop. Instead of merely speaking, he goes on long winded oratories: “By waddle, you have arrived at an auspicious moment, Miss Leila–today will be the first ever Pong eclipse, arranged by our Magnificent Master Mistress HeXopatha.” (Tallywhacker kept talking after this, but due to word limit issues, I didn’t record it.)

“Wait, wait wait a minute,” I said. “Pong’s the only thing up there–we ain’t got a moon yet–and only I can create one–haven’t even glancingly thought of one yet–though I guess it would have to be called Ping, if we do get one. And although my science may be lacking, I do know that something like a moon must cross in front of a sun to make an eclipse.”

But I knew that my logic was doomed. Logic in the springs is as rare as free quality beer. HeXopatha simply smiled, with a Are You Quite Finished Yet expression on her pretty face.

“All right,” I said, “what have you done?”

HeXy snapped her fingers and her four prime billigits minions flew toward us from the direction of the pyramid they had built for their Master. Each one was carrying a length of what appeared to be pipe.

Seeing the billigits, I smiled at Taffypuller. The instant she spoke a line she’d officially become my two-hundred-thirtieth FC. Our union forbids me from creating new speaking role FC’s without offering the “part” to already extant FC’s. But none of them wanted to marry Tallywhacker, for he really never stops talking (in fact he was still blowing on from before).

New FC’s usually get the thankless job of filling in the backstory. Explaining the billigits is as about as backstory as things get.

“I’ve never seen the billigits before,” Taffypuller said, although it was a damn lie. “Will you look at the these fellows–winged orange-skinned androgynous little people in blue polo shirts, khaki trousers and illfitting hemp slippers, who, though gender neutral, still convey a ‘guyness’ that is best described by masculine pronouns–and who insist that capital letters never touch their names, collectively or singly.”

“Bravo, my pet,” Tallywhacker said (plus a bunch of other stuff that would blow the word limit if put down.)

Indeed it was the billigits and as they drew nearer I saw that they were carrying lengths of a telescope, which they linked together upon landing. Instead of a stand, the billgits held the assembled scope and pointed the business end of at at where Pong was at the time.

“Good luck tracking that guy,” I said.

“Oh, he will behave today,” HeXopatha said. “We’ve come to an agreement.” She then unrolled a blank scroll and held it at the lens end of the scope; for gazing at Pong is just as tough on the eyes as sun gazing is in any dimension.

Pong’s fierce little orb shone on the scroll. Yet within seconds a perceptible shadow began to eat into the tiny blueberry and in a few moments there was darkness.

“It’s now safe to look through the lens, Creator,” HeXopatha said.

I did and saw a thumbnail-sized Turtle with four seed-sized Elephants on his/her (sigh) back, holding a flat object that looked like a pizza glowing a strange greenish purple, pausing in front of the face of Pong.

I stood back and let the others take turns gazing at Discworld as it slowly passed through our skies.

“Gotta hand it to you HeXy, I was stumped for an idea on how to honor Sir Terry,” I said. “Good job.”

“Perhaps it is possible that a person can be a bit brighter than her creator?” HeXopatha more said than asked.

I sighed and caught a glimpse of a moon rising in the south. Born in the same glancing manner that had created Pong.

“Hello, Ping,” I said to the small octarine moon. “Welcome to Saragun Springs.”

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Four: HeXopatha and the billigits Part Three

(the billigits go through many changes– spellings, population, vocations; sometimes they are orange, others they are blue–call it mindless evolution–LA)

Meet the billigits

Word has it that the first billygit was the result of a passionate affair between a runaway Disney Princess and a Flying Monkey on leave from the Wizard of Oz. The Princess was tired of being a thirty-two-year old woman forced to play a “tween” and the Flying Monkey was bored due to the liquidation of his Witch. It was a “what happens in the Emerald City stays in the Emerald City” sort of fling. Or so I heard. I really can’t say much more due to copyright issues, but I won’t refute it, either. Whatever their origin, the now plentiful billygits (who did not stay in Oz, and insist on a lowercase b to start their name) are. Yet unlike most things that are, billygits multiply when some PDQ Pilsner is poured over their heads; this action instantly produces a twin billygit.

Your basic billygit is a winged, androgynous, ankle-high, bright orange individual who wears a blue polo shirt, khaki slacks and hemp slippers that invariably fall off during flight–and in no way should be confused with a Pixie or a Fairie. Although they are identical physically, each billygit has a sense of individuality, and they all believe they are the original billygit that all other billygits are based on. Like most illogical beliefs supported by historical records, it is the driving force behind the billygit culture.

You can tell when a flock of billygits has passed because the landscape below will be littered with their little hemp slippers. Sooner or later, a slipperless billygit will retrieve a pair from the ground because, being identical, they all wear the same size. The billygits are similar to a Greek chorus in my little fantasy realm. They wander from story to story and pass unasked for observations.

After proofing the previous two paragraphs, my Imaginary Friend, and second in command of our realm, Renfield, opined that what I wrote causes more confusion than clarity. To be transparent, she actually said:

“What the fuck is this? Didn’t you used to have the ‘billygates’? Little winged people that your paranoid behind was convinced were the Microsoft Secret Police, and they were watching you?”

“Copyright issues ended that, Rennie. Lawyer stuff.”

“Sure, whatever you say–but don’t try to con me into helping with the backstory–you gotta dig that hole in the desert yourself.”

Anyway, as the ruling Penname and CEO of this realm in make believe, I govern two-hundred-twenty-eight Fictional Characters (FC’s). As my creator gave me Free Will, I’ve done the same for them. And due to a contract I signed, without first reading, with the Union of Imaginary Friends and Fictional Characters, before I can create a new FC, I have to offer the role to an already extant FC. This leads to stuff like Daisy the Pygmy Goatess (an original, elemental FC, developed before the contract) playing various human and animal and “whathaveyou” roles in my stories. Daisy has great range and can play anything from an ameba to the Diana Ross of Supreme Beings. If my little opuses were visual, there would be trouble. Fortunately, readers see what their own minds clap together from the provided information. It would be awfully tough to convince someone who watches a Siamese Cat, Pygmy Goat and Cartoon Pigeon walk into a bar and get them to believe that they are actually seeing a Witch, a Black Lab who identifies as a Wolf and a sulfurous Demonic Minion enter a bar. It strains credulity and raises penetrating questions that I’d rather not answer. So, blessed be the words.

Still, according to the Union, I need to make sure that all my established FC’s are cast in a role at least once per year. Thus the real reason behind the billygits. I guess I would rather have you believe they are the spawn of aging Disney princesses and Baum’s Flying Monkeys, but for those annoying seekers of truth, there you have it.

Unfortunately, some of my FC’s are one note performers who refuse to play anyone or -thing other than a generic pain in the ass, in keeping with their own personalities. Since billygits are essentially one note, generic pains in the ass, it is a match made in make believe. And since it was quickly approaching the close of our year, I still had four FC’s who’d been lounging around the dock pilings, taverns, gambling and opium dens that contain the hallmark activities of unchecked Free Will. I had the three biggest “stars” in my realm, Renfield, Daisy, and Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon, round up the idlers and bring them to my office.

As it goes with all things that are Union business, I am required to pass the narrative of the meeting to an FC who is both a Shop Steward and capable of using a Chromebook. Though a hooved creature, it has been long known that Fictional Pygmy Goats are known as–as I’ve stated in previous works–”Preter-Nature’s Stenographer.” And although she does it daintily, Daisy has yet to meet an adverbly adverb that she doesn’t approvingly approve of, and is a master of coining new adverbs that are dismayingly dismaying, bizarrely bizarre and redundantly redundant. Daisy is the reason why I invented the Adverb Mass Indicator (A.M.I.); which used to be located on the wall behind her little desk in my office. The A.M.I. used to beep when Daisy got all prosily and purpley. The handy device cut down on the adverbs, but to make up for it, Daisy discovered the simile like a middle-school boy convinced that generously applied amounts of Axe will make him a big hit with the ladies*. She lays them on pretty heavy–and always in couplets; and she knows that I have yet to invent the S.M.I.–but plans for it are on my desk, waiting for there to be enough gin in me to go at them like a reality show Frankestein cobbling together yet another pop culture freak.

Anyway, here’s Miss Daisy Cloverleaf (aka, “The GOAT”):

(*Renfield has peeked over my shoulder and informed me that this is at least the fifth time I’ve compared a heavy application of a noxiously noxious sort of thing to a kid smothered in Axe. True, I’ve used it before. But speaking for all who have had to take the bus to work or school or anywhere, I promise to stop making the comparison as soon as spray “colognes” are kept in locked cabinets and require the same level of scrutiny for purchase as liquor, cigarettes and guns.)

