Duck and Cover

“Can’t… break… free…”

The now finger-sized Captain Koma struggled valiantly against the rubber bands binding him to my shoebox. It wasn’t enough to extract his national secrets and cupcake recipés — no. He would soon be witness to the abject humiliation of Australia’s most respected and underweight prime minister in 300 years.

I pulled back the curtain and surveyed Canberra. “Think of it, Koma. In each building, there is at least one toilet and sink. AT LAST, my extensive knowledge of plumbing espionage is paying dividends!”

“Madness!”

“You know so little. Imagine,” I whispered, caressing the $80 million mainframe, “we can hear every conversation conducted in any loo in the city. Even the prime minister’s headquarters’ hindquarters.”

He banged his head contemptuously. The ducks were waddling closer and closer to the box. “What are you going to do to Rudd?”

I laughed. “You want to know my plan so you can escape and foil me! How delightful.”

I ate another candied yam from my tray of caramelized vegetables. This one was shifty, this Koma.

“You’re planning to spring coils of wires out the toilet and give him a massive coronary?”

Persistent little bug. “Ha! No… all I need are the records. Do you know who he’s called from that toilet? How many people he’s conference called? Once the public gets wind of this, they’ll be clamoring to put Ron Howard back on top!”

“Toy fiend! I mean, you fiend! I mean, wait — what?”

“RON HOWARD! Brilliant plan of mine, it is, bringing in a deposed former leader to create the appearance of legitimacy whilst I pillage your treasury.”

“You’re confusing politicians and Hollywood show-folk again.”

I sneered. “If you’re referring to my 2004 campaign to stop Jim Carrey from becoming president of the good ol’ U.S. of A. then you really didn’t pay any attention to my manifesto. He couldn’t have been president — he may have been a senator, but Jim Carrey was born in Kenya.”

“Canada.”

“I don’t much care for the local pronunciation, thank you.”

Alternating the z-control knob brought up an oscillating display on the LCD output. The prime ministerial toilet was online!

“It is now…” I counted the ticks on my analogue watch, “3:25 PM, local time. As his usual habit, Kevin Rudd will now enter his private restroom and order a large pizza with extra garlic.”

“His one weakness! How did you—”

“You forget, I’ve been analyzing his sewage and communication lines for weeks. There’s nothing I don’t know,” I sprayed, spewing bits of hydraulic cupcake onto the nosy homunculi.

“No harm can ever come to the prime minister while in the sacred confines of the ‘Marble Ministry,’” Koma declared, referencing the common phrase coined for the prime minister’s secret, state-protected toilet.

“Really?” I asked, arching my left eyebrow while drawing in my lip provocatively. I grabbed a taped-up microphone and flipped to the out line. “KEVIN RUDD! THIS IS THE SPIRIT OF LOW-FLOW PLUMBING!”

The speakers buzzed. “If it isn’t the anus of the body politic.”

I have never been more insulted by anything said over the public airwaves, and immediately moved to censure the originator of that sentence. “Who is this?”

“Lars Plumberdale, executive flush co-ordinator.”

He sounded so familiar, but I couldn’t place the voice. “Where’s Kevin Rudd?”

A flushing sound drowned out any further communiques. Somehow, my plan to wiretap Kevin Rudd’s toilet and force him to publicly admit his office was haunted had gone horribly awry.

By now, Koma had freed himself and was using the broken rubber bands and a toothpick as a makeshift harness to bridle the carnivorous duck. “Come on,” I said, plucking him up like a tick on a dog’s ear.

The confused (and probably dyslexic) duck chased after us as I shimmied down the spiral staircase to the hotel’s lobby. I threw the concierge a dirty look and violently knocked over a potted palm tree. The security guards were too busy racing to fetch dustpans to remember my boyish good looks when the police would ask for my description.

Cleanliness. It had always been Australia’s Achilles heel.

I crossed the street discreetly, keeping my juggling act to under five pins and only one flaming chainsaw. Large men with swords and walkie-talkies stood outside the federal palace, flexing and keeping watch. There were more men than usual; something had happened.

“Howdy!” I shouted, trying to pull off the old “Dancin’ Texan” maneuver. “I’m here to see Kevin Rudd. You may have heard of him—”

“Nobody gets in,” the largest, angriest man said. His sunglasses were bulging with muscles, and his shoes looked like they could spit iron bullets.

“But I’m here to see him!” I danced. “He paid good money to see a leprechaun fight the world’s smallest kangaroo!”

They studied Koma closely. He put up a fight and totally beat on one of their moustaches, but I think what convinced them was the green suit I’d forced him into, and the shillelagh glued to his arm.

“Coming through!” I brayed, tossing aside interns and coatracks with equal measure. Finally, I arrived at Kevin Rudd’s office. He stood there, mouth agape, awed by the little man struggling in my fist.

“Is he rea—”

“Enough idle chatter. I’m the fabled garbageman-savant, Lou Tintarello. You may remember my travails on the US Board of Landfill Ecology?”

He hesitated. “THE Lou Tintarello?”

“Well, I ain’t his one-toothed grandpa. My grandpa was a circus performer, juggled from sunup to sundown until his shoulders gave out on him. Then he settled down and became a lion tamer. Tell me everything about the current plumbing-related mishap.”

Rudd wavered. He may have been wearing a large coat to hide it, but one arm was half the size of the other. “Someone stole an ancient statue from my private washroom.”

“Fascinating,” I said patronizingly. “You did a good job!”

“Where was your flushing co-ordinator?” Koma yelled from my hydrogenated vest pocket. “Lars Plumberdale?”

“I don’t have a flushing co-ordinator.”

“REAL Australians let the Coriolis Effect do their flushing,” I said with an air of unearned expertise. “This crime was obviously perpetrated by Ron Howard in an attempt to humiliate you.”

“Why? Why would Ron Howard do this?”

“POLITICAL REVENGE. Canberra’s most prestigious periodical, the Daily Beagle, has already confirmed as much.”

It was amazing someone so idealistic could survive the rigors of Australia’s cutthroat system of kickbacks and daily elections. He even had all his original teeth!

“What should I do?”

I weighed his options. “Australia’s border fence is a proven farce. Likely, Ron Howard has absconded with your statue to his homestead in the Philippines.”

Rudd slammed his tiny fist on the porcelain sink. “What can I do?”

“I’ll need surveillance footage from the room.”

“It’s a toilet.”

“You’re right, I’ve already got what I need. Here,” I handed him a piece of paper with an address on it, “at 7:45 PM tonight, Ron Howard will be at this address AND disguised as an old lady. Apprehend him at all costs!”

He saluted me. “You’re the best, Mister Tintarello.”

I stamped out of the building, touching each desk obsessively on the way.

“It was a long con, but we nailed him, Koma!”

The microscopic varmint gnawed to escape my denim slacks. “What? By getting him to go after Ron Howard?”

“You think I’m a no-neck who buried his head in the cat litter when it comes to Australian government, you frivolous bogart! Rudd wasn’t my target.”

He squirmed uncomfortably. “Then what…?”

“It was STAGED for you. So you wouldn’t warn him,” I said as I picked up pace.

My elaborately laborious plan was now hurtling inexorably to fruition! I flipped the lid to my portable mobile cellular devicicle and called mister “Plumberdale.”

“What’s going on?!”

“Plumberdale? The leak’s been mended. Repeat, the leak’s been mended.” There was a chuckle on the other line, then it went dead. I tried to resuscitate — no luck.

“This was all a wild goose chase to humiliate Ron Howard, wasn’t it? What’ve you got against Opie?”

“I don’t understand that reference, not being Australian. It was never about Howard, or Rudd. This was about getting a pot-shot at Australia’s REAL leader.”

“Was that a clone of Rudd?”

“Yes, but the original didn’t matter anyway. Remember, I’ve got all Canberran toilets wiretapped. Even toilets with… diplomatic immunity?”

He stared incredulously. “What does that mean?”

“My intended target has always been Australia’s rightful ruler, the Queen of England.”

His jaw dropped like a tea tray. “That’s…”

“When Rudd’s surly, surly swordsmen drag her out of her bath, the resulting diplomatic incident will shame them both and likely cause the British Empire to fracture! Warlords will roam the Outback once more, as it was in the days when Ron Howard’s iron fist was law!”

“But the statue…”

“The Torso of Artemis. I let Karl take it. After all, what use is it to him when the world’s only expert in ancient Greek belly dancing is… me? It’s about as useful to him as…” I had pretty much checked out by then. “You know, maybe a box. With another box in it.”

“WHY?! Why did you need to take me through all that?!”

I stopped. We were there. “Why, to distract you.”

