Tagged: tune in next time

A Trapdoor In The Shag

  • by KentWhat passions, what greed, what crimes
  • nods of assent were exchanged
  • lowering myself to the end of my leather strap
  • (although it is not clear whose poop it was)
  • as though by magic

Tune in next time part 278                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

A trapdoor in the shag carpet popped open and a skinny man sprang up into the room. I almost didn’t recognize him without his bathrobe, for he now wore a zebra-striped body stocking.

“What passions, what greed, what crimes against decorum will you not stop at?” he exclaimed. “Human sacrifice I could have countenanced, as it’s for a noble cause, but such language! You’ve blasphemed in the temple! You don’t deserve to carry out the sacrifices!”

Clown faces were turned to face one another. Nods of assent were exchanged. Carla and her tragi-comic compatriot reared, throwing off their ringmasters and rising to their feet. They charged the zebra man and pinned him to the wall.

While the clowns were thus occupied, and before my brothers could recover, I seized Tesla’s wrist and dashed for the trapdoor. “You first,” I told her. She seemed more dazed than ever, making no moves of her own volition, so I guided her into the opening in the floor.

She dropped like a stone, vanishing silently into darkness.

“Shit!” I exclaimed, climbing down and holding onto the edges of the hole as Jupiter and Jove scrambled in my direction and the skinny man moaned disconcertingly. There was no ladder or stairs below the trapdoor, just something like a belt dangling there. I grabbed onto it and slammed the door, sealing out all light from above.

As I descended, my eyes accommodated to the dimness and I could see that if it was a belt I was hanging from it was for someone with at least a 50-foot waistline. Down I went, lowering myself to the end of my leather strap but still nowhere near the bottom. I held on, exerting all my senses for a clue about what to do next. I could see rough stone walls like a mineshaft. I heard dripping water that belonged to stalactites, and distant clicks that belonged to cave crickets. There was a pungent smell, definitely poop (although it is not clear whose poop it was).

There was no sign of Tesla. She had disappeared as though by magic, or as if down a shaft so deep that I hadn’t heard her hit the bottom.

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I Tried to Psych Myself Up

  • by jenthere will be bubbles
  • adjacent to the boat ramp
  • rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee
  • broadcasting their raw footage
  • (read: your crotch)

Tune in next time part 279                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

I tried to psych myself up for my upcoming swim in the sewage. “When you stir the shit there will be bubbles,” I muttered. “It’s inevitable.”

Before letting go of my leather strap, I clenched every orifice I had.

I counted to three and released my grip.

I fell about two feet before my heels jarred on a narrow metal catwalk that spanned the mineshaft. My breath gushed out and my feet stung from the impact. At least I wasn’t swimming in shit.

I looked to one end of the catwalk where it seemed to disappear into a tunnel in the wall. I looked the other way and saw a dark-cloaked figure hurrying away from me, Tesla over his shoulder.

I gave chase as quickly as my sore feet would allow. When I reached the wall I encountered steep metal stairs leading down toward the poop smell, and a few flights ahead of me I could make out Tesla’s abductor/rescuer. I followed.

We descended for several minutes, the stench growing with each step. At the bottom I stood on an algae-covered boulder adjacent to the boat ramp where the cloaked figure was lowering Tesla’s unconscious form into a fanciful, swan-shaped pedal boat. That task completed, he stood and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee. He preened for the security cameras along the ceiling that were broadcasting their raw footage of the raw sewage to who knew where.

The cloaked figure spotted me and said, “Don’t come any closer or I’ll kick you in your tender giblets (read: your crotch).”

As if I didn’t know what tender giblets were.

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“Easy, Pal”

  • by Kentshall find its way into the pockets
  • twenty people on the lawn. With guns.
  • lay upon his belly beside a limpid brook
  • pull at me with her little hands
  • spread by a bug sprayer

Tune in next time part 280                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Easy, pal,” I said. “Nobody needs to get kicked.”

