Tagged: tune in next time

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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Tune in Next Week

Ever have one of those weeks?

We here at SkelleyCo Amalgamated Fiction Enterprises LLC know that you count on us for your twice-weekly dose of thrilling suspense, swoon-worthy romance, and uncomfortable sexual situations, and we know that you are disappointed in us for failing to deliver this week. But not half as disappointed as we are in ourselves!

Our chain story, ridiculous and sprawling as it is, is like family to us. It’s the third leg of the triangle that is our writing partnership. (Better than the third rail, amiright?) And this week our beloved chain story needed a vacation. It’s been trapped on that damned zeppelin for about 5 months now!

Rest assured that all (else) is well at SkelleyCo. We’re beavering away in the Writing Cave, adding scenes to As-Yet-Untitled Ghost Novel #2, and we’ve used our dog-walking time to talk through some minor snags. Apart from the chain story, it’s all going swimmingly.

So, tune in next week to see whether these writing partners get their act together. Same bat time, same bat channel.

no bonus points :(

“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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“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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“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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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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“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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I Awoke With Bleary Vision

  • by Kentlook at all the hip movement
  • escaped through the tunnel system
  • (Chum, chum, chum)
  • a bonus grandma
  • no longer necessary to rely on insects for most outfits

Tune in next time part 894      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I awoke with bleary vision and a head filled with unclean dreams. My head was pounding too hard for me to shake away the dream-residue without my skull flying to pieces, so I was left to puzzle out which memories were real. Surely Fleur’s enormous velvet bed must have been a confabulation.

But, no. It loomed over the cramped husband-bed, where I found myself with numerous hens for companionship. They scratched at the sumptuous bedding and shot me beady, disapproving looks. As if it was my fault there were no worms or seeds tucked among the folds.

That meant we must be about to arrive in Colloquillia, unless we were already there. I sat up, straining for a view out the modern windows. Not that I’d recognize the country even if I did manage to get a look outside. I slumped back in disappointment, setting off a blizzard of chicken feathers.

“What are we doing in your quarters?” I bellowed. “You said we were bound for steerage, for a party.”

She came into view around the prow of the mammoth bed. “And it thrilled me to look at all the hip movements you performed as you eagerly staggered along. If I’d told you the truth, you might have broken away and escaped through the tunnel system that permeates my airship. Even I don’t have it all mapped out. There’s something in there making an ominous sound, like this:” She paused to demonstrate the noise (Chum, chum, chum) conveying its ominousness mainly via her eyebrows as her pleasing contralto voice couldn’t manage alone.

I sighed. “You said something about a summit?”

Fleur nodded as she adjusted an earring. “And I need you as an interpreter. Otherwise, I’ll just have to take it literally when the ambassador mentions having a bonus grandma or finding it no longer necessary to rely on insects for most outfits.”

I laughed, which made my headache worse. “You do realize that my Colloquillian is rustier than a beached trawler in the Salton Sea.”

“Sounds like you’ll do just fine,” she replied.

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“Your New Uniform is in the Wardrobe”

  • by jenbrought into the kicking chamber
  • howling, drooling
  • “We’ve had our fun.”
  • not a cold day by Lapland standards
  • what a beautiful dance

Tune in next time part 895      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Your new uniform is in the wardrobe,” Fleur said. “Dress quickly.”

I groaned. “I’m too hungover to do anything quickly.”

“Then I shall have you brought into the kicking chamber where all the howling, drooling, tantrumming babies are kept.” Fleur gave an evil chuckle. “That should clear your hangover right up.”

With another groan I heaved myself to my feet. “We’ve had our fun.” I stood still until my head stopped spinning. “No need to bring the children into it.”

I showered quickly, shaved, and scraped the eggnog fuzz off my teeth. “What’s the weather like in Colloquillia today?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s not a cold day by Lapland standards, or if it’s as hot as the Sahara, you’re wearing the same uniform in any case.”

Contrarian military uniforms are uniformly outlandish. The higher the rank, the more ridiculous the accessories. Judging by what awaited me in the wardrobe, I’d been promoted again.

I started with the underwear, complete with all the bells and whistles. As I shimmied and tugged everything into place, Fleur said, “What a beautiful dance. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”

If it meant not having to put on the rest of this outrageous getup, it might be worth it, monster hangover and all.

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“And If I Didn’t Know Better”

  • by Kentgonna really blow some minds, man
  • He doesn’t want your thanks. He wants your blood.
  • full of neon fish
  • kick to the shins from some little cretin
  • payback in the form of buying dozens of turtles

Tune in next time part 896      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“And if I didn’t know better,” I said, pausing to groan and rub my temples, “I’d think you wanted to be seduced.” The alluring grin I attempted at the end was probably spoiled by the way I squinted in pain from the dim light in Fleur’s quarters.

Her delighted little hoot of amusement made me flinch. “Just get dressed!” she said firmly but not angily. Where my wife is concerned, “but not angrily” is about the best you can hope for.

The uniform confounded me, and not just because of my hangover. The fabric must have had a convoluted backstory involving textile shortages, betrayal, and payback in the form of buying dozens of turtles then forcing someone to watch what was done with them. At least the trousers would serve me well if I took a kick to the shins from some little cretin, or even a fairly big one. The belt was heavy and transparent, containing water full of neon fish (another chapter in the sordid backstory?). But the most impressive and puzzling part was the hat. It was something to be worn by a very specific type of lunatic. The type who runs you off the road and then comes back to rescue you from the wreckage. The type who scares off the other lunatics, but you shouldn’t be grateful. He doesn’t want your thanks. He wants your blood. I hoped he didn’t want his hat back.

When I was at last fully attired, Fleur sized me up. “We’re gonna really blow some minds, man.”

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