Again, Miss Daisy.

There were eight of us in the office. Packed like sardines, already on each other’s nerves like a group of eight nervly nerves getting on-ers. Aside from Miss Leila, Miss Renfield, Pie-Eyed Peety, and I, Daisy, by day a humbly humble stenographer, but on evenings and weekends The GOAT–who with her trustily trusty sidekick PDQ Peety, rescue public domain FC’s from fates like Groundhog Day, with our wits, more like Batgoat than Supergoat—Drat! There goes the cursedly cursed A.M.I.

“Um, Daisy,” Leila said, from behind her desk. “I can see everything you write on this screen…please stay on topic–remember the budget.”

Drat. That confoundedly confounding three-thousand word limit. Drat drat and triple drat. Three thousand drats…drats like a pox; drats like locusts…

“Day-zee…”

Drat.

Anyway, also on hoof were sleekly sleek Gordon Cormorant; Lordly Lord Fishstyx the Motivational Coela-CAN; an incomprehensibly lazily lazy Trade Rat named Andy (who had missed two productions due to a month long peyote bender), and an obnoxiously obnoxious Literary Turkey named Krook.

I said a pox upon you A.M.I.!!!

“Day-zee…”

Drat.

“Good news, gang,” Leila said, chewing gum and smoking a cigarette at the same time. “I’ve got roles for the four of you to play. In fact, Miss Daisy over there is sealing the deal as we speak. I’m certain that forcing me to send a search party out to find you guys is just a little misunderstanding.”

Lord Fishstyx took exception to the idea. “I don’t think it is right that you push us into roles that we have yet to examine.”

The others “here here’d.” It was obvious that Fishstyx had an agenda.

“What would it take to make you guys participate with enthusiasm,” Leila said, rooting around her desk drawer for the Scotch that I happen to know Miss Renfield had confiscated earlier.

“Our names above the byline,” Lord Fishstyx said, “or we might not remember our cues.”

“Charming. You don’t even know what the roles are,” Leila said. She had located a pint of Four Freedoms vodka and took a drink, which caused her face to pickly pickle like a baby sucking a lime, like, um, like whatever Jesus, Mary and Joseph said was blowing in the wind…

“Day-zee.”

Drat.

“Tell you what, there’s always Plan B,” Leila said. Then she typed the following in her Chromebook, which was synchronized with mine. I NEED TEAM GOAT TO EXECUTE PLAN B!

My reply: ONLY IF I CAN DISENGAGINLY DISENGAGE THE A.M.I, LIKE PULLING THE PLUG ON A RICH UNCLE BEFORE HE CAN CHANGE THE WILL. LIKE…UM…

Leila: ALL RIGHT. FINE. WHATEVER.

Me: I RELEASINGLY RELEASE THE NARRATIVE TO YOU.

I took over because Daisy is a Goatess of action. Although she is what is called a “TeaCup” Pygmy Goat–about the size of a beefy housecat, Daisy is able to tap an enormous quantity of rage energy. The A.M.I. was encased in a small red plastic square, attached to the wall just behind Daisy’s desk in the corner, and, as always it had beeped adverb over mass warnings during Daisy’s contribution to this effort.

Upon gaining permission, Daisy closed her Chromebook, placed her front hooves on her desk and reared up, well, her rear hooves and obliterated the A.M.I. with one solid double-hoof kick. Just as she did that Peety squawked “Hasta La Vista, Baby” and credited the Arnold, for although Peety mainly speaks through the slobcom medium he’s also a fan of the Arnold. The A.M.I. made a final bleat as the bits of plastic rained down on the room. After Daisy muttered something that sounded like “Enjoy the weather in “A.M.I. Hell,” she voice activated a bluetooth speaker which played Team GOAT’s “theme”–which sounds like a cross between the Superman and Star Wars themes.

GOAT, of course, stands for the Greatest Of All Time. Daisy made mention of her superhero alter ego and Peety as her sidekick, earlier. Although everybody knows who the GOAT and PDQ Peety really are, we are supposed to close our eyes upon hearing the theme and cannot open them until we hear a loud hoof stomp on the floor.

Upon opening my eyes there was The GOAT, wearing a flowing yellow cape and wrap around sunglasses. Daisy–I mean The GOAT–always appears in a different outfit; sometimes she wears “onesie” tights, like those supported by the 70’s glam bands until they got too fat for them, sometimes it’s just a cape. This was one of the cape sometimes.

“Hooray! Team GOAT has come to save the day!” Renfield called from the back of the room, her voice heavy with the Scotch she’d filched from my desk.

Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon’s “transformation” to PDQ Peety takes less work. Since Peety is a two-dimensional Cartoon Pigeon, he rearranges some of the lines in his “drawing” into a Lone Ranger/Kato type of mask.

The GOAT and PDQ Peety turned to face the four idler FC’s seated in front of my desk.

“Greeting, billygits,” said The GOAT.

“What the hell is a billygit?” Lord Fishstyx, still the mouthpiece for the outfit, asked.

“It’s the role I have for your lazy asses,” I said. “I need eight billygits for an upcoming story and you guys have been elected.”

“Eight?” Lord Fishstyx, the only one of the four who could count beyond three, said. “It looks like you are shy four billygits!”

“Not anymore, sedentary landfish–” said the GOAT.

And with that PDQ Peety shook up the bottomless can of PDQ Pisner he carries no matter who he is, and sprayed the four FC’s. All four instantly found themselves seated beside an orange, winged billygit wearing a blue polo shirt, khaki pants and hemp slippers. The left slipper on the one seated beside Krook had already fallen off.

Peety then went from each of the original four and passed out “pledge pins.”

“‘Your Delta Tau Chi name is Weasel…Your Delta Tau Chi name is Mothball…Pinto…Dorfman,” Peety said, pausing in front of Lord Fishstyx, “I’ve given this a great deal of thought. From now on your Delta Tau Chi name is Flounder.’–Bluto, Animal House.”

I raised my hand to silence the four freshly renamed FC’s, who had begun to complain loudly. “I’ve got a deal for you guys. You either play a billygit and mentor your clone–or maybe I could get by with the four new orange guys only and let you all head on back to your massage parlors and public houses. To select the latter I will need each of you to make your mark on a release that prohibits you from bitching to the Union about me.”

“That’s blackmail!” said Fishstyx.

“”Mention extortion again and I’ll have your legs broken’–Mayor Carmine,” Said PDQ Peety.

Krook the Literary Turkey and Gordon Cormorant both quickly made their marks and left without looking back. Andy the Trade Rat had passed out earlier, so Renfield had his wife Flo come get him–and since he was indeed incomprehensibly Lazy Trade Rat we allowed Flo to make his mark for him. That left Fishstyx, who was still in a snit.

“You know, I could make it five billygits,” I said. He finally saw that his position was hopeless, made his mark and went away.

I didn’t see Team GOAT leave, for they are invisible, like the wind–or so they claim. I did see Renfield sneak out, but she would have told me that I gotta dig another hole in the desert by myself if I asked her to stay.

The four freshly born billygits, new FC’s created by devious means, guys we now call Weasel, Mothball, Pinto and Flounder, all gazed at me with hopeful, optimistic eyes.

“Boys,” I said. “I’m endowing you with Free Will.”

That, of course, took the hope and optimism out of their eyes.

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Four: HeXopatha and the billigits Part Two

(Note: This one made it painfully obvious that our Witch needed a same, and pronto-LA)

Evilmost Elm

-1-

Upon arriving at her new home in Wisconsin, one of the first things the Witch (even before choosing her “real” name) needed to do was select a tree for enchantment. In past incarnations she had enchanted everything from a scrawny scrub pine barely clinging to life on a steppe to a majestic redwood in northern California. Unlike other duties discharged by her vast array of familiars, tree enchantment was a task she had to perform in person. In a way it was like picking a Christmas tree, yet instead of murdering the damn thing and dragging it home, the Witch would endow the chosen tree with eternal life. The irony was not lost on her.

Enchanted trees gave the Witch a connection between Hell and the Earth itself, and they intensified her spells. Since she had to travel to a new land every time she returned from her latest season in Hell, a new tree had to be enchanted upon her arrival. She took heart that none of her former enchanted trees were sad to see her go. To the contrary, nothing conveys malevolent grace or gleeful, malign intent better than a retired enchanted tree. And if a branch happens to break off and kill a peasant now and then, well, accidents happen.