“Untrue! A remark not in accordance with the facts (read: a fib). Much kicking is needed, which you know full well, ere a farthing of my wealth shall find its way into the pockets of your taskmasters.”

“Who do you think I am?” I looked at Tesla, who hadn’t stirred. I hoped she was okay, but hoped she remained unconscious long enough to be spared the vile atmosphere of the sewer.

“Oh I know just who you are. You’re chemtrails. You’re Project Bluebook. You’re twenty people on the lawn. With guns.” He thrust out his palms. “In Dallas? The motorcade? That’s you.”

“Ah, guess you’re on to me,” I mumbled, hoping that humoring him would work better than arguing. “But that was a long time ago. People change.”

But he turned away from me on the boat ramp, and then, as though he lay upon his belly beside a limpid brook in a sun-drenched meadow, he lay on his belly on the slimy boat ramp and reached out over the surface of the filth to give the swan boat a shove.

Before I knew I had moved, I was airborne en route from my boulder to the ramp. In another bound I overflew the prostrate figure in the cloak and landed in the boat. My arrival jostled Tesla severely and imparted a considerable speed boost to our elegant vessel. I sat down and started pedaling. The propeller agitated the thick fluid we sailed through, liberating and invigorating the sulfurous fumes.

Some combination of the jostling and the horrid smell woke Tesla. She looked around, wild-eyed, and began to pull at me with her little hands. “Where are you taking me?”

“Um, back to the ramp? To get us out of this shit river?”

“But you don’t understand,” Tesla wailed.

“No argument about that.” I looked ahead and saw the man in the cloak was standing, brandishing something that looked like a wand. “Now what is he doing?”

Tesla gripped my arm. “Turn us around. Stay back! There’s nothing more potent than a magic spell spread by a bug sprayer!”

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Magic Spells Were Way Outside My Area of Expertise

  • by jenif they intend to keep their trousers on
  • he likes to sing along
  • army of gargoyle angels
  • astroturf vest
  • “I was very much surprised.”

Tune in next time part 281                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Magic spells were way outside my area of expertise. At the Academy that sort of thing is studied only by nerds, and only then if they intend to keep their trousers on until well after graduation. Tesla had never struck me as that sort of girl. It made me wonder where she got her information.

Whether or not there was magic involved, the weird, robed dude was waving a bug sprayer around and I really didn’t want to get a faceful of whatever he had on offer. I slowed my pedaling to a pace that kept us even with the boat ramp despite the current, but I didn’t approach.

“You know this guy?” I asked Tesla.

“Oh come on, you must remember him!” she said. “He was at the Academy at the same time we were. He likes to sing along with that group of students that sounds like an army of gargoyle angels.”

“You mean the choir?” The Academy was not known for its arts programs.

She snapped the fingers of both hands and pointed at me. “That’s what they called themselves! Remember how they always wore those astroturf vests?”

“The first time I saw them perform,” I said, “I was very much surprised.”

I squinted through the murk at the madman on the shore. He and his conspiracy theories and his fancy squirt gun were all that stood between me and an escape from the sewer. I decided to go for it. I didn’t believe in magic, and I could hold my breath for a really long time, at least long enough to get past him. With much determination I applied my feet to the swan boat’s pedals.

“No!” Tesla shrieked.

She reached down between my legs, and with surprising strength, twisted the pedal mechanism into a knot. We immediately began drifting with the current, away from the boat ramp.

It was then that I realized that I was up shit creek without a pedal.

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“Why Did You Do That?”

  • by Kentthreatened to kill again
  • she had heard the very same story from her friends
  • similarities between Facebook’s rapid adoption and the proliferation of an infectious disease
  • left the embittered old bastard
  • among the ruins

Tune in next time part 282                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Why did you do that?” I screamed at Tesla. (Also, how? was my unvoiced follow-up question.)