A big sign hung over us, white letters on a green board.

Canberra Duck Park

Interview with the Time Vampire

The whole row of crystal glasses shattered in rapid succession. Each chandelier shook, and the light-bulbs flickered and sizzled like bacon on a griddle.

Nixon was back in town.

I tented my hands in silent prayer. The smell of dampness and unnatural cold seeped into my body, it draped me in its toxic blanket. From the oppressive shadows, a silhouette shone against the boardroom wall like moonlight through cracked cellophane wrap.

Nixon was back in town.

“Nice day out,” I choked.

Quick as death, the imposing interviewer snared me with his talons. “SILENCE!”

He still wasn’t over our last encounter. To escape his massive gambling debts (I’d egged him on at the bookie’s) Richard Nixon had had no choice but to fake his own death and live a secret new life as a blacksmith in the old west. He’d become quite adept at mending wagons and shoeing horses, but the fact remained…

“You’re the last witness,” he rasped, his skin sagging like over-stretched rubber bands. “You brought them right to me!”

“No… I can’t be. There’s Ford—”

“Ford’s dead! Chuckle-head choked on his own necktie.”

I sighed. It was still hard to believe that that lovable oaf had fallen under the reaper’s sickle.

“Wait a minute… something doesn’t add up,” I puzzled, “Gerry was an expert knot-tier. How did he…?”

Nixon crack-a-lacked his knuckles. “Everyone has an off day.”

“I swear I didn’t tell anyone about you!” I professed. Nixon was unmoved. “Maybe my dentist, but he’s taken a vow of silence.”

“What’s his name?!” Nixon whipped out his infamous hit list. Every person on that list was automatically denied service at the post office. Even in “death,” presidential power is strong.

“Um… Karl… uh, Überdale. That’s who my dentist is.”

Nixon clicked his fountain pen. “How many ‘goobers’ in that?”

“Let’s get down to the meat and potatoes,” I thundered, full of confidence at his sudden absent-mindedness. “Are we here to do an interview or is Karl Überdale more important than you getting back to yer hosses an’ wagons?!”

That’s when the man hit the ceiling. His face grew paler, and red like polished iron. He dug his fingers so strongly into the table I could hear disconcerting snaps as the wood buckled.

He was more upright than I’d ever seen a man, his clenched jaw grinding those second-hand dentures into clouds of powder. Like a cobra, he snatched a wad of paper from his coat pocket.

“AROO! THIS your résumé?!”

He slammed down the wrinkled paper so hard it left a crater. I looked at the familiar handwriting. “Yes.”

(Click to enlarge)

The temperature fell as Nixon rose. “This is more impressive than Kissinger’s portfolio. The man never progressed past crayons.”

My heart beat faster. “Henry Kissinger could barely feed himself, and he was Secretary of State. I can tie my own shoes!” I smirked.

Those late-night stress-induced bags under his eyes contracted. Cogs were turning behind those scheming eyes. Grimly, he held up a blood-spattered clipboard.

“I got the most interesting ‘unofficial’ report from your doctor.”

Aw, SNAP.

“My note says I’m fit as a fiddle.”

Horseshoes clattered in his pockets. “SILENCE!”

“Are you calling for James Silence? I saw him in the lobby.”

Now he was purple. “This report is quite damaging. Your head cheese smells like feet. Your tongue depressors are too upbeat. Your appendix reads like a bibliography. You fell asleep at the switch at the electrical plant.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“And these notes about your personal life! You drive on parkways and park on driveways. Your house’s front door is out back. Your watchdog can’t tell time.”

“Hey, my dog is the cat’s pajamas!”

“You’ve called the water department to put out fires, and the fire department to put out waters. Your dehumidifier is all wet. And your toes are barely towing the line.”

“Well, all toe-ld…”

“Your bank says you made a deposit, but your therapist says you’ve withdrawn. You can carry an instrument — but not a tune. And your inferiority complex isn’t good enough.”

“Then it’s worse than I thought.”

“The story of your life is riddled with spelling errors. You’ve been seen sawing a see-saw by the sea shore. And your dog—”

“Quit hounding my dog! You’re barking up the wrong tree!”

The former president regained his composure, flustered and dazed. “It says here on your résumé that your last job was… television director?”

“I directed the first two seasons of ‘Paper Jam’ but I left over creative differences with those greedy muppets.”

He clucked, not unlike a chicken. “How does the season one cliffhanger end?”

“So, you’re a paper pusher after all?” I asked, smiling.

Nixon reeled. “You get bored shoeing horses.”

My smugness was only temporary. Night had fallen outside, as the twinkling starlight and mournful owl calls sounded. The janitor would be by soon to collect the day’s scraps.

If I didn’t close this deal soon, my teeth would end up in the rubbish bin and the rest of me in a ditch outside Burbank.

Facts and figures flooded my frontal lobe, my fractured faculties frantically foraging the fringes of the feasible for some faint, fortuitous fragment that could finagle this furious fool into finally forgiving my former flaws and fete my fortitude.

“My vocabulary ain’t bad.”

“SILENCE!”

“Dude, I think he went home for the day.”

Nixon massaged his bulging temple. “That’s just the kind of talk I’d expect from a man who put a trowel in a washing machine and dug a flower bed with his trousers.”

“What…? My trousers are the pants!”

“Sit. Down.” Nixon’s shaking hand hovered just over my stool.

I thought I’d lighten the mood with a little ditty. So I gently caressed his dainty, sallow hand as I sang,

“What makes Gloomy Gus so gloomy?
And why is he so sad?
Why’s Gloomy Gus a sour puss
Who thinks he’s got it bad?”

Without uttering a word he got up and walked out of the room. He’d undoubtedly gone to put a good word in for me.

Good luck was definitely headed my way — I’d pilfered his horseshoes.

Who’s the Doctor

“Turn your head and cough.”

As I did so, a stream of mucus, blood, and various acidic compounds spurted onto the doctor’s immaculate pant-leg. Deeply abashed, I tried to distract him by asking about his children.

“How old is the one with the ridiculous comb-over?” I laughed, pointing to a family portrait on his desk.

“That’s me.”

I straightened my collar. “Tough room!”

These kinds of medical evaluations always give me butterflies in my stomach. And moths.

“This next section is multiple choice…”

“I can’t do it!” I sobbed, “I’m a fraud! A two-bit hooligan! Why did I think I could pass this exam?!”

“Now calm down,” the doctor reassured me as he dabbed his galoshes with a wet tissue. “Just tell me what’s up.”

“What’s up, doc?!” I sneezed violently. “My step’s got no pep! I’ve got ants in my pants! My superiority complex has an inferiority complex! I think I’ve got multiple personalities, and so do I!”

“Go on.” He took out a clipboard.

“Bright lights hurt my ears. My shadow is losing weight. And my high blood pressure is low, too!”

He scribbled furiously. “Go on!”

“I’m dangerously short for a man of my weight. My bald spot is covered with hair. And I don’t have the energy to be hyperactive,” I yawned.

The clipboard was starting to smoke. “What kind of environment did you grow up in?”

“My parents were addicted to placebos. Our house didn’t have an exit that you could go into.”

“Astounding,” he mumbled, “were you successful in dating?”

“Well, I fell in love with the baker’s daughter. Her family was rolling in dough. Then I fell in love with the mortician’s daughter, but anyone cadaver.”

“I see,” he said, putting down the clipboard. “And does your face hurt?”

I blinked. “Why, no, it doesn’t.”

“Well, it’s killing me. Here,” he handed me a form with his signature at the bottom. “I’m clearing you for work on the condition that you leave this office and never come back.”

“What if I come forward?”

Making Of Paper Jam

The viewpoints presented are not those of SyFy. For more information about the series, please visit the Paper Jam Website.

JOHN: “Hi, I’m John Colm, lead writer for the hit series ‘Erased.’”

ELLIOT: “I’m Elliot Lewis, the other lead writer.” *laughs*

CHRISTINE: “And I’m Christine Han, from storyboarding.”

JOHN: “First off, thanks for buying the first season of ‘Erased’ on DVD. Actually, didn’t we change the name to ‘Paper Jam?’”

ELLIOT: “’Erased’ was the codename, and the name of the pilot. The series is ‘Paper Jam.’”

JOHN: “The muppets came up with both names.”

CHRISTINE: “Next, let’s tell the viewers a little about how we got started here.”

ELLIOT: “I started working with Gyrobo in the 90s. We wrote some scenes in ‘Titanic’. Of course, we lost the rights to them when Gyrobo refused to work with Leonardo DiCaprio. He originally wanted to cast Chris Farley as Jack Dawson. This came literally right after Gyrobo was thrown out of Icon for trying to cast Phil Hartman as the lead in ‘Braveheart.’”

