Tagged: tune in next time

“Don’t Be a Baby”

  • by jenLast I heard, you were in jail.
  • chew it a little if needed
  • know that you are very rude and are also now my enemy
  • throw the glove in her face
  • You got guts, kid.

Tune in next time part 785      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Don’t be a baby,” Tessa cajoled. “You can take it. You got guts, kid.”

“What I have, Tessa, is the need for you to listen to me. You can’t give me a tattoo there, and if you don’t stop pushing my boundaries, I won’t let you give me a tattoo anywhere.”

I knew I was being blunt, but sometimes that sort of thing is called for. I did not intend to metaphorically throw the glove in her face, but she took it as an insult anyway.

“If that’s how it is, then know that you are very rude and are also now my enemy,” she huffed. She turned her back on me and crossed her arms.

The bartender approached obsequiously, with an oversized pickle on a tray. The fumes wafting from it were eye-watering. He murmured, “This will calm the lady down, sir. She can sniff it, or lick it, maybe chew it a little if needed. The mix is very potent.”

“Thanks.” I took the pickle from him and he scuttled back to the bar.

I laid my hand on Tessa’s shoulder. When she whirled around, I offered her the alcoholic vegetable. “Maybe we should slow down,” I said. “We spent so many years apart, it’s hard to jump into a relationship, much as we both might want to. We need to get to know each other again. Tell me your story,” I coaxed as she eyed the pickle warily. “Tell me what happened to you all those years we were apart. I lost track of you when you went to South America. Last I heard, you were in jail. Mime jail.”

“It wasn’t jail.” She took a hefty bite of the pickle. “At first I was undercover, and then I was their prisoner.”

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Tessa Steeled Herself With Another Chomp of Pickle

  • by Kenta lot of maraschino cherries
  • giggling under inappropriate circumstances
  • flirting with my husband forever
  • never done anything more musical than cupping his armpit
  • usually requires special eye drops

Tune in next time part 786      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Tessa steeled herself with another chomp of pickle and continued her tale.

“They knew my mission was hopeless, but they sent me in anyway. They sent me in there for answers, knowing it’s impossible to make mimes talk. Well, I tried my best and all I did was make a bunch of very important enemies. It didn’t take long for them to catch on that I was up to something and lock me up. At first it wasn’t so bad, because they just put me in one of their invisible boxes. But I got sloppy and they figured out I was escaping, so then they used an actual cell.”

“You mean like in a jail?” I asked, smirking.

“It wasn’t jail!” Tessa grumbled. She bit into the pickle again. “You know what this needs? A nice garnish. Most bars have a lot maraschino cherries and shit like that. Can we get some?”

I signalled the bartender while making a rolling gesture to tell Tessa to go on with the story.

“Anyway, it was technically solitary confinement because I was the only one there. And being alone too much made me act weird, like giggling under inappropriate circumstances and hallucinating that I had a husband and then hallucinating that my sisters were flirting with my husband forever. Which, of course is what they would do. But giggling is against the rules, as is shouting at hallucinatory siblings, so my punishment kept getting extended. That’s why I was still there when another malcontent got put in the slammer and suddenly I had a cellmate. His crime: singing.”

I whistled. “That must be verging on treason in the mime community.”

She nodded, then shook her head. “It was a total frame-up. He had never done anything more musical than cupping his armpit, which they all do. It’s why their hands smell.” She glanced around. “Where the hell are those cherries? Whatever. The new guy’s name was Timmuth-E, which he told me in one of the many notes we passed back and forth. We wrote them on thin air with our fingertips, and reading them usually requires special eye drops but we got good at it. Eventually, he shared the information that enabled me to escape.”

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“What Happened to Timmuth-A Through Timmuth-D?”

  • by jenno easier way to put someone in a box
  • gently inserting the tines around the circumference
  • on a gondola in Venice
  • drinking mimosas in secret
  • the Aztec twelve-step

Tune in next time part 787      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“What happened to Timmuth-A through Timmuth-D?” I asked, knowing it wouldn’t be pretty. Mimes are ruthless.

“There’s no easier way to put someone in a box and get them to stay there than to kill them.” Tessa looked haunted. “At least that’s what Timmuth-E said.” She’d picked up the pickle skewer and was gently inserting the tines around the circumference of the kosher dill she’d been nibbling on.

“That’s pretty dark,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you to say they were all on a gondola in Venice, drinking mimosas in secret or anything, but, shit, man. Mimes.”

Tessa nodded solemnly. “Mimes are the worst.”

“Except Timmuth-E helped you escape…”

“No he didn’t. He slipped up and spilled some intel he shouldn’t have, that’s all.”

“What was it?”

She looked me dead in the eye and said something that took my breath away. “He taught me the twelfth and final step of the Aztec twelve-step.”

I couldn’t believe it. “You mean…”

She nodded and threw back another bite of pickle.