While the slow but relentless flow of sewage carried us farther from the way out, she told me a lengthy tale involving the choir and their pact with the magic dweebs. I lost some of the details musing on what a great band name “The Magic Dweebs” would be, but the upshot was that Mr Bug-Wand allegedly murdered a teacher, and had threatened to kill again. Tesla had learned of all this by reading our rival school’s newsletter, but she knew it was true because she had heard the very same story from her friends in metal shop.

“But you didn’t take shop,” I said. “Your name was on the list of fugitives I saw while raiding the office files.” She gave me a calculating look. “I mean,” I stammered, “that’d be their album title. ‘Metal Shop,’ by The Magic Dweebs.”

The result of her calculations was giving me the silent treatment. So we drifted without speaking on a river whose odor brought to mind the similarities between Facebook’s rapid adoption and the proliferation of an infectious disease. The horrid stench battered my nasal passages like an illegitimate uncle banging on the front door in the middle of the night. Finally, after what seemed like hours, olfactory fatigue left the embittered old bastard among the ruins of my mucous membranes.

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I Could No Longer Smell the Sewage We Were Adrift Upon

  • by jenbut because of the fog
  • “We can work this out.”
  • smell the woodsmoke
  • the tune was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
  • aspect of Wikipedia that I dislike

Tune in next time part 283                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

I could no longer smell the sewage we were adrift upon, but because of the fog that rose from it I was unable to forget it was there. When we finally escaped I would have to take, just, like, all the showers.

Tesla napped, curled up on her side of the swan boat’s bench. I wanted to wake her up and work with her to figure out a way out of our dilemma. I would say something really persuasive and motivating like, “We can work this out.” But Tesla was a sound sleeper and so I didn’t get a chance to even try before we rounded a long, lazy corner and I could finally see the light at the end of the sewer pipe. We were so close to freedom I could even smell the woodsmoke coming in through the grate.

Our swan came to a sludgy stop against the grate. I left Tesla sleeping while I peered out and tried to make sense of what I saw. We were still on my brothers’ island, of course, so I had to be careful.

The smoke came from an enormous bonfire around which danced a dozen mimes in ceremonial garb. The song was one I’d heard many times growing up. The lyrics, sung by someone I couldn’t see, were nothing you’d recognize, but the tune was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

I tried once to research this song, but all trace of it had been erased from the internet. That is the aspect of Wikipedia that I dislike the most, its willingness to delete any page that the Guild of Fire Eaters demands.

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I Thought This Was The Same Song

  • by Kentbut I was much wrong
  • “Keep your hands above your head.”
  • The cat regarded him distantly
  • he would never have wings
  • “Look, the scab’s gone.”

Tune in next time part 284                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

I thought this was the same song I’d heard as a child, but I was much wrong. Some lyrics were the same, like “Keep your hands above your head.” But that only added to my befuddlement when it swerved into unfamiliar lines.

The acoustic properties of the sewer opening made the words even harder to follow because reverberations inside the soupy tunnel lagged several seconds behind what was happening out around the bonfire. Tesla’s snoring didn’t help, either.

Near as I could tell, the song was about someone named Simon Nomis, who tried to befriend a cat. The cat regarded him distantly. Simon seemed to be quite a whiner, and possibly a failed caterpillar, based on the recurring line saying “he would never have wings.”

What made me realize it was not just a folk song, but a coded message, was the closing line: “Look, the scab’s gone.” Operatives from the Academy have used that countersign for decades.

Without hearing the lyrics more clearly, though, I couldn’t hope to decode the meaning in the song.