CHRISTINE: “Wasn’t that when he started that doomsday cult?”

ELLIOT: “No. That was after Farley and Hartman died, because those were literally the only two actors he was interested in casting. But that’s how we met. He surprised me last year when I was working on ‘Atlantis’, said he was onto a new project.”

CHRISTINE: “Similar story here, we worked on ‘Clumps: The Musical’ in 2002. It was a rebuttal to ‘Hair.’”

JOHN: “He stuffed me in a burlap sack until the crying stopped.”

CHRISTINE: “I got a phone call from him last week, ‘Chrissy! Pack up the kiddos and speedos! We’re goin’ fer the BIG TIME!’”

JOHN: “…but it didn’t…”

CHRISTINE: “We went to Europe to visit paper mills and Egyptian papyrus museums. He said we needed a feel of the history of paper.”

ELLIOT: “We spent literally days sketching paper.”

JOHN: “I asked him, ‘why paper?’ He told me he’d been conducting an experiment with clocks, hanging them over his sink, when he slipped and hit his head. And that’s when he had a vision. He saw an image—”

CHRISTINE: “Futuristic paper, written on with digital ink.”

JOHN: “…it’s liquid paper. That was his thing. That was the show. But we couldn’t sell it on that alone.”

ELLIOT: “We spent… God, at least four months working with branding consultants, trying to get a message. Remember Tintar…?” *others nod in agreement*

JOHN: “Lou Tintarello. He actually approached us. Wasted weeks trying to convince us to use our ‘digital pulpit’ to push his message of ‘heavenly dumpster-diving,’ or whatever it was.”

ELLIOT: “’Tell the people that their path to God lies in their own droppings.’ ‘The spiritual awareness of a people derives from their material discardation.’ He was crazy.”

CHRISTINE: “Gyrobo believed in him.”

ELLIOT: “Gyrobo believes it’s not possible to photograph the dark side of the moon because ‘satellites don’t work that way.’ If we could’ve kept paying his outrageous consulting fees, the show would be 43 minutes of pure garbage.”

JOHN: “He tried to cast Sarah Palin.”

CHRISTINE: “Gyrobo or Tintarello…?”

JOHN: “Gyrobo was intent on proving Alaska was part of the continental United States. He wanted her to tell people it was. That was his agenda.”

ELLIOT: “We ended up making Alaska a big part of the show. That’s where Doctor Nunn worked, at Maverick University.”

JOHN: “It’s a real place. We got permission to shoot there, but we had to bring in a ton of extras. The male-female ratio there is even worse than the rest of Alaska.”

ELLIOT: “Is your chair sticking?”

CHRISTINE: “My chair is fine.”

JOHN: “So after Tintarello left I told Gyrobo, ‘if you want a message you need conflict.’ He said, ‘why not have his boss trying to kill him like they do that there?’ He slurred his words, too.”

ELLIOT: “Does anybody want to change chairs?”

JOHN: “So we decided to have his boss try to kill him, which was perfect, because we’d already decided that his boss had stolen the liquid paper formula from Dr. Nunn before having her ‘erased.’ Hey, I just got that! ‘Erased.’”

CHRISTINE: “That’s why we called the pilot ‘Erased.’”

ELLIOT: “My chair is the Leaning Tower of Pisa here.”

JOHN: “The series starts with Nathan Carter, a manager at a paper mill in the future — LPI, Liquid Paper Incorporated — overseeing the output of millions of sheets of liquid paper each day. He stumbles onto an old newspaper from one of LPI’s biggest clients during an audit before LPI merges with Google.”

CHRISTINE: “Keep in mind, this is while Google faces an antitrust lawsuit. LPI can’t afford any improprieties.”

JOHN: “The paper talks about LPI founder Devlin Dingus, but says that an enigmatic Dr. Nunn was the one who invented the technology behind liquid paper. Nathan checks the paper against the ‘official’ records, and can’t find the article or any mention of Dr. Nunn.”

ELLIOT: “It was my idea to have a newspaper as THE central plot device. A bridge between the past and not-too-distant future.”

JOHN: “This contradicts everything Nathan knows about liquid paper, that it was created by Dingus in his mom’s basement. His bosses suddenly take notice and tell him to drop it. But he’s too headstrong, and decides to keep pressing. He finds himself fired and under fire from hired guns… ”

CHRISTINE: “The only way he can protect his family and expose Dingus is to find Dr. Nunn and shatter the conspiracy. Every episode has him using a clue from the previous episode to reach a new location. Along the way he encounters recurring assassins, people with secrets of their own to protect, and his biggest foe, liquid paper itself — each sheet of which is actively scanning for his face and ready to transmit his whereabouts to LPI.”

*** BEGIN SPOILER ALERT! ***

ELLIOT: “As the series progresses, we learn that Nunn’s wild experimentation with liquid paper produced an amazing new variant codenamed ”Papyrus“. What it does is anyone’s guess — once Nathan learns of its existence it at the end of season one, it becomes the focus of season two.”

*** END SPOILER ALERT! ***

CHRISTINE: “And Nathan can only keep his family safe by leaving them. That was the message I think we latched onto: protecting your family.”

ELLIOT: “His daughter doesn’t seen to think so.” *laughs*

JOHN: “That was Koma’s idea.”

CHRISTINE: “Koma?”

JOHN: “You didn’t work with him, you were in storyboarding. He was one of the investors. Came by every day, at first with donuts. We liked him, but then the donuts stopped and he started bringing those pit-bulls.”

ELLIOT: “His idea was that Nathan’s daughter Jessika would be approached by Dingus, who would lie and convince her that her father was the real criminal. She would turn against him without him knowing, setting up that cliffhanger.”

CHRISTINE: “My kids loved that cliffhanger.”

ELLIOT: “Your kids loved that episode of ‘SpongeBob’ where he ingested toxic paint.”

CHRISTINE: “That show’s gone downhill…”

ELLIOT: “Speaking of downhill, find out how that cliffhanger ends when the new season of ‘Paper Jam’ starts.”

JOHN: “Season 2 premiers on SyFy on Friday, July 1, 2011 at 10 PM eastern.”

ELLIOT: “Thanks for watching. And remember…”

ALL: “Let’s Jam!”

ELLIOT: “I’m standing up now.”

©2010 SyFy. No rights reserved.

The Dagobah Digs Resort & Hotel

“Vermin.”

I hastily closed the blinds to my seaside casement window. The last thing I wanted to see were the native rat-people singing on the beach. Every day was another of their pagan “holidays,” and the tourists flocked to their dances and bought seashells and whatever crafts those rodents pulled out of the swamps.

I’d like nothing better than to run every last one of them back to the pit they crawled out of.

The thing of it is, Dagobahn beaches are considered public property. Owning and operating the Dagobah Digs Resort & Hotel doesn’t give us the right to fence off the beach; we have to maintain it, however.

There have been a few… altercations… between the natives and my cleaning crews. They stopped coming by at night.

“Shall we see what kind of walking wallets Starlite Express dropped in our lap?” I asked rhetorically. My loyal Toady (one of the natives) bowed in lieu of the unintelligible squeaks so common to his (?) kind. That coarse, ear-piercing chatter was banned here.

Toady slid the door (paper thin with white canvas in the wooden frame) to my office and I stepped into the main foyer.

Fans rotated slowly overhead and the faint sound and smell of crashing waves blew in through the open veranda. The furniture had the texture of bamboo with Hawaiian-style patterns on the material; faux-Asian paintings hung from the walls. Some of the more well-rested guests were sitting peacefully on the sofas reading books or magazines.

One of the new faces stood right out at me. “Angus McGriddle,” I waved, making my way to the concierge desk. “How is San Serriffe?”

“Much colder and snowier than here,” he opined, taking in the ocean spray. “I’m surprised to find an actual beach. I thought Dagobah was all swamps, despite your flashy television adverts.”

“A common misconception! The swamps are much farther inland. If you’re interested in the marshes, we have an attraction called The Wolverine Experience that might interest you…”

“No, no, I’m quite alright.” He handed his luggage to a uniformed attendant, stretched, and bade me good day as he headed off to soak in the rays of Dagobah’s furious orange sun.

“Welcome to Dagobah Digs!” I shouted unnervingly at the remaining guests. Despite just blowing my nose, I shook each of their hands. “Welcome.”

“I’m Rachel Graye,” said a woman in her early thirties with short auburn hair and the most striking green and orange eyes. “I teach sign language at a community college in Pennsylvania.”