There were many suitable candidates for enchantment on the large estate that one of the Witch’s familiars had purchased with a tiny portion of her vast wealth, while she was preparing for her return from Hell. Hemlocks, hollies, oaks and maples; even a sinister crabapple tree, twisted and deformed, a veritable leper of a tree, which seemed to actively pursue the job. But it was what the Witch did not own that she coveted. And at 3 AM on her first day in Wisconsin, she saw a young Evilmost Elm standing on the other side of the fence.

Her human familiars, those shadowy persons who worked behind the scenes and did the housework and drove the cars and saw to the humdrum of her business affairs, were also of no use when it came to buying an enchanted tree. This too had to be done personally. And although the Witch had black cats who stole baby breath for kicks, and rats, by the thousands, who could dig and fill a grave faster than any machine, thus easily capable of plucking and replanting a tree without attracting unwanted attention, the Witch was an honest Witch.

-2-

The peasant’s name was Marcie and was the only person at home. The Witch knew that the instant the rather plump blond of maybe thirty opened the door the next morning.

“Hello, neighbor,” the Witch said.

“Um, hello–”

“May I come in?”

“Well, it’s not a good time right now–” said Marcie, unease in eyes, which pleased the Witch.

“Excellent,” the Witch said, stepping inside. “Good thing I don’t need to be asked in, like a vampire.”

“Who are you?”

“Why, Marcie, didn’t I mention that I’m your new neighbor.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Maybe you should come back when my husband is home.”

“No need. I’ll get down to business. I’d like to buy the elm in your backyard.”

“Really, I think you should go.”

Then the Witch, not the most patient of Witches, spoke a spell into Marcie’s brain.

“I’ll go when I’m fucking good and ready to go, useless twat. Unless you want to hang upside down from a hook, bled like a shoat, you will sell me that tree.”

“Five hundred?” the Witch said, smiling, showing the money.

Marcie agreed that five hundred would be just fine.

-3-

At three the next morning, the Witch summoned every rat in ten counties and spoke impeccable midwest rattish to the masses. Within seconds the magically assisted horde uprooted the Evilmost Elm, tossed it over the fence, and transplanted it into the Witch’s soil. The Witch never tired of watching how well the tiny fiends worked together.

“Wonderful, my babies–wonderful, wonderful.”

The Witch gave the Evilmost Elm her profane blessing.

Then it was time to try it out, think of it as a test, to judge its connection to Hell.

The Witch gazed at Marcie’s house. “Such a pity about the husband. Going mad like that…Seems it’s always the quiet ones.”

A light came on in the house.

The rats applauded.

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Four: HeXopatha and the billigits Part One

Towen Meeting

-1-

Charleston’s sleepy New Town Cemetery had once been the center of a controversy. For many years Town was spelled ‘Towen’ on the fancily etched marble dedication obelisk located just inside the main gate. The unique spelling was on purpose because the wealthy widow who had donated the land for the cemetery and paid for the obelisk wanted it that way. She claimed that it was the name of the Welsh village of her birth. Despite more than a century of weathering, you can still mark her unpronounceable name on the obelisk, but, oddly, not those of the local big shots who’d presided over the cemetery’s plating in 1882.

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Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Three: Feckless Fables Part Five

The Pygmy Unicorn and the Effluvium

Introduction

Today we present two fables due to their byte-sized length(s).

The Unicorn and the Effluvium

: A Feckless Fable of the Fantasmagorical

The Players

The Pygmy Unicorn: Miss Daisy Cloverleaf, Pygmy Goatess (Shop Steward)

The Effluvium: …………………………………Renfield (Venal Imaginary Friend)

The Voice of Denial:…………………Maab the Photobomb Fairie (Shop Steward)

The Voice of Rage: ..Poppyseed the Hummingbird (Shop Steward, Emeritus)

The Voice of Indifference:… Boots The Impaler, Siamese Cat (Shop Steward)

The Voice of The Other Cheek: …Flo the Trade Rat (Shop Steward Emeritus)

Himself: …………….Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon (Shop Steward)

Kane: ……………………………………………………………………..Leila Allison

Act One

One sunshiny spring morning, Daisy the Pygmy Unicorn carried a heavy heart to her beloved flower patch in the meadow–which she dutifully fertilized with a quick evacuation of glitter out her butt. All was well in the meadow, but Daisy couldn’t forget her despair because she had overheard someone say “There goes that little goat with the paper mache horn glued to her head,” back in the barnyard.

Act Two

Daisy plopped down in the patch and instantly crushed tiny tendrils of fledgling clover to death. Her heart was filled with woe. Then voices began to speak in her head.

“They weren’t walking about you, Sweetheart,” said the Voice of Denial. “Maybe they were talking about all the other Pygmy Goats who have paper mache horns glued to their heads.”

“Like hell, they weren’t talking about you,” said The Voice of Rage, “I say you go back and cleanse the barnyard.”

“I might be willing to help do that…depends how I feel after my nap,” said The Voice of Indifference.

“Now, now, little friend, if you identify as a Pygmy Unicorn, then you are one in the eyes of the Law,” said the Voice of Other Cheek.

Of all the Voices, Daisy identified with The Voice of Rage best.

Act Three

Daisy was plotting her revenge when the Effluvium Spirit who enhanced the scent of flowers came by.

“What you need, little friend, is an attitude adjustment,” said The Effluvium. The Spirit then activated the magic that lay in a nearby field of poppies and urged the scent on Daisy. This caused Daisy to forget all about her sadness. And she went home to the barnyard and spent the rest of the day smiling as she rolled, rolled, rolled in zee hay.

The Amoral As Spoken By Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon:

“Squ-wack–Thee Who Smelt it Dealt It.”

Poppyseed and Flower Power

Poppyseed was an orange Rufous Hummingbird, who was as aggressive and single-minded as they come, until he flew over a burning field of “wildwood weed,” one afternoon, during the annual two-thousand mile migration. Something in the drifting smoke asked “Why must you always be in such a rush, little friend–Have you never been mellow?”

The rest of the flock had avoided the field, but Poppyseed was known for his individuality and recklessness. He alone had flown above the pungent blue smoke, and he alone found himself perched on a weather vane atop an old barn, with no memory of lighting there, wondering why he had never been mellow.

Under normal circumstances, such a dipshit question would have enraged Poppyseed. But that was before a new philosophy had edged into his cut and dry, now! now! now! personality. What’s it all about? Poppyseed thought, watching the rest of the flock zoom into the distance.

“It’s about peace, love and harmony…seeking oneness with the Universe, my busy little friend,” said a human Spirit that suddenly appeared on the barn’s rooftop. The ghost had long lank hair which flowed below the brim of a floppy hat. He was wearing sunglasses that had round yellow lenses, striped bell bottom pants, sandals, several strings of beads–and if Poppyseed had known anything about human politics, and could read, he would have recognized the face of Richard Nixon on the tee-shirt the Spirit wore, with the words “What me Worry?” printed below Tricky Dick’s cartoonish visage.

“Do peace, love and harmony taste good?” Poppyseed asked. “I like aphids and honeysuckle myself.”

The Spirit laughed softly and removed his sunglasses. Poppyseed saw strange images take shape and melt in the ghost’s kaleidoscope eyes. Psychedelic colors and paisley fractal flows… and he could hear music. If Poppyseed had known anything about 1960’s pop music, he’d have recognized Incense and Peppermint as lip-synched by Strawberry Alarm Clock on The Ed Sullivan Show. And there were visions… Hundreds of young people of various races standing in a field, single file, hands joined…all singing the praises of a god called Coca-Cola…then a man standing out of doors in buckskins with a feather in his hair…a single tear falling from his eye…

The wind had shifted during Poppyseed’s vision quest, and the blue haze cleared from the area of the barn. Thus Poppyseed’s intense, light’s speed metabolism had time enough to process and eject the remaining effects of the wildwood weed smoke as though it had never been breathed. Poppyseed immediately glanced in the direction the flock had gone and calculated that he could catch up to them after only a few minutes on afterburners.

The Spirit sensed the change in the Hummingbird’s attitude and tried one last sales pitch. “No, no, little friend. That is the old way…the way of the establishment…”

“Could you be more useless?” Poppyseed said. Although he had little patience with, and even less time to speak to any of the human ghosts that all creatures can see, he felt obliged to break a talon off in this fool’s ass. “‘Have you never been mellow’? ‘Harmony with nature’? ‘Why rush’? It’s like this–mellow, laid back Hummingbirds wind up as lunch for cats and stoats. Get a job, goddam hippy.”

