Tagged: bonus points

“You’re Too Drunk”

  • by jenCleopatra’s 20-foot-long velvet barge
  • with its modern windows
  • recalled antediluvian monsters
  • an embarrassing experience for everyone involved.
  • Where are these live chickens coming from?

Tune in next time part 893      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“You’re too drunk to even be fun,” Fleur said. She dragged me through the airship to her suite. Her grand bed was modeled after Cleopatra’s 20-foot-long velvet barge. I was not permitted to sleep in it, though. Instead, my wife tucked me into the small husband-bed that sat by the footboard like a pet basket, and whispered about how this suite, with its modern windows and elaborate wallpaper, recalled antediluvian monsters and gothic horrors, and how the design meeting with the first decorator was an embarrassing experience for everyone involved.

“The second decorator really nailed my vision, don’t you agree?” She seemed genuinely pleased. “Get some sleep.” She tapped me on the forehead. “When you awaken you will be surrounded by live chickens, all ready to lay your breakfast.”

“Fleur,” I mumbled through sleepy lips. “Where are these live chickens coming from?”

“Colloquilia. We’ll be arriving exactly on time for the summit, assuming the winds cooperate.”

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Aha! Thought I

  • by Kentdescribed in orientation documents as “human lasagna.”
  • a ritual in which
  • how sarcasm works
  • no one wants to hook up with a lemon-scented lizard-person
  • All claws and teeth

Tune in next time part 892      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Aha! thought I, that confirms that Yolanda is there. But not alone. I remembered a bit of detail then about yodeler subculture, something that didn’t actually come up in my time at Enigma Fortress but was described in the orientation documents as “human lasagna.” It was a ritual in which the yodelers would layer themselves and then “bake” together in a sweaty pile. I wondered, would an airship journey be an appropriate occasion to observe this custom?

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you no matter how you’re dressed,” Fleur said haughtily.

I was drunk, but not too drunk to know how sarcasm works, so I shot back, “And I’m sure no one wants to hook up with a lemon-scented lizard-person no matter how you’re dressed.” Evidently I was too drunk to know when to just keep quiet.

Fleur did sometimes seem like a lizard-person. All claws and teeth and cold, shimmery scaly armor plating. As she gazed at me with intense calmness, I wondered what it would take to make that cold blood of hers boil.

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“Of Course They’re Super Flattering!”

  • by jenfeel like an enchanted goddess with a delicious secret
  • glittery bedazzled applique shirts
  • You are your mother’s daughter.
  • tenderly kissing her father-in-law
  • bizarre and frequent tradition

Tune in next time part 891      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Of course they’re super flattering!” I said of my pleated pants. “They make me feel like an enchanted goddess with a delicious secret.”

Fleur’s eyebrow could not go any higher.

I drunkenly went on. “The only thing more flattering, in fact, is my collection of glittery bedazzled applique shirts.”

My wife sighed. “You are your mother’s daughter. I’ve never known a president to wear more rhinestones. Hell, I’ve never known a country singer to wear more.”

The bubbles popping in my brain made me reckless. “How rude! Are you the kind of girl to be tenderly kissing her father-in-law with that mouth? I know your country has a lot of bizarre and frequent traditions, but c’mon!”

“Just how drunk are you?” Fleur huffed. “Wear the damn pants if you want to. We’ll see how impressed Yolanda and the others are.”

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“He Better Be Dead”

  • by KentScandinavian alternate universe versions
  • built like a brick catastrophe
  • sly, evil smile
  • tap-dancing, yodeling, you name it!
  • “Those pleated pants aren’t super flattering.”

Tune in next time part 890      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“He better be dead,” Fleur said, still in that same sing-song voice she’d decided was the best way to communicate with me. She leaned way over the bar to address the supine bartender. “Otherwise he’ll need a good flogging for lying down on the job. But Gulliver knows that, doesn’t he?”

The fragrant bubbles in my brain were beginning to pop, each one releasing a strange thought. One of those thoughts was that there must be Scandinavian alternate universe versions of Gulliver’s Travels where the tiny people glue him down with frozen piss. I doubted that it would suffice to restrain this Gulliver, though. He was built like a brick catastrophe, lumpen but in a powerful way. The smurf mask’s expression seemed to change as I stared at it, the grin evolving into a sly, evil smile. Was it not a mask after all? Or was my over-nogged noggin making me see things?

Fleur announced, “Time for us to leave. We’re awaited in steerage.”

I was sure I’d misheard her. “You’d never willingly go down there.”

“That’s what you think. They have the best parties. There’s always bullriding, tap-dancing, yodeling, you name it!”

At the mention of yodeling, another bubble popped in my brain, making me wonder if Yolanda might be there. To my horror, I heard myself ask my wife, “Will Yolanda be there?”