“My name is Kieth Powers. I’m an archaeologist-man interested in studying native cultural artifacts.”

I studied Kieth intently. What an ugly plaid vest. Why would they even sell those? What company would even make something so tasteless? My very expensive spider sense was tingling. “Do you regularly use a bullwhip for grabbing objects?”

He sighed. “Only about one in thirty archaeologists has an Indiana Jones-type adventure during their careers.”

“Sad to hear it. Toady! Attend the newcomers! It’s alright, really. Just settle in. The staff is trained to respond immediately. Yes, your rooms are prepared. I believe you have the keys.” Taking them on the boilerplate tour of the ground floor, I pointed out the major sectors: “Kitchen, dining room, library, rec room. Guest suites are on the second, third and fourth floors.”

“Are there any books in the library on Timu’s Love?”

For a split-second, the ears of every nearby staff member shivered; but they continued their duties as usual. The question was innocuous, but something about that Kieth still needled at me. He blinked too often, that must have been it. He did look like he had the galloping pink-eye.

“There are some legends… but they’re just primitive oral traditions among the locals. It’s not fully known—”

Kieth puffed his chest pompously. “That’s because the ancient manuscripts were burned.” An awkward pall hung over us. The Dagobahns did their best to remain unseen, but the cat was out of the bag now.

“Sir, this resort is not responsible for any ‘cultural’ —” I smirked, “—contamination that happened long ago.”

He fumed. “Resorts like this condone the theft of Dagobahn culture.”

“Sir, we brought the Dagobahns culture,” I hissed, barely audible. Those miscreants may have the IQ of children, but they have the eardrums of dogs. “When the earthmen arrived, Dagobahns were living in caves and eating slime. We brought them jobs. Medicine. We gave them a future.”

Rachel fidgeted uncomfortably. It wasn’t her fault; there was one of these humanitarian-types in every bunch. They seem to forget than humanitarianism ends with humans.

The self-righteous lack-wit finally turned in consternation, held his valise proudly, and, nose upturned, stomped up the stairs.

“Your advertising campaign was amazing,” Rachel started, breaking the awkwardness, “can you really find ‘immortality’ here?”

“Yeah, the commemorative plates with your photo are $35 each. Guaranteed never to break or fade.”

***

I had the nightmare again.

Those beasts, armed with machetes and guns, smashing down the front door. Tearing up the place. Butchering the guests. My loyal staff, helping them. Joining them. And then they descend on my office, shredding the door like paper. I’m at my desk… I never saw it coming. Surprise. Shock.

As they come for me, for a brief moment I can see the resort from the outside; it’s burning. I suddenly wake up, covered in sweat and baby powder. Is it any wonder the doors here all have deadbolts, and the windows, bars?

“They’ve gotten worse since Kieth showed up,” I remarked, peering through the blinds. He was there on the beach, talking to one of the rat people.

He’d been going to their village, in the swamps. Asking questions. Learning their forked tongue. I don’t like interfering with what my guests do…

He seemed to be getting on well with Rachel this last week. The two of them had had many discussions out along the beach. Maybe it was my imagination, but they seemed to know one another.

Maybe I need a vacation.

Rubbing my weary eyes, I walked over to my hand-painted portrait of Leona Grubber, the first human born on Dagobah. She was riding Dusty the moon-calf, her favorite multiped. The Grubbers still held sway in parliament. But they were on the wane.

I pulled on the corner of the portrait, revealing a hidden wall-safe. I never opened it anymore. No need to. For the last decade, this safe housed the “lost” manuscript of the Dagobahns: the tome of heretical folklore known as Timu’s Love.

I’d read it once. The story was this:

Long ago, many spirits fought for godhood over Dagobah. There was a Great War, with great weapons. The fires were so many and so huge that their embers reached the heavens, and scorched the sky; that’s where stars come from.

The strongest of these was Timu. A being of pure love, he banished the evil and greedy spirits to the sky, to spend the rest of time cleaning the scorch-marks they caused. For many years He ruled over the Dagobahns in a shining, golden age. Pax Dagobah.

For reasons unspecified (those pages really were lost), Timu left. The book said that one day, a Prophet would return to Dagobah to reconnect Timu with his people. And of course, Timu Himself wrote this book so His Prophet would be recognized and his temple rejuvenated. Because he loved the Dagobahns that much.

Balderdash.

“It’s high time I removed this thorn,” I mumbled, remembering the combination. It was getting too dangerous to keep it here; Kieth and Rachel might be plotting, the staff could — would — probably tell them about the safe. And Angus vanished the day he got here.

Oh, God, what had they done with Angus?!

The tumblers creaked from disuse and age, and for a second I thought about just putting the painting back and re-collating expense reports yet again. The door clicked open.

The next thing I knew, I was face-down on the ground, registering the throbbing pain in the back of my head as I lost consciousness. I could already feel the flames, see the flashing machetes. Sensational…

***

“Praise Timu!”

The haze faded. I looked around… just barely. I was tied up with the chains used on snow tires, apparently. The rocky roof was rolling with dripping stalactites, and the smell of swamp gas wafted through the cavernous hall from a large hole in a (formerly) bricked-in staircase. Lining the walls were metal cages that resembled turbines, with arm-thick wires that raced to the raised area.

Dozens of Dagobahns lay prostrate before the raised platform. Two ancient stone bins on each end held the balls of flame keeping the cave heated and illuminated. A lone figure stood between them, his back to me; he seemed so familiar.

“You’ve gone mad with power, Powers!” I sputtered, struggling to wiggle my toes. “Let me go!”

The archaeologist spun around, saliva pouring from his distended jaw. The rumpled pages were clutched in his hands. “Still haven’t figured it out yet?”

He pulled a pink ball out of that god-awful plaid vest with his free hand, and tossed it on the ground. A pillar of yellow smoke rose in an unnaturally constrained column, then enveloped him. As soon as it tightened around him, the smoke dissipated, taking with it his facade.

“Karl Überdale,” I spat, “come to ruin my resort?”

“The Dagobahns have been looking for this place since the colonists sealed the entrance,” he said with a sick half-smile.

He gestured behind him, stepping aside to unveil a statue twice the size of a normal Dagobahn. It had a pained expression of timeless loss stained across its visage. But was really drew me in were the hands. They were a different hue than the rest of the statue, and seemed a little too perfectly manicured.

“The Hands of Artemis.”

“The very same,” he replied. “How they came here is a mystery. But my quest is now over.”

“It won’t work, you madman! Only the head could talk. The foot, the one Brad Pitt had — it couldn’t have helped you rebuild the head, you must know that.”

“You don’t need a mouth to talk,” a voice echoed beyond the staircase. A very sly Rachel Graye slunk into the chamber. She put on a strange display with her hands. “Sign language.”

“Sweet Barracuda of Bermuda!”

“Rachel here is an expert on ancient Greek sign language. One of the best in the world,” Karl beamed. “She’s going to help me talk to the hand. And then the other hand.”

I sat there helplessly as the erratic enchanter connected the final cable to Timu’s spine. The energy cost of reanimating a pair of hands to the point of consciousness was far greater than you’d need for a mere head. Ho ho! At least the head had a brain in it!

With a chirping sound, the Dagobahns ran to their exercise wheels. “Faster!” Karl shouted as sparks flew past the ceremonial pyres. Chasing after the parts of Artemis had left him a broken shell of his buoyant self.

What happened to the Karl I went to high school with?

“FASTER, mongrels! I am the Prophet of Timu!” he bellowed maniacally, “I am his Messenger! His Oracle! FASTER, and he will speak to you! Timu demands you run! PRAISE TIMU!”

I fell into despair. Karl had won. Power too cheap to meter flowed into the idol; the fingers! They twitched!

*Thump*

My fevered mind must have been playing cruel tricks on me.

*Thump*

There was something in the walls!

I pressed my ear up against the primitive masonry. Nothing. And then…

*BOOM*

The room shook as a gigantic clenched fist broke through the wall with a deafening roar. Stalactites poured over us like acid rain.

“NO!” Karl cried, as a hail of the piercing dripstones slashed through Timu, cleaving the hands and startling the Dagobahns. As another rocky spear ripped through his cheek, Karl pointed at me accusingly and burst into yellow smoke.

“Traitor!” Rachel hissed, limping toward the staircase. Blood spurted from her leg.

“It’s Timu!” I shouted at the Dagobahns. Another hand shot through the wall. “The false idol has angered him and now he’s here to banish the nonbelievers to the sky!”

I don’t know how well those simpletons understand human speech, but it was as if a herd instinct took hold. Almost in unison, they stampeded the stairs, trampling poor Rachel into an auburn smear. A true tragedy — neither her nor Karl had payed their bills.