And Poppyseed zoomed off to rejoin the flock.

THE AMORAL: All You Need Is Love and a Decent Credit Score

Welcome To Saragun Springs Book Three: Feckless Fables Part Four

(Author’s note–Yes, for anyone who noticed, I got tired of writing the whole damn thing out–LA)

Tippleganger and Dozzle

Prefatory Remarks

Defining the Tippleganger:

The Spirit half of this little drama

Has a second bottle of wine ever convinced you cut your own hair? Did that darn vodka make you “overshare” sex fantasies you have about your sister’s husband with a mutual friend who cannot keep a secret? How much Budweiser does it take to get you to call your ex at three a.m.?–in spite of what it says about that sort of thing in the restraining order.

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Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Three: Feckless Fables Part Three

Fiona and the Footfallfollower: A Feckless Fable of the Fantasmagorical

(But First, Noted Supernaturalist Miss Stoker-Belle, Unnecessarily and Inexplicably Evacuates the Contents of Her Mind)

Before I educate the readers on the ways of the Footfallfollower ghost, I’d like to introduce an innovation to the world of literature; an innovation of my invention (here, I will allow the suspense to build). Of course no stylistic innovation can spontaneously occur without inspiration. Hell, even Shakespeare played Hollingshead for a stooge–Right? In my case the Big Idea presented itself in the otherwise useless world of modern pop music–specifically that dodge-word creators of such use to obscure naked acts of plagiarism–namely, “sampling.”

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The Complaint: Meanwhile Back at Union HQ

(Since not even a Ghost will perform new items on a Sunday, I bring back a story first published in Literally Stories UK back in the dim year of 2016…Tomorrow Book Three resumes–LA)

Prologue: A case of the heebie-jeebies.

In a determined effort to spread inefficiency and uselessness throughout all possible universes, the Amalgamated Union of Pennames and Imaginary Friends(of which I am a reluctant member) has expanded like a toxic spill, and now includes the clientele of the recently defunct Guild of Fictional Characters. The mess has been “rebranded” the UPIFFC.

The latest trouble with the union can be traced to its now unwieldy size. You see, there really aren’t as many pennames and imaginary friends out there as the public might imagine—there are, however, billions of fictional characters (from here, FCs)—and every last one of them has been absorbed by my clueless union. All created persons (and sentient things) from Sir John Falstaff on down to “Kelton the Cop” from the cinematic works of Edward D. Wood Jr. are in it, and everyone involved has an equal voice. This displays the only true problem with democracy: when it comes to a UPIFFC vote, the sacrificial ensign who gets killed fifteen seconds into a Star Trek rerun has as much say as Sherlock Holmes. And they can be a prickly bunch, these fictional beings—to wit, I’ve been named as the antagonist in a kvetch brought forth to the union by an FC of my own creation. As a penname, I feel duty bound to my colleagues to relate the event that has perturbed my ever-fragile serenity, for the rantings of those who claim injury often serve as the best defense for the accused. It doesn’t take all that much to give me the heebie-jeebies nowadays, and this biting of what Omar Khayyam referred to as the “Moving Finger” that has writ you, has given me a case of the H-J’s of a historic proportion.—L.A.

Part I: It was a dark and stormy night.

Renfield entered the not so hallowed halls of the UPIFFC on a kind of evening best described by that greatest of all the literary beagles, Snoopy (who, sadly, it turns out, had “borrowed” from Edward Bulwer-Lytton). The wind was high and the seldom employed since 1939 apple trees from the Wizard of Oz scraped-out a cacophony of uneasy noises on the eaves and windows. Seemingly on cue, several flashes of lightning illuminated the world outside. In the intermittent light, one could see a thick throng of head-shot zombies, two or three unraveling mummies, a gaggle of vampires, ghosts of all persuasions, terra-covetous E.T.s, and a vast litany of “weres” (-wolves, -bunnies, -amebas, -etc.)—and every beasty out there was pursuing that ever-elusive, always taunting, Bluebird of Happiness—who’s proudly the most unlikely being ever to be dredged up from the abyss of the human imagination.

Since the expansion, the grossly understaffed UPIFFC is open 24/7. Instead of hiring extra help, the tight-fisted UPIFFC has contracted the cut-rate services of hundreds of FCs that go bump-in-the-night as a method to cut down on the nocturnal overflow of whiners and crazies that compose an estimated ninety-five percent of the collective. Yet every now and then someone gets through the defenses.

Renfield stopped in front of the lobby window, smiled winningly, and gave the old double-thumbs up to the mob outside. Something that didn’t have a thumb, and looked like a hovering cantaloupe with glowing eyes, reciprocated the gesture the best it could. Renfield excels at making friends. I can’t think of anybody (or anything) who (or that) doesn’t like her. This makes her exceedingly dangerous.

Twenty-five, Japanese-Irish, and yet as distinctly American as a baseball to the head, Renfield had arrived at the hall decked out like Holly Golightly from outer space. The cut of her dress, though flattering to her slim figure, was not overtly provocative, but it was a pupil-shrinking shade of dayglow neon blue seldom seen since the cocaine-fueled eighties. She had also accessorized in the same hue, which included a clutch, floppy hat, to-the-elbow gloves, pumps, and (in spite of the late hour) a pair of No Autographs, Please, sunglasses. Nary an atom associated with Miss Renfield had been disturbed the howling storm.

She took the stairs as gracefully as an ibex and immediately located the office of my—our—rep, Lennie. Renfield knocked smartly on the door. “It’s open,” said the muffled yet obviously peeved voice that called from behind the door.

Part II: Feeding candy to a stranger.

Lennie is an unmade bed looking sort of person who wears a white suit and black string tie ala Mark Twain. He also has the same thick mustache, bushy eyebrows, and unruly mad genius hair as Mr. Clemens’ greatest creation. Regardless, when I had first met Lennie, I had naturally assumed from his reluctance to aid me (in an unrelated matter) that he was an imbecile. But it has since turned out that he is much brighter than I had initially thought—then again, he’d have to be.

“How did you get in?” Lennie asked from behind a high stack of papers on his desk. The desk, the office, and Lennie himself exist perpetually in 1902.

Renfield flashed her wholesome, up-with-people smile at Lennie. “Why, you invited me in,” she said.

“I meant past security.”

“Oh, my credentials are in order.” Renfield approached the desk, removed her union card from her clutch and showed it to Lennie. “The Creature from the Black Lagoon asked me to send him a signed copy of the same likeness. He’s such a charmer—always ready to sweep a girl off her feet.”

After giving her card a superficial scowl, Lennie rose from his chair, went to the office’s only window, drew back the curtain and gazed at the grounds below. Satisfied that the horde was still on duty, he grimaced at Renfield (which is as close to forming a smile he gets) and said, “You’re not one of them, are you?—witch, or a succubus?”

“Oh, no,” she said (and she made a mental note of the vague disappointment that her not being a succubus had registered in his eyes). “Not that there’s anything wrong with being either of those, mind you. My name is Renfield. I’m just a hard working fictional character who could use a friend.”

Lennie closed the curtains and sighed the way people do when they’ve been caught outside their hiding-hole and now must do their job. “Please, sit down.”

Renfield thanked him and sat down. And just as she was removing her hat and sunglasses she blurted out something that caused Lennie to freeze as he had begun to sit down behind his desk: “Bambi’s mother faked her death and ran off with Thumper’s father.”

Lennie held his paused position long enough to make Renfield wonder if he had died. He finally plopped heavily into his chair. “You’re employed by that Allison person, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” Renfield said, and she raised her arms and face in an expression of triumphant joy. “And no,” she said, instantly affecting a deflated form and boo-boo face. “That is why I have come to you. You see, promises were made by the ‘great authoress,’ yet those promises have yet to be kept. I had a featured role in one of her productions last winter, and I am supposed to star in a long postponed sequel. Sadly, she has gotten hung up relating a long winded tale about old peop—um, times. Old times.” This obvious stumbling over the term “old people” had been a rare slip of manners on Renfield’s part; Lennie will never see sixty again.

Harder things have been accomplished—people on the moon, tallying the holes necessary to fill the Albert Hall—but here Renfield had actually (though accidentally) caused the impossible to come true. Lennie for real smiled and the light of wit shone in his flinty, deep set eyes. “Is it ‘opium times’ or just ‘old times,’ or perhaps ‘old opium times are not soon forgotten’? It seems to me that the former and the latter may be more interesting than what lies in the middle. But since I’m an old per—um, timer, I doubt that my opinion carries as much weight as it used to.”