Fleur shot me a sharp look, but she didn’t seem irate. She said, “Probably, which means you’ll probably want to stop off along the way for something else to wear.” She tsked. “Those pleated pants aren’t super flattering.”

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“Why is the Bartender Wearing a Smurf Mask?”

  • by jenflair for the outrageous
  • routine handling at the post office
  • Now you know.
  • a maze of twisty little urine puddles
  • diamond-scented bubbles

Tune in next time part 889      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Why is the bartender wearing a smurf mask?” I asked.

“One must have a flair for the outrageous to work in my speakeasy,” Fleur explained, as if to a child. “Nothing about this enterprise is normal. It’s clandestine! Procuring quality eggnog is not as easy as assuring your letter gets routine handling at the post office by simply affixing a rodent pelt to the corner. It requires finesse and connections and a penchant for the dramatic.”

“Rodent pelts? I guess that explains why my letters never get delivered.”

“Now you know.”

As Fleur filled a mug for herself from the nozzle, I noticed something else about the smurf-masked man on the floor. “I think there’s something wrong with him,” I said. “See all the pee?” The man was in the middle of a maze of twisty little urine puddles, all frozen to the icy floor. All the eggnog I’d ingested had filled my brain with diamond-scented bubbles, and I was pretty sure I was still officially stupid. Perhaps this was all normal? Or… “You don’t think he’s dead, do you?”

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My Wisest Option

  • by Kentbetrothed to the prophet
  • “Oh, that rhymed!”
  • Take my hand
  • viciously accurate shot
  • a fixed and unnatural grin

Tune in next time part 888      Click Here for Earlier Installments

My wisest option would have been to spit out the nog that had already gone into my mouth and then clamp my lips shut to protect myself from additional incursions of the creamy intoxicant. This was evident to me in the moment on some level, but it was not a level where decisions are made. Besides, Contrarian eggnog is delicious and I could rationalize that it offered far more nutritional merit than most strong drink. It’s also very fast-acting, especially on someone in my weakened condition, so by the time it might have dawned on me to expel the stuff, enough had been absorbed through my mucous membranes to render me officially stupid.

Fleur was aggressive with the nozzle, giving me the nog faster than I could swallow it. But she was also mindful of my wellbeing, at least enough so that she let up for a few seconds when I began spluttering.

“I’m on the eggnog train, and I don’t wanna get off it,” I mumbled.

“Slow down, or you’ll end up betrothed to the prophet,” she replied. “Oh, that rhymed!”

The business about betrothal was a Contrarian euphemism for alcohol poisoning.

“You’re driving, toots.” I opened wide for more, and she delivered. Apparently the prophet didn’t seem too infatuated with me yet. But after just a few seconds, she cut me off.

“Take my hand,” she said. When I ignored the command, she picked up the keg nozzle again and made a visciously accurate shot up my right nostril. That jolted me enough for her to get me on my feet.

“Who’s supposed to be tending this bar, anyway?” I wondered aloud. My speech was very sloppy, so Fleur’s shrug could have meant that she didn’t know, or didn’t care, or didn’t understand the question.

I peered behind the bar and saw a man lying there, his skin abnormally blue, and his face frozen in a fixed and unnatural grin.

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Fleur Straightened the Styrofoam Toilets

  • by jenideal winter drink for people
  • how to shave his back hair
  • Probably between sips
  • main delivery method: squirting
  • speak nicely to the elephant

Tune in next time part 887      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur straightened the styrofoam toilets, then said, “Come on. You look like you could use a drink.”

I wanted to protest that what I needed was food and a good night’s sleep, but I knew she wouldn’t listen.

My wife grabbed my elbow and tugged me over to the back wall of the bathroom. She rotated the toilet paper holder back and forth like the dial of a combination lock, and when she was done, a section of the wall swung open like a vault door. I hoped I’d memorized the combination correctly.

The room we entered was an ice bar. Every surface was carved from ice, and the lighting was all blue. I’d heard rumors that some Royal Contrarian Airships housed eggnog speakeasies, but I hadn’t believed it. Eggnog, despite being the ideal winter drink for people who enjoy nutmeg and warm alcoholic custard, was forbidden in Contraria. Legend had it that William Penn IV got so drunk on the stuff on the eve of his wedding that he forgot how to shave his back hair. Not only that but he proposed to three other women. (Probably between sips of his favorite boozy beverage.) The next day he was viciously hungover, and married all four women in a single ceremony. His new wives were very upset (more about his hairy back than the polygamy) the honeymoon was a disaster, and the beverage was banned in Contraria forever. At least officially.

Fleur plunked me down on a chunk of ice, reached behind the bar, and grabbed a keg nozzle. That’s the other thing about Contrarian eggnog. The main delivery method: squirting directly into one’s mouth.

I shook my head. The last thing I needed right now was alcohol. I needed to keep the few wits I had about me.