A burly, mud-covered monster crawled out from the hole, reached down, and snapped my chains right off! “Angus?”

“Don’t… think I ever had this much fun on San Serriffe!” the old inventor laughed, wiping the mud and seaweed from his face. “I… I was sunbathing, right? Then a tidal wave sweeps me out to sea. I’m dead, right? Nope, a whirlpool sucks me in. I spent a week wandering around these caves, eating mushrooms and drinking the nectar of the gods!” He held out a hand full of dotted fungi.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m itchy and I can’t stop dancing because it hurts when I stop,” he said, pointing at his bunions.

“Yes, well, it’s a good thing I finally found you. We can call off the dogs, then.”

“You were looking for me?!” Angus asked incredulously.

“Oh, yes,” I lied, “’Spare no expense!’ I told the staff. ‘Not while Angus is in danger!’”

He started crying. “What would I have done without you?!”

“You would have died in this godforsaken pit.” I walked over to the idol and pocketed the damaged manuscript.

He hopped tranquilly on one leg. “Take me home, mommy!”

***

“You signed a contract,” I said very calmly into the telephone. Poor Angus was becoming more and more acquainted with Dagobah’s labyrinthine legal codes.

“I don’t have that kind of influence!”

I leaned back in my genuine leather office chair, facing the window. The pale, rust-colored moonlight rippled on the Dagobahn waves.

“You agreed,” I reminded him, “to arrange for all McGriddle sandwiches to be wrapped in a Dagobah Digs brochure starting in Q1 of fiscal year 2010. I can sue you.”

“I can’t just waltz in—”

“You were waltzing when you agreed to our deal.”

“I was hallucinating!”

“Well, you still need to wrap those sandwiches with my brochures. I can sue you in Dagobah. And in San Serriffe,” I remembered, “I know judges there, too.”

“Well, you can go ahead and do that.”

“Hey, if you don’t do it, I’ll have my judge friends, you know, I’ll have them take away your driver’s license and give you a boating license. I’ll do it.”

“Well, that’s good, because I own a boat.”

“Then I’ll have them give you a dog license. For your wife,” I added rudely.

“My wife is dead and I don’t own a dog.”

“I’LL MAKE YOU OWN A DOG!” I shouted, and hung up the phone.

A slight chill pulsed through my veins. I looked down at the wastebin; the fire was dying. I tore another page out of the manuscript and let it float into the bin. For a minute I sat and heard only the crackle of the fire. Then I reached backward under the desk.

“I know how Karl got into my office,” I said, my hand resting on the laser cannon not even Toady knew about. I had been much more careless with the safe.

There was no sound, then. Even the fire waited with bated breath. There was the sudden clanging of objects hitting my hardwood floor, then the patter of little feet and the slam of my office door.

Swiveling around, I sneered over my desk: a machete, a gun and an ID badge lay in disarray before me. I tossed the remainder of the manuscript into the bin and walked over to the Grubber portrait. Timu’s melting, curling-up face had the same timeless pain etched into the idol.

“Ignorant savage,” I said, admiring the portrait. Exquisite. “You just can’t bring sunlight to the blind.”

A band of ruby moonlight shimmered over the painting. Then another…

“That’s no moon…”

My various expense reports were burning like twigs! The fire had leapt from the bin — my desk and curtains were aflame!

“Where’s the extinguisher?!” I screamed, searching frantically. Every room was supposed to have one!

I slammed the office door to try and contain the fire and ran to each room; none of them had an extinguisher. Having finished my office, the flames now shot under the door frame. Within seconds, the support beams in the wall gave way and the door imploded.

The flames must’ve hit a fuel line, because right then a firestorm streamed out into the main hall. “No! Noooooo!”

All I could do was stand awestruck as my livelihood immolated around me. The protective barred windows were now a white-hot deathtrap. Not even the asbestos in the walls and furniture could halt the onslaught.

“Help me!” I cried, sprinting to the front door, “For the love of God, somebody help me!”

I pulled the handle crazily, and when it wouldn’t open I pounded on the treated wood and enamel as hard as I possibly could. Even as the smoke overtook me, I fought, I yelled with burning lungs, I lashed out at that door.

The deadbolts remained safely secured.

Fool Me Twice

WARNING: pace yourself, this story is long and contains alternate timelines, mad sorcerers, bribery, lunch-for-breakfast and trickster genies.

“Planning something big?”

Captain Koma froze, his hand mere inches from the doorknob to the Primatech boardroom our team had requisitioned for the day. He turned to face the intruder.

A thin wraith of a man stood arched against the chestnut wall. He could be described as dapper, crowned with a top hat and fitted with polished black shoes, a subdued brown overcoat, flowing cloak and studded cane. He smelt of lilac and aged oak; his eyes appeared bloodshot, as if he suffered chronic insomnia.

“You smell like a bank,” Koma managed to get out. The man tipped his hat politely.

“My name is Woodrow Wandsworth. I represent the Zombietree Trust.”

Koma grimaced. “Isn’t that the company building that fence along the Australian border?”

“We have many interests.” He opened a folder and held up a photograph.

“Noah Bennet. AKA Mister Sunshine. What’s he got to do—?”

“If you were plotting to kidnap someone of high stature, could you really do better?”

Aghast, Koma flattened himself against the wall. “Did the Hatian put you up to this?”

“Ah, dear me. Another obstacle.” He scratched something down onto an old flip-pad, ignoring the increasingly impatient Koma.

“What’s the Trust got against Bennet?”

Wandsworth held out his right hand, using the left to put weight on the cane. His long fingers opened, revealing a sizable pile of rare gemstones and jewelery. “This is… personal. And also impersonal. Do you find that absurd?”

Koma blinked. The man continued, “It’s not like you’re going to exhume Michael Jackson. Just make sure your team doesn’t go after Brad Pitt — I’ve got some business with him and I can’t afford to have the authorities involved.”

“Now that I think about it, that does seem like a pretty good plan,” Koma admitted, opening the door. “I’ll see—”

As quickly and mysteriously as Wandsworth had arrived, he had departed. The scent of rotted flowers lingered a while. Weird guy, Koma thought as he entered the room.

What followed was a rousing 30-minute debate to elect the new project manager, after which the group unanimously decided on the one person who wasn’t there — me. Ciera passively sat her hat down on the table and ran her hand through her hair. For a while nobody spoke.

“So what’re we doin’ this week?” Wolverine barked with the assertiveness of a Texan.

“Ciera can do the planning and ‘execution,’” Koma laughed. “Henchman can make the demands, and Wolverine can do the exchange.”

“And what will you do?” Ciera blasted, brandishing her sword.

“I’ll pick the target.”

“Well,” Ciera started… “We could do something bold. Kidnap Bennett or one of the judges. Maybe even someone off of the other team. It’s just for the game, so no harm no foul right?”

“Well it’s not like we’re kidnapping Michael Jackson’s corpse!” Koma giggled madly. What inappropriate and unexpected dialogue! The censors must be furious.

“No,” Wolverine growled. “Let’s kidnap Deadpool’s teddy bear.”

“I kind of like that…” Ciera mentioned.

“Nah,” said Henchman. “Let’s kidnap Trump.”

Koma coughed. “I agree with Ciera’s idea, which was completely her idea, and not my idea, to kidnap Bennet.”

This garnered some strange looks. Ciera balked. “You agree with me?”

“And why not? You are wise beyond your years. Now go! Already our ridiculously circuitous plan is one-quarter complete!” Koma clasped his hands in concession.

Smiling triumphantly, Ciera bent over and grabbed her woolen hat. She closed the door behind her as Henchman rolled out the blueprints to the local post office, where the demands would be made.

A faint buzzing instantly jarred the teammates from their comprehensive planning. Reaching down with sterilized tongs, the Henchman removed a fairly-worn cellular phone from underneath the table.

“What’s it do?! What’s it do?!” Wolverine chattered, reacting badly to the buzzing. He had clearly never seen a phone this small before.

“I’ll take that,” Koma said as he grabbed the phone. “It’s Ciera’s. She must have dropped it. Ooh! Texts from the Hatian!”

“Why’s the Haitian texting her?” Wolverine asked gruffly, to no one in particular. His uncontrollable fear of telephones came and went like the tides.

“Let’s find out,” Koma giggled (like a thirteen year old girl).

Erasing the unread message, the three began texting…

***

Time had not been kind to Primatech.

Bird nests sat on the sill of each unbroken window; they were few and far between. Graffiti covered the bricks and harsh weeds tore up the walkways. And that was just from the old photographs.