Renfield excels at bounce back and spin. Although her mouth often out paces her thoughts, her mind has an extra gear that allows her to catch up with the occasional faux pas and smooth it out as not to allow her misspeak to bloom into a conversational field of weeds. “I meant no offense,” she said with a demur bat of her pretty, almond-shaped green eyes. “I’m not accustomed to the company of maturity and keen wit. It’s just that the ‘great authoress’ [Oh, I hear the quotation marks] and her empty promises have me twisted up inside. Naturally, this is why I have sought the advice of a man of your worldly experience.”

Unvarnished butt kissing isn’t something that worldly and experienced Lennie has had a lot of in life. And man oh man, how Renfield can dish it out. Whether it’s by the dropper or by the shovel, she always knows the proper dosage. This caused the lamp light of wit to puff out in Lennie’s eyes. Expertly shepherded into compliance, he affected a somewhat patronizing, “Now, now, little lady, it’s quite all right,” type of attitude that had already been on shaky legs around the time of the dismissal of the hoop skirt.

Renfield immediately conjured a degree of moistness in her eyes which lay between “dewy” and the formation of actual tears—that pre-weeping “undiscovered country” of calculated behavior in which the fictional males of Lennie’s generation are instantly transformed into malleable stooges (it’s not a long trip to that hamlet-dotted land for persons such as Mr. Lennie).

“Do you know what my penname is up to at this very moment, right now, when she should be writing about me?” Renfield said bravely in a meek and defenseless tone neither heard nor imagined since the Dickensian ink spilled out “Little Nell.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Lennie said as he searched his pockets for a clean handkerchief. “Nearly all the paperwork you see on my desk details her recent activities. She’s holding court with a six-foot-three-inch fictional character-imaginary friend rabbit named Harvey at a nearby pub. The rabbit is currently on leave from his occupation as an imaginary friend to a man named Elwood something or another because the man has once again entered a sanitarium. I’ve heard that after her second pint your penname does something called ‘going online’ to post inflammatory non-sequiturs and flat out lies that rail against ‘the powers that be’—One can read the drunken slur in her words. I’m told that the rabbit encourages this kind of behavior, for he has more than a trace of Iago in his soul. I have only the foggiest notion about what ‘online’ means—for I’m a pen and paper man myself. But I do understand that making public such sentiments as ‘Snow White uses PEDs to improve her dwarf toss’; or ‘Since Pluto is no longer a planet, is Mickey’s pet still considered a dog?’ are attracting unwanted attention from ‘The Ears’—who, as we both know, are lawyered up to the eyes. They know I’m her rep and sometimes send people around to speak to me. Miss Allison is one of the primary reasons we have hired the security force. Perhaps it’s time that someone does something about her.”

Renfield has the recuperative powers of a professional wrestler. “Right?” she said. And her irrepressible good nature exploded through her smile. “I say that you and I go down to that pub and put things the way that they ought to be.” She then toned down her smile a degree and made sincere eye contact with Lennie. “Have you ever been allowed to set foot outside this office, dear sir?”

Lennie pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. “No.”

She raced around to his side of the desk and took him by the hand. “Then we both have grievances to air. And to make our point all the clearer, I think we ought to take a security detail along.”

Part III: My horoscope said nothing about this.

M. Quickly’s Boar’s Head Inn is a successful franchise owned by the legendary Mistress. In the realm of pennames, imaginary friends and fictional characters, the dives are as plentiful as Starbucks in Seattle. Neither I nor anyone I know has ever actually met the great landlady, but her touch is everywhere. The Inns are low-ceilinged affairs that have wooden benches and tables and vast stone hearths. And although the Boar’s Head specializes in fourteenth- and fifteenth-century food and drink (mostly all things capon and sack), you can get just about anything that your heart desires—including free Wi Fi (just don’t refer to the female wait staff as “randy wenches,” they’re sensitive about that). The eclectic menu has worked out well for me because I’ve developed a passion for stout, which Google has informed me didn’t attain widespread popularity until after Shakespeare had shuffled off his mortal coil. I love stout. It gives me Fine Ideas and the courage I need to express them. Gleaning Fine Ideas from stout and then posting your genius online—how the universe got along for eons without this process in it is beyond my humble imagination.

“Well, here’s something new,” my pal Harvey said dryly.

“How’s that?” Already three tankards into my muse-of-choice, and further energized by the always trenchant observations made by wise Harvey, I was fiddling away on my smartphone linking a certain wooden, would-be-real boy to aluminum siding, thus unaware that uninvited shadows had landed on our table.

I glanced up and saw radiant Renfield, befuddled Lennie, a Brain from planet Arous (whom I’d recognized from a 50’s-era creature-feature), and a glowering two-dimensional “Thurber Woman” standing there (except the Brain, he or she or just plain it, hovered in mid-air). The dreaded Bluebird of Happiness was perched on Renfield’s shoulder like a dayglow, neon-blue accessory.

As you may have already guessed, strange sights are common at the Boar’s Head. Yet I turned to shrugging Harvey and then to my tankard of stout in a futile effort to find something to blame the hallucination on. I almost rose to poke Renfield in the shoulder to see if she was real, but the presence of the Bluebird of Happiness caused me to reconsider; I’ve seen that little son of a bitch remove more than one Moving Finger with its evil beak. Anyway, I knew that they were real—or as real as things get in the Boar’s Head. And I should have known that this day might come. As I stated earlier, FC’s are both abundant and prickly. They also have substantial egos because, unlike pennames and imaginary friends, they have a complete set of “parents.” You see, The Moving Finger writes FC’s, but for a proposed FC to become an actual FC, a second agent has to accept and publish them in some manner. Until then they are just “Ideas”—fine and otherwise.

“Hello, ‘great authoress,’” Renfield said, all charming-like, “May we join you?”

Epilogue: It’s now the hee- or sheebie-jeebies.

Well, there you have it. Clever Renfield has cast herself into the role of the Meek Oppressed and me into the thankless gig of “Da’ Man.” You’d think that somebody would be smart enough to see the sham for what it’s worth—but even cynical Harvey has sided with Renfield. The little Imp told her tale of woe, which, I think, but I cannot be one-hundred percent sure, was in some way enhanced by the Arousian gift of extreme hypnotism. What really sold the swamp land to Harvey, and the motley herd of customers who all gathered around to hear the fiction, was my perceived ill-treatment of Lennie—You know, ‘ She keeps him locked in a little room, denying him his full potential’—that sort of thing.

Sigh.

I mean it.

Sigh.

A writer’s life is wickedly hard. You do one good thing, and everyone goes ‘what great characters, they leap off the page at you,’ but few persons give credit to the writer. And when things go wrong the same crowd turns on the author as though he or she has left a burning bag of dog shit on every front porch from here to Arous, without as much as a snide syllable directed at the characters (oh, all right, perhaps I overstate, but not by much). It now falls to me to undo the suddenly popular notion that I’ll be a sure-fire, unanimous, first ballot selection for the Jerk Hall of Fame, ten minutes after I die. Renfield wins. She and Lennie will appear in a future production—make that ‘next production.’

Well, I’ve got to shake off the sheebie-jeebies and get to work. New promises have been made… The Wicked Witch of the West was right, “whatta world, whatta-world”… It’s an unjust place…. For instance, whenever anything needs to be given a shake, I think of Taylor Swift, which causes me to think about how sad it is that she is better known than the great Jonathan who had had the same surname… I bet that Taylor is actually a FC… That explains everything… Right now goddam Renfield is on the phone demanding that I stop rambling and get on with her production…Fellow writers, heed my warning: keep a careful cursor on the people that you think you make up out of thin air. According to the UPIFFC, the Moving Finger isn’t what it used to be.

Welcome to Saragun Springs: Feckless Fables of the Fantasmagorical Part Two

The Cormorant and the Misophonyx: A Feckless Fable of the Fantasmagorical

Prelude

There are three music Spirits. First you have the Tintintinabulator. Tins were classically trained pianists in life who haunt specific keyboards (pianos, organs, harpsichords, etc.) in death. Tins are generally friendly, but being artists they are hypersensitive to criticism and require reassurance full time. Next we have the Chimespeak. Best described as self-taught travelling minstrels/buskers in life, Chimes are nomadic Spirits who wander from here to there and affect anything from the grandest church bells on down to kazoos fashioned from handkerchiefs and combs. Tastes aside, these two Spirits classes are equally talented even though the Tins tend to look down on the “prolish” Chimes, who in turn wonder how a Tin can look down on anything with “its” head so firmly tucked up its own buttocks.