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The Aztec Twelve-Step

  • by Kentsecret network of spies
  • standard practice to have a pig diagram tattooed on your body
  • … well, your friend, really
  • I touched his arm that day in the park
  • glued to your head

Tune in next time part 788      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The Aztec twelve-step was thought by many to be a myth, but those of us in the business knew it was the initiation protocol of a very secret network of spies, like, even more secret than a regular spy network. Steps one through eleven were not too hard to track down, but of course the twelfth and final step was the one for all the marbles.

“That still doesn’t explain your escape,” I said.

“Well you see, it enabled me to become initiated, and the secret network released me so I could go on my first mission for them.” Tessa’s eyes became evasive. “I never completed that mission, so now I’m considered a defector.”

“Teach me the twelfth and final step,” I said. “Then maybe I can clear your name.”

She shook her head, but then she scrunched her forehead and stared at me. “All I can tell you right now is, for male initiates, it’s standard practice to have a pig diagram tattooed on your body.” She smirked. “We could kill two birds with one needle, if you let me ink you… well, your friend really… with that design.”

“No deal,” I said. “I want to help you out, but not like that.”

She gazed off into the distance. “If only I’d known where it would all lead, when I touched his arm that day in the park.”

“Whose arm?”

“I didn’t know it was him until later: the Silent One, the Prime Mime. It was an honest mistake! I was distracted. You would be too, if you had a xylophone glued to your head.”

“Why was there…” I trailed off. I knew she wasn’t going to tell me.

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I Didn’t Care Why She’d had a Xylophone Glued to her Head

  • by jenBetween every single smooch I was sopping up sweat
  • Jeepers creepers!
  • the standard inking method
  • enters her wedding night tongue-tied
  • weirdly pleasing metallic smell

Tune in next time part 789      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I didn’t care why she’d had a xylophone glued to her head. Simply knowing that Tessa was an ultra-secret spy was a total turn-on. I leaned over and kissed her, hard, on the mouth. The pickle brine on her tongue made my eyes sting, and her kisses raised my body heat. Between every single smooch I was sopping up sweat with the tablecloth, but I kept going back for more.

“Jeepers creepers!” Tessa cried. “You’re going to drown us both!”

“I’ll be dehydrated soon,” I murmured, in what I hoped was a seductive voice. I must have been wrong because Tessa immediately started talking about tattoos again, and how the standard inking method wouldn’t work if she used the pickle skewer, but she was willing to improvise.

“Tessa, no. No improvisation. No tattoos.”

“You’re acting like some blushing bride who enters her wedding night tongue-tied and scandalized, but I know you. You’re a man of the world. You’re the sort of man whose copious sweat has a weirdly pleasing metallic smell. The kind of man who is up for anything. The kind of man who–”

She was interrupted by a deep voice booming from the depths of the pickle chapel. “The kind of man who’s about to get his ass kicked.”

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If You’re Like Most People

  • by Kentviolent constipation
  • I know what a kitchen is for
  • he’s… “passionate”… about… fish?
  • “Observe: a perfectly shaped square.”
  • movie stars with long hair, rosy cheeks, and beards

Tune in next time part 790      Click Here for Earlier Installments

If you’re like most people, you’ve given a lot of thought to what someone who lurks in the shadowy recesses of a pickle chapel should look like. And, how someone whose greetings are vulgar and hostile should dress. In neither case do you probably expect movie stars with long hair, rosy cheeks, and beards that could conceal adult raccoons.

The owner of the booming voice was a hairy adonis, as was his companion. Both men held up their left hands, palm outward. Booming-voice said, “Observe: a perfectly shaped square.” Inked onto his palm was a lopsided oval that might have been an eggplant. The other man’s hand displayed a horseshoe, complete with nail holes.

“Who are you?” I demanded. Under my breath I added, “And who taught you geometry?”

“All things are squares to us, for we are Right Anglers. Your ass-kicking is the thing I’m second-most passionate about, right behind our finny underwater friends.” He stood, and I was startled by how little difference it made. His companion, however, was fully a head taller than me.

I tried to inventory the situation, but it made no sense at all. I’ve never heard of this guy, but he wants to kick my ass, and he’s… “passionate”… about… fish? Then what’s he doing on an airship? Now he’s coming toward me, so I better do something.

My favorite stance for unarmed combat was the one they called a kitchen in my dojo. There were all kinds of other options, from powder rooms to breakfast nooks, but their purposes were never clear to me. I know what a kitchen is for: not getting my ass kicked.

“Ugh, men!” Tessa huffed. “Your emotional landscapes are nothing but violent constipation.”

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With My Right Fist I Drew a Figure in the Air

  • by jendescribed as peanut shaped
  • “One of your lovers?”
  • spider venom coursing through his veins
  • five kinds of tranquilizers
  • those polarizing candy cane striped couches

Tune in next time part 791      Click Here for Earlier Installments

With my right fist I drew a figure in the air, one that my sensei once described as peanut shaped. It was designed to distract and mesmerize an attacker. I hoped it would work when there was more than one.

“Who taught you that?” the taller man asked. “One of your lovers?” The way he said it I could tell he was hoping to upset Tessa by implying she was not my only paramour. She ignored his taunt and pulled out a blowgun, and moments later both the tall man and his little buddy were on the floor, not moving.