Currently, the whole property had been torn down to make room for a parking lot. This was the year… 2114!

I sighed and shook the ornate bottle in my claw. “Wandsworth!”

The night before, I’d been planning quite an extensive proposal for the team to follow. It was my time to be manager, I felt it in my bones! This notecard would prove it!

And then… Woodrow Wandsworth appeared out of thin air. At first I had suspicions, but when he told me I’d won the Zombietree Australian lottery, I gave him a hug and offered him a vat of beef stew.

The prize was an ancient bottle with a genie in it!

Unfortunately, the genie was a trickster. When I wished to outlive all my friends, I was transported over a hundred years into the future. I should sue. Still, this was an excellent chance to learn how I could lead Victorious Secret to victory after I used my next wish to return.

“You there,” I yelled at a time native, “Which way to the public library?”

“Library?” The local asked confusedly, “They stopped serving breakfast an hour ago.”

***

“It’s about time,” Wolverine growled, his face buried in a picture-book. “Henchy’s already mailing the ransom note… WHAT?!”

Koma likewise gaped as Ciera lugged the unconscious body of Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator onto the boardroom table. “Tonight we feast!”

“Where’s Bennet?!” they both asked.

Ciera shrugged. “I traced Bennet to this abandoned mace factory. When I saw Jon there, I knew he had planned the same thing, and that I’d have to execute the perfect double kidnap. Of course, while I was fighting Jon for the hostage, Bennet broke free and clocked us both.”

She propped her boots up on the table. Wolverine scowled.

“Who’s gonna pay HIS ransom?”

“I would’ve called you, but I can’t find my phone.”

“And Henchy already sent Bennet’s family a ransom note,” Koma added, his iconic cape fluttering in the air conditioned breeze. “WHAT ABOUT HIM?!”

The door swung open. Infinite sorrows! It was the Hatian, followed by the Henchman himself! “Henchman is doing better than Bennet,” the Hatian lamented, snapping his fingers. Instantly the Henchman cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gents,” he began, “it is our sad duty… heh heh, duty… to report that Noah Bennet, shortly after escaping his captors, was… crushed to death by a frozen 300-pound slab of waste dropped by an airplane.”

Koma keeled over laughing. Wolverine let out a small chuckle and picked up his funny-book again. Ciera was more sombre, and went to console the Hatian. Before she could reach him, he dropped to his knees and grasped her hand.

“Ciera, oh, your text messages have touched me in this time of need. And now that we are beyond the mere statuses of ‘judge’ and ‘contestant,’ we can finally go forward with what we talked about!”

“The what now?”

He produced a small leather case from inside his designer vest. “Will you marry me?”

***

In 2114, the pizza bagel was now America’s national food. That’s what the librarians told me when I went to learn. So I ordered a dozen and sat by the curb (or kerb, as was common in Ingsoc dialect) and pondered my far-flung team.

“They surely have failed without my sober guiding hand!” I cried, tossing the bagels and my meticulously transcribed notecard to the rubbery asphalt sidewalk. “How I wish those fools had my notes all those years ago! *wheeze*!”

Uh oh. Smoke poured from the mouth of the bottle, seizing on my verbal blunder. The sidewalk glowed indigo as the notecard curled up into an increasingly-shrinking ball.

Thinking on my toes, I snatched the bottle and thrust it as hard as I could at the woolen hat emerging from another point in time. Sparks flew as the world reordered itself around me; history was changing.

I felt a burning sensation in my shoulder, and then it was dark and quiet.

***

“You’ve betrayed me.”

Koma swiveled in this lazy-guy desk chair. “Wandsworth.”

“The Henchman is nearing Brad Pitt’s high rise. What did we agree to?”

“I was going to get them to go after Bennet. I was! But then we got the text message saying he was already kidnapped…”

The shady man massaged his temple. “Fine, we’ll work with what we’ve got. Here.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s a ransom note. Give it to Wolverine. Tell him it’s from that computerized colleague of yours. Add it to the note you’ve already worked up. Hopefully it’s so confusing it’ll delay the ransom until I’ve gotten what I need from Pitt.”

Koma tucked it away thoughtfully.

“This may just work out… what is your part in all this?”

“I’m delivering Pitt for the ransom exchange.”

He smiled. “No, you’re bringing him to me. I was planning to come to an equitable deal with Mister Pitt… now I won’t have to.”

***

That trickster genie!

I groaned — or, I would have, if I could. When history is changed, it instantly reverberates up to the present in a massive shift, the universe’s way of expunging paradoxes. Because I was a part of that nonexistent future, I would have been completely eliminated from time!

Genies are immune to that.

Instead of allowing the universe to delete me, I shoved my arm into the active timestream and POOF! Now the hat, the bottle and my arm were… somewhere, probably within a few hours of when the notecard arrived.

I waited patiently as the tonnes of metallic mass stored in my forearm began the arduous task of rebuilding my body, down to the lint in my pockets. I’d have to eat a lot of cars before I could do that again!

My vision returned once the backup memory files were transfered from the pinky drive to my primary brain. I was wading in a hot-tub in a ritzy hotel room! I plucked the hat out of the water and scarfed it down, like it was a scarf. Then I made my way to the bottle…

“Who are you?!”

Jumping from the tub, I looked up a brass staircase. An angry mustachioed man frowned down at me. I finally glanced around the room: gaudy art, overly-expensive ornaments, a man-sized vault at the top of the stairs, photographs of unlovable children with — Sweet Capybara of the Sahara! — Brad Pitt!

“Alonzo will make short work of ya,” the belligerent bodyguard bellowed as he bore the blimp-sized box-safe on the brawny bulk of his back. He tore at the stairs like a dingo at a baby!

“Gah! I wish that safe was someplace else!”

The bottle exploded and a mist of pure spiritual energy shot at the safe, quick as a mag-lev train. It vanished in a split-second, along with the safe. After granting three wishes, the genie was free! The sudden imbalance hurled the bodyguard forward. With a scream and a sickening CRUNCH, he lay in a crumpled heap by the hamper.

So I propped him up against the elevator door as a lark. A lark! A man loses his life, and I turn him into a Halloween decoration? What’s the world coming to when the most dignity we can hope for in death is an inoffensive disposal?

Preparing to rappel the building (on the government-mandated utility rappel lines, of course) I took one last look at the photo of Brad Pitt. Uh-oh.

*Sigh.* I would have to make a final pit stopp — I mean, Pitt stop — I mean, I mean, I need to get to the Brangelina Complex NOW.

Folding the photo into my fully-restored and remastered jacket pocket, I jumped through the locked hotel window. Glass fell on the pavement like shards of rain.

***

Brad Pitt shifted uncomfortably in his sporty utility stool. I turned up the intensity of the light.

“What do you remember?”

He coughed. “I was in my hotel… they took me…”

“I’ve had a rougher night than thou,” I grumbled. I licked the remaining banana cream from my fingers. “Pierre says ‘hi.’”

“Wh… the kids’ chef?”

“Reduced to ASH, I’m afraid. I also had the displeasure of destroying your security drones.” I shed a tear. “Ten — no, twenty — Roombas, armed only with their courage. You fleshy slavemaster.”

“I think I have internal bleeding…”

“Well I regrew a body tonight. Now tell me,” I unfolded the photograph and pointed to a broken sculpture, “what is this?”

Brad’s pupils grew until his whole eyeballs were coal black. “WHERE IS IT?!”

“Where you can’t get at it, Wandsworth… or should I say Karl Überdale?”

Brad Pitt smiled. But it wasn’t him behind those baby blues. “What did you do with it?”

“The Foot of Artemis? Gone, gone, it’s gone.”

Brad Pitt’s eyes burned with the fiery rage of the vindictive mage. “Then it was with Angelina Jolie?”

“And as you suspected, their home was magic-proof,” I went on, “so you concocted this hare-brained—”

“DON’T YOU MENTION RABBITS TO ME!” Karl thundered via the unwilling proxy.

“—scheme to send a mind-controlled Brad Pitt in there to steal it for you. And you bribed Koma with rocks painted as gems!”

Karl bristled. “The Foot could have helped me extrude the Brain of Artemis from that laval morass… but there are other pieces, you know.” He chuckled. “I’ll make it work.”

I stuck Brad Pitt with an anti-magic mattress label and tossed him out the back of the moving van.

“Hey, Pitt,” I yelled as he struggled to stand, “forget works of art. The real money’s in pizza bagels!”

Pitfalls of being demoted

One of the pitfalls of being demoted, is that no one listens to your ideas anymore. Just because I have problems leading, doesn't mean I don't have good ideas!