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Before the Unseen Singer Could Begin Her Song Anew

  • by jen“El Matador,” they whispered
  • all the legitimacy money could buy
  • uncle was the curator of the museum of mineralogy
  • 1200 pounds of high-grade marijuana
  • put down the syphon

Tune in next time part 285                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Before the unseen singer could begin her song anew, a caped figure stepped into the circle of light around the bonfire. The mimes all noticed at the same time. “El Matador,” they whispered not with their voices, but with their fluttering finger motions. And they were right. It was El Matador, which was the name my twin brother Jason used before he became America’s #1 wedding rapper. When he’d first left the spy game, Jason tried to make it big in Cancun’s underground hip hop scene, relying on all the legitimacy money could buy at the current exchange rate, and counting on the fact that our uncle was the curator of the Museum of Mineralogy of Quintana Roo to lend him copious street cred. It worked surprisingly well during spring break, when all of the American college students were in town. He’d have huge concerts where he passed around 1200 pounds of high-grade marijuana as party favors. It was enough to get the frat boys to put down the syphon and the beer bong, but it was economically unsustainable.

Was he here today to rap? Or something even worse?

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Jason Started Rapping

  • by Kentthis only happens in the movies
  • Maybe. With a capital M
  • Matthew Clemens is a tool
  • gives me that slimy smile of his
  • we watched professional bowling

Tune in next time part 286                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Jason started rapping. Which, bad as it was, still came as sort of a relief considering all the alternatives. His routine kept the mimes mesmerized long enough for me to open the gate and carry Tesla out into the fresh air. His flow was not mad, more like peevish. Either there were nuances in it that I couldn’t pick up on, or mimes are just easy to please.

I paid attention to every word, in case he was sending someone a coded message.

Matty mighta said this only happens in the movies.
And to get real we’re gonna hafta remove these
idealized betrayals and the stars who portray them.
Too cynical? Maybe. With a capital Mayhem.
But once upon a time the lessons we learned in school
showed all of us that Matthew Clemens is a tool, fool.
I freak whenever he gives me that slimy smile of his
and I just wait for the day I can get outta the biz.
Until that day arrives I can only keep on rolling
And fondly recall the times we watched professional bowling.

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Jason Folded His Arms Flamboyantly

  • by jenchocolate ice cream on his upper lip
  • “No, that isn’t elegant.”
  • only I can see her
  • the rat-faced one
  • I’m pissed off and grossed out

Tune in next time part 287                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Jason folded his arms flamboyantly across his chest, but his posturing was ruined by the chocolate ice cream on his upper lip. Not that the mimes noticed or cared. They all pretended to clap.

I laid Tesla in the underbrush and moved rapidly to a position in the shadows, but still near enough to Jason that I could pounce on him if necessary.

The woman who had been singing before Jason’s arrival started up again, a bastardized version of Frosty the Snowman this time. As she sang she stepped into the firelight. Her face was obscured behind a thick layer of whiteface and a big red rubber nose. She approached my brother, holding out the ruffled muff of a clown as if it were a lei.

Jason shook his head. “No, that isn’t elegant.” He took a step backward when she insisted. “It will ruin the lines of my cape.” He couldn’t retreat any further without stepping into the fire.

The woman worked her reply into her song. “Remove your cape, you won’t need it anyway.”

Oh shit. This was some sort of mime/clown fertility ritual. I recognized the trappings now that it was too late to do anything about it.

Jason dropped his cape beside the bonfire. The mimes all tied imaginary blindfolds over their eyes. The woman slipped out of her rainbow striped leotard, exposing the robotic unicorn tattoo on her ass.

Tessa!

I murmured to myself, “With the mimes all blindfolded, only I can see her true identity.”

One of the mimes, the rat-faced one on the far right, cocked his head like he’d heard me. And suddenly I didn’t care.

As Tessa and Jason embraced in a greasy smear of makeup and squeaking nose noises, I strode out and said, “I’m pissed off and grossed out in equal measure. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Tessa? I thought we meant something to each other, and here you are naked with my brother!”

Unfortunately my tirade woke Tesla, who jumped to her feet, suddenly reminding me that I’d slept with several of Tessa’s sisters and probably didn’t have any grounds for my outburst.

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