“They’re not dead, are they?” I asked. I wasn’t sure how Fleur would feel about that sort of thing on her airship.

Tessa smirked. “Not unless either one of them is allergic to the spider venom coursing through his veins now. Or any of the other five kinds of tranquilizers.”

She’d dosed them both with mime juice. I shuddered. You can take the girl out of the invisible box…

“I wonder who sent them,” she said.

“I know how we can find out. Help me drag them over to those polarizing candy cane striped couches flanking the altar, and when they wake up–”

Tessa finished my thought. “We’ll polarize them.”

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I Grabbed The Tall Man’s Ankles

  • by Kentonly poets could properly express
  • fart and fall down
  • how your boss feels about robot nipples
  • The first rule of Magic Club is
  • regretted not bringing his own clogs

Tune in next time part 792      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I grabbed the tall man’s ankles and started dragging him across the chapel. I said to Tessa, “I’m going to stick you with the little one.” And friends, only poets could properly express how sly her smile became. We got both of the Right Anglers loaded onto those couches, and I managed not to fart and fall down even once during the whole process.

Each couch’s polarizing controls were located on the end, so that if you were sitting by the arm you could reach down and activate them. Why you’d want to do that is a mystery. I moved into position by one button and Tessa manned the other. Then we just had to kill time until the mime juice wore off.

“Why were you so concerned about whether I’d killed them?” Tessa asked.

“Well, Fleur would probably disapprove, and she’s not only my wife but also kind of my boss on military matters.”

Tessa shimmied a little, her Ultra-Druid getup making it quite a show. “Did you ever wonder how your boss feels about robot nipples?”

I blinked. “Are you telling me that you’re a Tessabot?”

She laughed. “The first rule of Magic Club is not answering that question!”

“What’s the second rule?”

“Can’t tell you, but I can say it’s why a certain viscount regretted not bringing his own clogs.”

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“I Wish You Wouldn’t Talk about Arlo”

  • by jenwhere lasers mimed demonic lightning storms
  • dripping out of your ears right now
  • bunch of tiny cubes
  • the color of urine on snow
  • “I’m not here to make friends!”

Tune in next time part 793      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about Arlo,” I said. “With or without clogs, that guy is such a dick.”

Tessa laughed, and it was the sort of laugh that made it impossible to believe that she might be a robot whose head was filled with circuits and microchips, where lasers mimed demonic lightning storms as they rocketed around and simulated thoughts.

The two bebearded gents on the sofas began to twitch. The mime juice was wearing off, and once that process starts it goes quickly. Since we hadn’t restrained the men, I said, “We better switch these things on now, before they fully recover.”

“Aye-aye.”

Tessa and I each pushed the Polarize button on the sofa we were stationed beside, and the process began. A few minutes later, the men were fully conscious and in the throes of polarization. I cleared my throat and spoke loudly to be heard over the mechanisms. “You’re probably wondering what is dripping out of your ears right now. It’s a bunch of tiny cubes the color of urine on snow, and you know what that means.”

“You’ve polarized our ear wax!” Tall Guy cried.

“You animal!” Shorty yelled.

“I’m not here to make friends!” I said. “I’m a General of the Contrarian Humor Battalions, and I’m here to find out who sent you. The polarizing sofas are currently on level 2. Will you answer my questions, or do I need to turn up the reactor power impulses?”

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“Do Your Worst”

  • by Kentperformed a sexy little number
  • “Oh, fuck,”
  • you were in the circus together
  • threatened to kill again
  • “Butternut,” I said.

Tune in next time part 794      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Do your worst,” grunted the small man through clenched teeth.

“Okay,” Tessa chirped. She turned the polarization impulses on his couch all the way up. He tensed, then began to quiver. The vibration speeded up until his outline blurred, and then kept increasing until it hit a resonant frequency where he transformed into a mass of cubes in different sizes, all slowly revolving against each other. He looked like Picasso having a nightmare about Escher. I found the event nauseatingly hypnotic, but it seemed Tessa found the spectacle somehow arousing. She performed a sexy little number on her tip-toes to show her enjoyment.

“Oh, fuck,” said the tall man. “I’ll tell you everything!”

“Good,” I said. “Start with who recruited you back when you were in the circus together. Was it Lyudmila?”

“We were never… But wait, it was someone named Lyudmila. How did you know that?”

“Because it’s always someone named Lyudmila. Don’t tell me, she said I was a killer, and that I had threatened to kill again?”

“No, nothing like that. Actually we just have a message for you. All that stuff about an ass-kicking was just our way of making it a little more fun.”

I scowled at him. “Okay, whatever. What’s the message.”

He eyed me nervously, the low-level polarization of his couch making his limbs twitch. “This is going to sound like I’m trying to play for time or mess with you, but I promise I’m just following her instructions.”

I nodded wearily.

“She said I can’t give you the message unless you tell me the keyword.”

“Butternut,” I said. I said it without hesitation, because of one very strange evening years ago when Lyudmila had been present.

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