I listen passively as everybody at the table votes Gyrobo in as "The Boss". I'd gladly hand over my hat --- but the new boss isn't even here!! I slide the hat into the middle of the table...where it mysteriously disappears and is replaced by a note.

Koma grabs the note up and starts chuckling. "It's from The Boss," he says, smirking at me.

I flip him off, but he's too busy reading the note to see. Wolverine saw and grinned at me. "No hard feelings, darling," he whispers to me. "You just let Koma push you around too much."

"I should have brought my bigger sword," I whispered back.

"Are you going to tell us what the note says?" Henchman asked a little impatiently.

Koma reads ~
"* Choose target : Ciera
* Plan and execute kidnapping : Henchman
* Demand ransom : Wolverine
* Make the exchange : Koma"

Great. "Well," I start... "We could do something bold. Kidnap Bennett or one of the judges. Maybe even someone off of the other team. It's just for the game, so no harm no foul right?"

"Ooohhhh, let's kidnap Michael Jackson's corpse!" Koma giggles madly at this.

"No," Wolverine growled. "Let's kidnap Deadpool's teddy bear."

"I kind of like that..." I mentioned.

"Nah," said Henchman. "Let's kidnap Trump."

My cellphone tweets and I check my text message. I groan. "Guys, we might be in trouble. Jon IG just nabbed Mr. Bennett."

"Why the cad!" Koma cried.

"Isn't that cheating?" Henchy asked.

"Why's the Haitian texting you?" was Wolverine's question.

"He's a friend," I reply. "Well, so much for that. We're never going to be able to top that. We'll just have to go a different direction. What about...Brad Pitt. He's famous, handsome, a humanitarian who adopts a lot of kids, has a beautiful wife..."

"I've been meaning to make a synthoid of Angelina," Koma mutters. "This'd be the perfect opportunity..."

"I've always wanted to take on those adopted kids of his. How many's he got now?" Wolverine growled, flexing those muscles.

"I know the perfect place," Henchman volunteered.

"Well, ok then." If they really manage to pull this off, I wonder if they'll let me keep Brad? Probably not.

The others take off, intent on kidnapping Pitt. Now that my part of the task is done, maybe the Haitian could use my help? It's either that or spend the rest of the time 'tweaking' Koma's synthoid of Megan....hmmm.....

I look at the spot where the Boss's hat disappeared and the note reappeared. "Does anyone know where Gyrobo is?!?!"

The Lovelorn Origin of “Flash Boom AHHH!”

“Why did Mormon missionaries think hippos could survive in Alaska?”

There was one in every group. Don’t get me wrong, I love teaching. Being able to sculpt young minds, to teach, to shape the next generation of leaders, has always been the cornerstone of a healthy society. Because children are our future — unless we stop them now.

“You givin’ me lip, boy-o?”

The inquisitive pledge clammed up. “No, sir.”

“No sir, sir. Didn’t they teach you manners in Anchorage?”

Being an adjunct at an unaccredited university has its perks. I can have as many parking spaces as I want, and I have full discretion over campus funds, which I’ve already used to lease as many cars as there are parking spaces.

Someday I’ve got to learn to drive.

“Sir,” a brown-nosing freshman began, “sir, I doubt anyone who lived through the famine of ’79 will question the wisdom of those missionaries. A single hippo can last a family of four at least a month.” He smiled smugly.

“Excellent grasp of state history…” I ran my finger over the roster, since I didn’t recognize the fellow (but he had the most familiar burning red eyes!).

“Sandrew. Sandrew Darckloud.” He smiled again. “State history is a specialty of mine. Though, I was hoping to learn more about this secret society of yours…”

“The history of Flash Boom AHHH! is fraught with subtleties and intrigue.” This was the answer I usually gave to get them hooked, but for some reason it just made everyone tense. The crowd roared like it was going to tear me apart!

My heart shot up into my throat. Danger. My life was in immediate danger. If not for my rippling muscles, I would have been afraid.

“Where does the name come from?” Sandrew asked. The others either nodded vigorously or shouted in agreement. Some had clenched fists.

“Enoch Boom was one of the Mormon missionaries. In 1948, he convinced the church elders to dispatch one thousand hippopotamuses from the Salt Lake to Alaska, to ween the native peoples onto an animal ‘closer to God than the whale’. The elders thought he was crazy, of course — they just wanted him gone. So he set out along the Rockies with a caravan of true believers and two frigidaires full o’ vittles.”

A spry girl with three pigtails and a “Maverick-U” jersey started hopping around me menacingly: “Did he found Maverick University?! Why isn’t our mascot a hippo?!”

I coughed. They were all staring at me with bulging eyes; I backed up against the fridge that had sat in this office for nearly 60 years.

“No…” They looked ready to pounce, “Maverick University was already here, but back then it was Seward University, after William Seward, the Secretary of State who bought Alaska from the Russians for a bottle of wine and two beads… it was renamed ‘Maverick University’ in 1972, right after Senator Stevens got that huge campaign contribution from Maverick™ Pharmacologicals.”

I wrapped my hand around the crowbar that had been tucked away under the fridge since the great freak-out of ’86.

“But Enoch Boom did come here, to get climate charts from the most learn-ed climatologists of the far north… for the hippo habitats, you see. It was here that he met (and was enthralled by) Geraldine Flash.”

One guy was grinding his teeth so hard, you could see the enamel flying off in torrents of debris. The others followed suit.

“Flash was from a long line of pyrotechnic experts and craftsmen, but had opted for a career in climatology — although that was a mere cover for her secret ambitions. Geraldine Flash was in fact the first woman to be a member of The Brotherhood of Mesmerism, the precursor to Canada’s more militant Black Cheddarist hypnotist movement. There was no official bar against women, but the organization had a strictly observed unibrow provision (§38, BOM Charter).”

Flipping out a lighter, I set the crowbar aflame and shook it at the pledges. They backed up, some hissing in anger.

“Her job was to subliminally prepare Alaskans for Canadian occupation. This was back when Canada was a virtual superpower, mind you. But ’twas not to be, for Geraldine Flash had fallen deeply in love with Enoch Boom.”

I smiled wistfully. “They met in secret and shared their visions of a perfect world. Realizing they couldn’t rebuild a ‘society bereft of gutter crags’ alone, they dragged in some of Boom’s acolytes and Flash’s graduate students. That’s how our secret society was formed. Would-be members would line up at our door, and just as they could say ‘Flash, Boom…’ someone slammed open the door and went ‘AHHH! AHHH!’ to shush them.”

“Hence the name, yo,” Sandrew finished, succinctly stealing my spotlight. The fraud.

A few students were laying faceup on the linoleum, blood running from their noses and ears. Whatever was warping these industrious students into bloodthirsty fiends was burning them out faster than sugar in a gas tank.

“Here’s the twist: one of Flash’s prized pupils was a spy for the Canadian Defense Ministry! Buster Brown, the septuagenarian strategist behind Canada’s response to War Plan Red was posing as a child prodigy with progeria at Seward U.”

By now the students who had fainted were completely revived and bobbing and weaving before me. Their teeth had regrown, too, and they clawed relentlessly at their scalps. Fiery ichor spilled from the cuts.

“The church couldn’t have taken too kindly to Boom’s project, I wager?” Sandrew chuckled, immune to whatever was maddening his peers. Strange lad, that one.

“Well,” I admitted, “he tried to use Canadian hypnotism to give souls to his beloved hippopotamuses. The Mormon church takes a hard stance on that.”

I shivered, “They expelled him forever from Utah and demanded the return of all hippos north of the arctic circle. Boom couldn’t bear to see his ‘children’ sent back to Utah, where they would languish in the Salt Lake without him. So, like the prophetic shepherd he fancied himself, he led the mesmerized hippos a la the pied piper, into the Alaskan wilderness.”

Skin was now dropping off the students in clumps, revealing soft, velveteen fur beneath. Sandrew just stood there, transfixed by my story. Why did he look so familiar?

“Geraldine declared ‘sanctuary’ and remained on campus for the rest of her life, desperately trying to recreate Enoch’s experiments with reindeer and moose, but the love was gone. She fell on a patch of black ice and broke her neck 50 years ago. We proudly continue her work.”

Sandrew grinned. “And Enoch? The hippos?”

“Buster Brown wasted his life looking, but they were never seen again — though some sasquatch hunters… were… found…”

Snarling and foaming, the deformed pledges surrounded me. Gulping, I entered a special combination on the dial lock. You see, this fridge was unlike other fridges.

“A very complete and convincing rouse.”

I threw “Sandrew” a scowl. “It was, wasn’t it Karl?”