“Come on,” Fleur cajoled. “Open up and speak nicely to the elephant.” Which is what Contrarian’s say in place of ‘here comes the airplane’ when they’re trying to get a child to eat.

I opened my mouth to protest that I was not a toddler, and instantly had a mouthful of warm, boozy, eggy froth. My wife, it turns out, had a lot of experience with elephants.

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I Clenched My Teeth

  • by KentI clenched my teeth
  • puncture wound on his butt cheek
  • watch out for Ray and Fay
  • Never trust a man carrying produce!
  • what is a “power haircut” exactly?

Tune in next time part 886      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I clenched my teeth, and through them I growled, “Which operation would that be? The one you haven’t let me in on, or the other one you didn’t mention, or maybe it’s the one that I’m not supposed to know about?”

“You are so off your game,” Fleur said. “I bet you totally missed the shape of the puncture wound on his butt cheek, but I wonder if you’d have realized the significance anyway.”

I’d not noticed any puncture wounds of any shape anywhere on Small Dennis, and I could hardly have missed one on his butt cheek in particular during all that time in the horse costume. What was Fleur trying to pull? I decided to play dumb.

“Well, can I have a hint?” I demanded. “Should I watch out for Ray and Fay? Keep an eye on Jeff and Steff?”

“Who are these people?”

“You tell me. You’re the butt-phrenologist. Read mine, it says ‘Never trust a man carrying produce!’”

If Fleur was dismayed by my outburst she didn’t let it show. She calmly shook her head. “No it doesn’t.” She smiled. “Your butt sends a simple yet potent message.”

My wife and I had no better days for me to reminisce about, but I remembered some nice moments together. Some of those recollections did involve her studying my buttocks, and commenting about there being one thing it needed. And, ever since, I’d been meaning to ask her: what is a “power haircut” exactly?

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I Wanted Very Much to Believe Fleur

  • by jenmight easily be mistaken for the horse’s mouth
  • ensure even butter distribution
  • shoe size written plainly for everyone to see
  • my husband is just a little cranky sometimes
  • flapping behind him like a pair of coattails

Tune in next time part 885      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I wanted very much to believe Fleur meant it when she said she’d let me off the zeppelin, and her words might easily be mistaken for the horse’s mouth into which I had been warned many times never to look. Would it be so bad to just believe her? To not look for hidden meanings and duplicitous intent? My training said it would be unforgivable. Fleur might be my wife, but she was also the heir to a powerful foreign warlord, and while she might have a reputation as the sort of woman in whose mouth butter would not melt, I knew that her tongue was sharp enough to ensure even butter distribution no matter the temperature.

Why was I so fixated on mouths all the sudden?

Small Dennis looked aghast. He didn’t like the direction this conversation had taken. If I could remember it, I might agree with him. He stood there, looking utterly ridiculous, wearing nothing below the waist except for a pair of bowling shoes with the number 2 on the backs.

“How can you say you’re not so small, Small Dennis,” I barked, “When you’re standing there with your shoe size written plainly for everyone to see?”

Fleur laid a hand on my elbow. “Ignore him,” she said to Small Dennis. “My husband is just a little cranky sometimes when he’s tired. Be on your way.”

Instead of dressing in the horse costume again, Dennis draped it over his shoulder and stomped pantsless out of the faux bathroom with it flapping behind him like a pair of coattails.

“I can’t believe you almost blew the whole operation!” Fleur snapped once the door closed.

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I’d Learned to Tune Out Exhaustion

  • by Kentweird cotton candy grapes
  • how many dollars a live yeti could be sold for
  • “Oo, yeah. Robots.”
  • find you a new cloak
  • dark and sexy

Tune in next time part 884      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I’d learned to tune out exhaustion over the years, so it took a moment of deliberate reflection to assess my current state. Yeah, I was borderline delirious with lack of sleep. And, I was ravenously hungry. Functioning without nourishment is another skill one develops in the spy biz, but the key is to focus on the task at hand and deny your body’s basic physical imperatives, so now that I’d considered food I could think of nothing else. Alarmingly, the thing I craved was the weird cotton candy grapes they had in the commissary at Enigma Fortress. But perhaps that wasn’t so strange. My memories of my time in the Paradoxica Mountains were fond ones. That frozen landscape  seemed a place where I could be happy, especially if I didn’t have to be in command of the garrison. I might find out how many dollars a live yeti could be sold for. I might find a place to settle down with Tessa and/or her many robot duplicates.

Small Dennis said, “Oo, yeah. Robots.”

I had no idea how much I’d said out loud. If I couldn’t keep my shit together better than that, leaving the spy game wasn’t going to be optional. I chanced a look at Fleur. She was smiling. That always makes me nervous, but it looked like a kind smile.

“I could tell the captain to change course,” she said. “Drop you off at Enigma Fortress in a day or two, which gives us time to find you a new cloak, something dark and sexy.”

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