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Welcome to Saragun Springs: The Book of Daisy Part Seven

To conclude our ongoing look at the continuing saga of the GOAT, we present the Dubious Duo’s two latest adventures, as they had appeared in Literally Stories UK. Stay tuned for Book Three from the Springs in August–Leila

My Fair Juan G, Starring Boots the Impaler

I was watching the 1969 Science Fiction flick The Valley of Gwangi on TV last month. It was playing on the ancient Philco set that connects the PDQ network in our sister realm of Other Earth to my home realm of Saragun Springs. The film was the final Ray Harrhausen/Willis O’Brien dinosaur picture. The story involved a thirty-foot tall, psychotic Allosaurus named (brace yourself) “Gwangi,” who somehow managed to reproduce (apparently without a Mrs. Gwangi) and survive at a “Forbidden Valley” in Mexico with other unlikely creatures for at least 145-million years–without, mind you, attracting notice until 1969–that from a reptile with the brain power of a caraway seed.

Cowboys (another possibly extinct species with seed-like mental powers) rounded up Gwangi, who, like all movie dinosaurs not named Godzilla, met a terrible death due to humankind’s lack of kindness toward monsters.

Anyway, that was how The Valley of Gwangi had ended for over fifty years in Other Earth copies of the movie until a month ago. Just before Gwangi once again met death inside a burning circus tent, I saw my lead Fictional Character actress, Miss Daisy Kloverleaf, clad in her superhero guise as the GOAT (Greatest Of All Time) and her sidekick PDQ Pete (aka, Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon) enter the movie, whisk away what then became an obvious small clay prop Dinosaur in a scaled down set and replace it with an empty bottle of PDQ. Then I heard Daisy say, “Off to the interdimensional Vortex!” To which Peety squawked “Road Trip!” Then the screen faded to black.

Boots the Impaler (BTI), a talking Siamese Cat lay curled up on my desk. He’d watched the film with me and said, “Looks like more legal trouble.”

I stood and went to my window. I gazed toward the area of the interdimensional vortex Daisy had spoken of on TV. I was not surprised to see the silhouette of a thirty-foot tall Dinosaur in that direction.

“Renfield,” I whispered at the lowest possible degree of, well, whispering. It didn’t matter because she was already standing behind me.

“Yes, darling,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

I turned to face her. “How would you like another week’s vacation at Pipe Dreams Opium Emporium?”

“I’d like two better.”

“Deal,” I said, retaking my chair and putting my feet up on the desk, taking care not to disturb BTI.

We had made a deal for telling the backstory. Renfield and I have a psychic link, and since she only thinks about gain, it is pretty easy for me to judge the run of her thoughts. She’s also venal to the degree that her name should be a synonym for the word–then again that describes nearly all the Fictional Characters (FC’s) in my make believe realm of Saragun Springs. Renfield is also creative, hence her going to the window and whistling toward the silhouette of the Dinosaur.

Five minutes later. Daisy, Peety (no longer in their superhero guises) and the Dinosaur, whom I could not name in action due to the fact he is under copyright arrived outside the office. Renfield and I met them in the Barnyard.

“Hello, Miss Renfield and Miss Leila,” Daisy said primly, and not in a tone that suggested there was a several tonne monster beside her, one whose trod rattled ashtrays and shot glasses. Peety was lying flat atop the Thunder Lizard’s broad shoulders, apparently passed out with his everlasting can of PDQ in his feathery hand.

“Let me guess, he followed you guys home,” I said.

“This is Juan Gee,” Daisy added, ignoring me.

“We can’t say his name as an actor in the story–” I said, but Daisy then spelled out the name she had spoken. I glanced at Renfield who is also our attorney (she says she earned a degree at the University of Mars–in another realm at another time). She shrugged and said, “Good enough.”

Renfield then cupped her hands and called up to Juan Gee, who was surprisingly mellow compared to his behavior in the movie, and said, “Showtime, big fella!”

I should have known that she was several steps ahead and had her end of the deal ready to go even before she had made it with me. She took advantage of the Springs’ custom of FC’s new to the realm providing the backstory in their first appearance in one of my productions. But this was the first time that a FC created by someone else had come over, so the ethics may have been a tad dodgy.

“Hello to all,” Juan said. (For such a large person, he had an incredibly high pitched and grating voice.)

“Hello Juan,” we (save for Peety) said together, after it became clear he was awaiting a reply.

“I am grateful to Team GOAT for rescuing me from that repetitive, terrible fate and bringing me through the interdimensional vortex to Saragun Springs. I was astonished to discover that inanimate objects such as the clay figure I was over there and the drawing Master Peety had once been, are transformed to actual thinking beings upon crossover. No longer a fifteen inch tool constantly being moved one degree at a time for a single frame shot, but now I am a Full-sized Fictional Allosaurus.”

“Amazing how Team GOAT is able to enter stories and films at Other Earth and rescue fellow FC’s,” Renfield said, cuing the big guy, whose brain power had certainly increased from before.

“It is the GOAT’s passionly passion,” Daisy said, still clinging to her alter ego act, letting her addiction to adverbs slip.

Peety came to. He communicates only through quotes of the slob-coms and popcorn flicks of the late seventies through the early nineties–specializing in the eighties. So it was perfectly natural that he looked at the beast he was lying on and said (plus noting the source), “‘My God, the boy is dee-formed!’ Cherry Forever, Porky’s.”

“Um, why don’t you guys show Juan around the realm, while I figure out what to do with him,” I said, smiling, slowly backing toward my office, then turning and rushing in and bolting the door behind me.

“HeXopatha!” I called out and the crystal ball on my desk engaged, and there she was in all her Wiccan glory.

“I thought you’d be calling,” she said.

“Seems like everyone is one step ahead of me today,” I muttered, lighting a smoke and fishing a pint of anything out of my desk. I really should have read the label. It was the White Horse Whisky I keep around to remove nail polish. I’ve heard that three shots of it changes the meekest soul into a soccer hooligan. Somehow my esophagus held together as it went down. After locating my voice in the twists and turns of tubing that led to my lungs, I wheezed “I need magical help with this Juan fella–can you imagine the toilet he requires?”

“So, you are not sending him home?”

“What fun would that be?”

“Warner Brothers might send interdimensional sniffers around looking for their intellectual property,” HeXy said, displaying uncharacteristic level-headedness.

“Like hell-Gwa–Juan hasn’t appeared in as much as a beer commercial or on a game show since 1969.”

“It’s his voice,” BTI added. “Fellow sounds like Joe Pesci on helium.” Like all Cats, Boots is fully conscious and critical of others even when sleeping.

“Yes,” I said. “A face made for radio and a voice perfect for silent pictures.”

Actually, I was biding my time. HeXopatha (who bears a remarkable resemblance to her “arch enemy” Renfield) and BTI are also helpful when the price is right. We all knew that this situation meant that there were deals to be negotiated and sealed.

HeXy has been bleeding me for shares in a metal rich asteroid that the realm has put a claim on. So, she can be purchased in a standard fashion, which is exactly what happened.

But I also wanted BTI in on the project. Cats do not give a damn about money. Its only use is for people to buy stuff for Cats. But as long as you understand that a Cat is 99.99999% ego (the rest being mostly water and trace elements) you can come to an agreement. The payment for his services is in the title of this production.

The following is what I purchased:

It might sound strange, but famous, heavily monetized FC’s such as Winnie the Pooh, Bugs Bunny and a slew of Disney drones are or soon will be public domain while certain lesser known individuals are under copyright and will remain that way deep into the decades yet to come.

Such is the plight of the character Gwangi who is tethered to Warner Bros until 2065. But we consider Juan G a candidate for sanctuary. Still, if he were to appear as an Allosaurus the size of a building in any of my realm’s productions, we might run the risk of being sued for our asteroid.

So a makeover was in order. The only thing HeXopatha contributed was a shrinking spell that reduced Juan to the size of an average Earth man (5’ 9”). His immense tail caused him to weigh in at over three hundred pounds, but he no longer loomed large and obvious on the horizon.

BTI has the finest voice in Saragun Springs. It is cultured and mellifluous and allows him, like high-end English actors, to say the most horrid things and get away with it. For the price of his name atop the marque, I made him Henry Higgins to Juan’s Eliza Doolittle (both under copyright, but not in the metaphoric sense). Of course it does not matter what tone an FC’s voice has in a printed production, but word does get around the dimensions and the singular tone of Juan’s could easily lead the sniffers to us. (I bet you thought I hadn’t thought of that. Hah! This isn’t being written by a Chimp!)