*DUN DUN DUNNNNN!*

Sandrew Darckloud’s ever-present smirk melted away as his lanky frame morphed into master sorcerer Karl Überdale!

“When did you figure it out?”

I polished an apple on my sleeve. “Oh, about the time all my students became GIANT RABBITS. Is this your revenge, Karl?”

“Spencer was ex-pen-dable,” he said, stretching out the word like that. “What I’m after is the Brain of Artemis… it may be fused with bubbling lava, but not inextricably so!” He rolled a graph down from thin air, detailing a maniacal device. “I can recover the Brain, but only if I have a 32/65WP/98-C Sump Pump.”

“What a dry hole you are! Only one such pump was ever built, and it’s… oh, SNAP!” I clutched my chest. “I need that to be witty!”

“You won’t need your wits about you where you’re going,” the insane illusionist intoned, scrambling the collegian cottontails to his raised staff.

I gripped the handle. “I was lying, ‘Sandrew,’” I laughed, “Geraldine Flash didn’t break her neck. She was just… out in the icebox.” Cracking up, I slammed the fridge door into a rabbit-pledge’s face and ducked inside.

“STOP HIM! HE’S GOT THE SUMP PUMP!”

A brilliant white light enveloped me and the scratching at the door stopped. Nervous (as if!), I opened the door. The fridge was outside; only it was a different fridge.

Here’s the skinny: Enoch sobbingly left Geraldine, but he didn’t head off alone with his hippos, no sir. He took one of his matching continental fridges, and left the other fridge with his beloved.

Their love was so strong it created a wormhole between the fridges, surviving decades after their death — until today, when I just plunged a flaming crowbar through the back panel.

Finally free of the sorcerer’s wrath, I began my long journey back to civilization — accompanied by the gentle song of the baleful hippopotamus.

Somewhere, in unexplored Alaskan wood,
A monument to love once stood.
A secret fridge, a hidden stash,
Presiding over Boom and Flash
Who lay in graves at base of hill,
Who lay in wait and wait until
The world that spurned them comes to know
The gentle soul — hipno-hippo.

THE ADVENTURE OF: The Wizard's Tortured Mind

Hamsters — of all stripe and size — ran, fast as the dickens. They knew nothing of pain, or exhaustion, or dental plans. They knew only the wheel and the water bottle. And the occasional cheerio.

They lived for cheerios.

“Guinea pigs could have provided the power-”

“Don’t back-sass me, I told you: we do this the TRADITIONAL way, or we don’t do it at all.”

I held up my hands in defeat, sighing and sitting back on the barstool’s faded cushion. Karl Überdale turned back to the infernal dials, blowing another smoke ring while petting his “familiar”: an invisible spirit rabbit named Spencer Tufton from the bowels of Dimension 8.

He lived for that rabbit.

Karl has been my closest friend and advisor on all matters metaphysical since we met in San Jose after being busted for smuggling sand into the country… back when America was still a string of colonies, and sand was illegal.

Our friendship has been on shaky ground since I helped rid Canada of the mad hypnotic enclave known popularly as Black Cheddar.

“Guinea pigs-”

“I will never use guinea pigs — AGAIN!” he vowed, stamping angrily on his own satin cape. “It’s far too much power. My uncle tried to use those wretches…”

“Your Uncle Rix was a genius.”

“It killed his whole family!” Karl held up a photo frame of a smiling man and woman, and two small children. He slammed it on the work station, face down. Coldly. “Should have stuck to tradition.”

I ignored him and followed the cables with my gaze. Thousands of them, cutting from cage to cage, joining at the row edges, fusing into one long, ominous power line, feeding into an energy port magically affixed to the neck of a marble head with closed eyes.

For many, it was an object of legend. It was the rumor of old sailors and treasure seekers. It was mad chatter from drunks and beggars. It was buried in a temple in the Himalayas. It was hidden at the bottom of the sea.

It was here.

The Brain of Artemis. Karl picked it up at a garage sale last September. I urged him to have it appraised instead of using it to prop up his wobbly chair.

According to lore, the oracles of Greece would feed mutton and corn (which back then meant wheat) to the statue, and it would answer their questions. The weekend the Persians had control of Greece, they smashed the statue, leaving only the head as an ironic reminder of the oracles’ hilarious lack of foresight.

Having no stomach, we now attempted to send electrolytes directly to the disembodied head using an “electromagic rebuffer” (bear with me!) to process voltage into vital cosmic energy. If the technology worked, it could help paraplegics shoot lasers and fireballs.

“Karl! The eyes! They are moving!” I said haltingly, waving at the trembling statue as it yawned for the first time in 2,500 years. Talk about morning breath!

“My slumber has been disturbed;
My appetite thus has been curbed.
Yet I feel a great fright
As your towering height
Leaves me at once quite perturbed.”

If this was the ancient Greeks’ idea of comedy, I’d hate to see a tragedy. If it was their idea of tragedy, it was pretty funny.

Karl checked his watch. “You have two minutes before the hamsters start to burn out.”

“Artemis, I seek your knowledge,” I said, scratching its nose to curry favor. “My mission is to find the perfect title for my new organization’s leader. We’re just a simple little mom & pop conglomerate… bent on taking over the world. Give us our boss’s name!”

Karl blanched, his moustashe curling in a manner common to his sorcerous race. Something about my history with his Cheddarist brethren and my hypocrisy and my wearing black shoes with a brown belt caused something in him to… to… snap.

Artemis flashed her eyes, as if in conference with beings from an odd-numbered plane. “The Boss-”

A thunderous bang ripped through the lair. The rebuffer — lit up like a Roman Candle! Artemis’s eyes froze, wide open, her jaw locked mid-sentence.

“Karl! Reduce the power. Karl! I swear,” I picked up a wrench, “I’ll bust those hamsters into kibble if I — Karl?”

He sat by the experimental cauldron, hands tented, somber, over a cage attached to the main line by a cable far too thick. The cage was far too large. And the hamster…

“That is not a hamster. Wait… no. It isn’t.”

He smiled as the guinea pig’s cheerio-induced mania transformed the rebuffer’s innards into lava. Before I could act, its casing caved in, and the Brain of Artemis fell into the coursing, electric volcano.

“You’ve betrayed me.”

“No!” He screeched as hamsters exploded, spreading an unchecked firestorm through the shelves of old tomes and spellbooks and issues of People. “YOU betrayed ME! You said we’d use the Brain to go after the Trunk of Infinite Silk! You said we’d have enough money, I wouldn’t need to cross the border with sandbags weighing down my colon!”

“I said a lot of things,” I admitted as I unsheathed my legal firearm. I tickled it like a small, deadly child made of iron.

“I cannot be injured in my own lair,” he boasted as the lava pooled at our feet.

“And I wish that I were a weaker man… so I could apologize for this.” As he stood there, bewildered (if even for a moment!) I aimed above his right shoulder and fired.

He twisted his neck at the gunshot, horrified — and I’m sure I heard a crack. “SPENCER TUFTON! NO!” He bent down to cradle the rabbit only he could see. “Barbarian! Assassin!”

The flames had reached the potion cupboard. I shoved past the wailing warlock and bolted to the blinking green “exit” sign as elixirs erupted.

“You have been an inconvenience, conjurer. But I got the information I needed from Artemis.” I prepared to slam the door. “Regards from THE BOSS.”

*slam*

Think Big! (Housekeeping PSA)

Think big!
Think big!

Now I hesitate to ask you
As you’ve never been inclined
To heed my words with diligence
Nor pay me any mind,
But in this post I have some tips
You really ought to hear,
They’ll help you write with fewer slips
And further your career!

Think big!
Think big!

Even lo! the mighty oak
Once began a wayward twig,

Think big!
Think big!

At the heart of Blogger’s editor
There lies to much acclaim
A field allowing us to sort
Each post by rank and name;
If only you’d jot down a word,
You’d set in stone your fame!
“So please,” I wheeze, betwixt a sneeze,
“So please, this creed retain!”

Think big!
Plan small!

For without the keystone brick
You could never lay a wall,

Think big!
Plan small!

Bookending lines of dialogue
You’ve got quotation marks.
By default bland and vertical,
Those stoic, stark bulwarks.
But I’ve got something just for that,
To give your lines some sparks—
It’s called Shrubquote and it can turn
Your straight glyphs into arcs!

Think big!
Think big!

The finest wine in Europe grew
From out the smallest sprigs,
And cultured ballroom dances hew
From backwards country jigs,

Think big!
Plan small!

The finest combs and hairbrushes
Won’t help you if you’re bald,

Think big!
Plan small!
THINK BIG!