Yesterday, Daisy and I went to see how Juan’s lessons were going in the studio city of Agoville. We entered a little rehearsal theater that contained a few seats and a stage.

Being a Cat, Boots had delegated responsibility for Juan’s voice lessons to a Eager Beaver FC just dying for a speaking role, named Eve.

BTI was in his usual state of sleeping on a table, while Eve held one of those megaphone things that silent film directors used to bellow through. Juan was nowhere to be seen, but I figured that he was backstage rehearsing.

“Good evenly evening, eagerly, eager Eve,” Daisy said. The GOAT has been getting loosely loose with her adverbs anymore. But, what the hell, it’s not like she’s hooked on fentanyl.

“Do you require further backstory, Miss Leila?” asked Eve.

I didn’t but it was Eve’s big moment and customs are to be followed, for how else are stupid ideas to become traditions? “Sure, why not.”

“Juan has memorized the opening of Richard the Turd,” Eve said.

“Shakespeare’s public domain,” I said. “You can say the correct title.”

“But that was a witticism,” said Eve.

“Oh? Well hell, forget booking my passage to Heaven. Very hilarious, Eve. And I’m certain that no one else in the multiverse has issued the same bon mot for at least ten minutes,” I said.

“How is your studently student doingly doing?” (Although it is superfluous to note, Daisy said that.)

“Behold,” Eve said. And she picked up the megaphone thing and called “Action!”

Juan appeared on stage. He was wearing a fez, a pair of armless glasses…

“They’re called pince nez, dolt,” BTI called out in his sleep. He was lying on a copy of this script and knew what I had written even though I hadn’t spoken it (Ha! Another plot hole filled in the desert).

Juan was also wearing a smoking jacket and an ascot due to a bad case of what is called “Turkey neck” amongst older actors.

We watched.

“Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down,” Juan piped, concluding the famous passage. To emphasize the plucking, he leaned backwards, and reached high. Unfortunately, Allosaurus’ arms are no longer than those of a T-Rex. So he had to pluck the invisible “crown” at chin level.

It was amazing what BTI and Eve had done with Juan’s voice. It was even worse than before. Much. I was expecting O’Toole, Burton, even Benny Hill and I got something that sounded like Yoko Ono singing backwards into an autotune.

I was about to complain, but BTI raised his head and said, “You wanted him to have a different voice, and that is what you have. The sniffers won’t come anywhere near it.”

“You have to admittedly admit that it is the Catly Cat thing to do.”

Not one of the five of us had anything to add that would give this production some kind of sense making ending. But that was when PDQ Pete staggered in to save the day. He had brought Daisy’s GOAT outfit. We had to close our eyes until she stomped her hoof twice. Because no one knows who the GOAT is, she just is like gravity, you silly fool. I opened my eyes and there she was, the realm’s greatest superhero team.

“‘I can’t believe they took the fucking bar,’–Bluto, Animal House,” said Peety.

“Fear not old chum,” Daisy said, fishing out the pint of White Horse I thought I had thrown away, out of her cape and giving it to him.

Then the six of us just stood and sat in dumbfounded silence, because that too fizzled as an end–not even Peety would touch White Horse.

“My horse, my horse, my kingdom for a white horse,” Juan ad libbed, in a tone that was the audio equivalent of White Horse.

We all looked at each other, again, and all together we said “Curtainly curtain.”

Wuthering GOAT

-1-

Meanwhile, “inside” a song playing in the fantasy multiverse….

A middle aged man dressed in late 18th century finery stood pensively at a window. It was late in the evening and he was gazing across the wily, windy moors at an ethereal, yet extremely familiar young woman in a fleecy white dress. She was singing (incredibly, accompanied by an invisible orchestra) and steadily progressing toward the window in an artistic dance. He heard his name in her song, “Heathcliff.” (The lyrics also contained some character observations that Heathcliff could have done without.)

“Cathy,” he sighed. The same Cathy who died eighteen years earlier. Although Heathcliff had hardened some since, he remembered everything. The romance, the betrayal, the misunderstanding, the great loss. “Damn it,” he thought, “I just had to dig her up and instruct her to haunt me forever, and to take my soul.” Indeed he had done this right after Cathy’s burial. Of course that had been melodramatic grandstanding on Heathcliff’s part; he never seriously believed that Cathy would try to cash that check. And for years that assumption held true–yet, there she was, headed his way, looking remarkably fresh for a person who has spent eighteen years in a loamy moor grave at Wuthering Heights.

When Cathy arrived at the window, Heathcliff realized that they had come full circle. His soul was going to be taken by a person who neither blinked nor cast a shadow in the moonlight.

Yes, the prolonged saga of Cathy and Heathcliff at last approached denouement. The endless years of class bigotry, jealousy, temper, duplicity and shoveling shit in the stables were at last over. And just when the anticipation was so thick that you could slice it with a Bronte sister, both lovers were startled by a sharp little knock at a previously unseen door.

This chased the ethereal right out of Cathy, who actually blinked thrice and looked at Heathcliff, who had been gobsmacked nearly catatonic.

Fortunately, Cathy had seen plenty during her long absence from “wuthering-wuthering” wherever. And she certainly had better control of her wits than Heathcliff had over his. A determined look entered her face and she simply passed through the window into the room. She glanced at Heathcliff with tired contempt. “Just don’t stand there, ninny, answer the door.”

“Um, uh, come-come in,” Heathcliff said.

“I could have done that, arsehole,” Cathy said. She strode confidently across the room to the door and called “Please come in. I am a Ghost and have lost my power over doors, save to pass through them.”

The door swung open and Cathy saw a brown and white Pygmy Goat wearing a cape and a pair of dark eyeglasses. That would have been queer enough on its own if not surpassed in strangeness by the Goat’s companion–an apparently alive, yet crude two dimensional drawing of some kind of Bird–perhaps a Woodcock. The oddity had free movement yet was somehow limned onto the fabric of reality more so than in it, and was the size of a large toadstool. The creature was wearing a top hat, and in one wing, which behaved like a hand, it held a metal drinking vessel. Cathy assumed that the contents of the vessel had something to do with the individual smelling greatly of ale.

“*Greetingly Greetings,” said the little Goat. “I am Daisy Kloverleaf, the Goatessly Goatess of G.O.A.T.–The Greatest Of All Time. This is my sidekick, PDQ Pete. We bringingly bring an opportunity. ” (*Here, and everytime she spoke, a greatly great many adverbally adverbs were usedly used by the Goatly “GOAT”–from here, nine in ten have been editly edited for content.)

“Hello, there, Daisy and PDQ Pete,” Cathy said, much more amused than bemused. She had also learned that on the “otherside” it was best to indulge the nutters, it kept the drama down to a minimum.

Heathcliff had recovered his senses and demanded “What is the meaning of this?” all Master of the Manor and dick-like.

“Silence, insolently insolent stableboy!” Daisy said, with a stomp of a hoof.

Daisy’s hoof stomp engaged an interdimensional vortex, which took everyone in the song to the fantasy realm of Saragun Springs.

-2-

Meanwhile…Inside a dingy little office in the realm of Saragun Springs…

I was sitting in my office, listening to music, searching the contents of a fifth of Old Number 7 for a purpose other than cleaning litter boxes, when I “heard” the preceding scenario unfold on my Unsteady Jukebox (a tablet and bluetooth speaker). Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights was playing–and I imagined Heathcliff at the window, finally opening it, like I usually do. Then in the fade I heard the knock and all that followed. I picked up the fifth and wondered if it had caused an audial hallucination–just a little aged fermentation gag, between friends. But I knew that I wasn’t that lucky.

There was a sharp little knock at my door.

If this piece had passed its thousandth word the door would open no matter what I said. If under, there was still a possibility of escape. It must have been over because the knock on the door was one of those unnecessary knocks executed by someone who’s opening it at the same time. I’ve always wondered why people do that. Guess people figure if you are doing lines that you’d have sense enough to shoot the bolt.

Anyway, it did not matter because at the door was Daisy (who had removed her GOAT costume), an unknown Donkey with a surly expression on her/his face, someone who looked a hell of a lot like Kate Bush (circa 1978–this time wearing the red dress) sitting on the Donkey and Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pigeon passed out on the Kate lookalike’s right shoulder.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the Jackass,” I said.

“Hello Leila,” Daisy said primly (there were the adverbs, which can be read in the Director’s cut of this piece–all 6,000 words).

“I heard what happened,” I said, pointing at the Unsteady Jukebox. “Why is it that everytime I see you, Daisy, this little line between my eyes gets deeper?”

“Because you are aging?”

Well, I had that coming. It’s wise not to feed straight lines to Saragun Spring’s FCs. Although I am the Chief Executive Penname of the Springs, like most other leaders I’m not overly wise.

“I take it that the Jackass is Heathcliff?” This was a rhetorical question because the interdimensional vortex sometimes changes people who pass through it into the animal that they were compared to most often in life, upon entering Saragun Springs. It doesn’t do a thing to persons native to the realm, nor much to Ghosts–Cathy’s dress changed color, but she was still

Cathy. (Or the Demon who took her shape.)

“I demand an explanation. This is highly irregular!” brayed Heathcliff.

“Well, it’s like this Heathcliff, old pal,” I said, after pouring myself a shot and downing it, “lots of people must have referred to you as a Jackass–and the vortex you passed through has a peculiar sense of humour. But you can relax, you are still who you are in movies, the book and the song, but when you are portrayed here in the Springs, you are a Donkey–an otherwise sweet beast defamed by your behavior. And the more you bitch about it, the longer this production will take and thus the longer you shall remain an Ass–capice?”

Apparently that got through because he said nothing and accepted the carrot Daisy fetched from the herbivore pantry in my office.

I made eye contact with the Ghost of Cathy, who’d been conspicuously, perhaps necessarily, silent, but appeared to be happy and enjoying the situation.

I smiled, “Hello Cathy.”

“Hello Leila.”

“You’re probably wondering why Daisy and that snoring derelict on your shoulder brought you to Saragun Springs–which gives us something in common–doesn’t it, Daisy?”

“If you say so,” Daisy said. She had been tossing walnuts into her mouth, shells and all.

“Yes, I think I need to know why you and Peety kidnapped Cathy and Heathcliff and brought them to my office.”

“HeXopatha is conducting job interviews,” Daisy replied. “We told Cathy that she was the favorite for the position of Wiccan Apprentice. We brought the Donkey along for transportation.”

I looked at Cathy. “So, you are here because you want to join the team, and he’s along as the ride?”

“Absolutely,” Cathy said. “You see I feel that I’ve reached my full potential as a Ghost. I cannot possibly add another layer to Cathy. But as a Wiccan in a new fantasy realm, I see nothing but possibilities.”

The crystal ball on my desk flashed red. It was Saragun Springs’ resident Witch, the Great HeXopatha. Her wholesome yet malevolent visage filled the ball.

“Bravo, Cathy,” HeXy said, ignoring me. “That is the attitude I’ve been seeking.”

“Does that mean I get the job?”

“Indeed! I will have a coach fetch you anon.”

“Hey, hey, hey–” I said. “Could we at least pretend that I am in charge just once in a while–especially when I’m in the room?”

“Oh, hello there, darling,” HeXopahta said. “Have you forgotten the conversation we had a blackout or three ago?”

I cast back through my memory and located a recent fuzzy moment when I may have green- lighted an “outsourcing” project for the Witch, without listening too intently because that sort of thing gets between me and my bourbon.

“Ha!” I said. “Part three is coming up and since you want something, the backstory is all yours, darling.”

-3-

Meanwhile…A drunk blackout or three ago…

HeXopatha is a facetious Witch. I do not know if all Wiccans are sarcastic, but she certainly is. The crystal ball she communicated through swelled to the size of the bubble that Glenda the Good Witch of the North used for transportation in The Wizard of Oz.

This enlarged ball contained an image of myself slumped at my desk, with an empty bottle of Number 7 lying on its side and the last of its contents in a glass that was in my hand.

HeXopatha was in the room with me, wearing a long dress whose train was held by Black Rats in Waiting. She and her little retinue (who all wore little gowns of their own, with tiny Black Ratlettes in Waiting holding their trains, and those dunce-cap like things with strand of lace attached to the top–this Rodently pattern repeated to the vanishing point) paced about the room as the Magnificent Master pitched her big idea, knowing that she had caught me at the perfect time.

“I require an Apprentice to help me with my day to day enchantments and spells, darling–but no one in the realm has the correct personality–so, I need your permission for a project.”

I caught a glimpse of the way I was on that occasion and “boiled” sums it up perfectly. “Awright, HeXy,” I slurred, “I gotta feelingth that if’n I juss say yesh, you and those little black dee-tees will goeth away–” At this point I relinquished consciousness, and my head made a disconcertingly loud smack on the desk.

The crystal shrunk back to its normal size.

“Swell,” I said. “But you must admit, friend Cathy here looks a hell of a lot like Kate Bush, a famous person, very much alive and whose disappearance from Earth is likely to cause trouble.”

“Who’s Kate Bush?” asked Cathy.

“No, no, no, not in the song,” said HeXoaptha. “In the song she is still the Ghost of Cathy–or the demon pretending to be Cathy–that has never been established. In all other realms, like Earth, the song will sound the same to all who listen, and Cathy will appear as she has always appeared in people’s minds–their personal ‘head videos’–for the taped one is static. Only we in Saragun Springs will know of the alteration, only we will know that the original Cathy is no longer in the song–but rest assured that an adequate substitute has been procured.”

“‘Adequate substitute’?” I said. And that was when the “coach” arrived. Since it belonged to HeXopatha, it was, of course, fancy and gleaming black, and pulled by a team of what appeared to be horned ebony Shetland Ponies. Penrose the Flying Weasel was at the reins. When the coach stopped a figure clothed in a shawl emerged.

“Your ride awaits Cathy! From here on your name is Eira-Lysbyrd.” HeXopatha said.

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“It’s Welsh for Snow Ghost–I so miss ancient Wales,” HeXy said, pining for the land where she began her own career as a Witch.

Cathy–now Eira–needn’t be told twice. She leapt off Heathcliff, placed passed out Peety on Daisy’s back and sprinted to the coach. She briefly hugged her replacement, hopped in the coach and it was off before I could say anything about it.

The figure stood outside the window, still concealed.

“What’s she waiting for?” I asked.

“He, actually, darling,” HeXy said, laughing. “Open the window and you will see.”

I didn’t need to ask why Heathcliff couldn’t open the window. Give me that much credit–I doubt that Donkeys need to do a lot of window opening in life. I sank another shot, walked over and opened the window.

The new Cathy dropped his shawl, and there in all his glory (even shrunk down from thirty feet to human size) was the recently hired Allosaurus, Juan G. He was dressed in the flowing white Cathy dress and began dancing in the courtyard. He performed a cartwheel. That was something to see. His short arms couldn’t reach the ground so he rolled on the top of his fairly flat head and landed on his tail. But that was nothing compared to his singing voice. The pitch was so high and uneven that my shot glass exploded and the fifth of Jack on my desk began to vibrate dangerously on the table.

“Please hoof stomp the vortex open, Daisy, before I lose my bar.”

Daisy activated the interdimensional vortex with a stomp of her hoof and both “Cathy” and Heathcliff vanished, but come by regularly whenever someone in the realm plays the song Wuthering Heights.

HeXopatha had signed off, but on her way out the crystal ball once again expanded and there was Juan out in the wily, windy moors. Unlike Earth, we get a view of Heathcliff in the “video.” The shot panned to the window and there in 18th-Century finery stood a man with the head of a Donkey.

Before I could complain, I heard HeXopatha’s voice telling me that on its way back into the multiverse the song passed through a rendition of Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream and the effects were temporary.

My glass was a memory, so I grabbed the bottle and said, “Bottom’s up.”

Our Cast

Juan G…..himself, yeah, that’s it…

Daisy/GOAT…herself

Peety…himself

Renfield…herself

“Cathy”…Flo the Trade Rat

Heathcliff…Andy the Trade Rat

Eve…Taffypuller the Berkshire Hog

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Saragun Springs

Snarl at the Dying of the Light

Uncategorized

September’s Spa Sunday

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Four: HeXopatha and the billigits Part Three

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Four: HeXopatha and the billigits Part Two

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Four: HeXopatha and the billigits Part One

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Three: Feckless Fables Part Five

Welcome To Saragun Springs Book Three: Feckless Fables Part Four

Welcome to Saragun Springs Book Three: Feckless Fables Part Three

The Complaint: Meanwhile Back at Union HQ

Welcome to Saragun Springs: Feckless Fables of the Fantasmagorical Part Two

Welcome to Saragun Springs: The Book of Daisy Part Seven