Aboard My Train of Thought
© 1996, 2016 By Scott Endsley
Continuation From Story One
December 27, 1995
My dearly beloved diary:
It's a little past 3 am and all is hell.... as I'm sitting in a rather large pit being stoned to death by my peers, while hitting myself repeatedly over the head with a monstrous sized boulder. Sometimes I'd just like to dunk my face in the toilet bowl, slam the lid on it; and commit sewercide! You're brought into this world cause 'someone' screwed around... and, you leave it cause 'you've' simply screwed up. But, it's not you holding the screwdriver. Rather, a large- bellied maintenance man on the third floor and seventh door to the right. "How do you know all this?" you ask. Well the answer would come automatically in most cases were it not for the fact that most brains come in standard models, and prices may vary depending on what circumstances you're willing to pay for attaining such knowledge. Oh pardon me, the dog wants out. She's been quite patient really. Yes, Maggie's quite a Lady. I found her half-starved, and begging me for my fries in the parking lot beneath the golden arches, one fine day.... Introduced herself as Maggie McMutt. And both of us being of Scottish descent, get along well, the lass and I. Well, that's it till tomorrow....
Sincerely, last time I checked, still Clyde P. Hipwing
As I opened the door to let her out, I noticed it was a lovely full moon.... OOPS, well I was wrong. It was only Mrs. McPherson bending over to pick up her morning paper. "Morning, Mrs. McPherson!" I called out, scaring the dickens out of her. Which probably came as a surprise to her, not being related to the Dickens' who lived next door to her and all. Then there was my other neighbor, George Birthington. Rumor had it old George did his clothes only once a year. Everyone around here referred to it as George Birthington's Washday. All of my neighbors were a bit strange. Well, it was a bit early, but I was in the mood for a morning stroll. As I was walking, I noticed a milk truck parked next to the curb. It was Marty the Mysterious Milkman! He was making his morning rounds.
"Um... Mornin'..." He replied.
"How's the milk business?" I asked.
He thought wisely to himself, "Well as Louis Pasteur once said: "Yesterday's milk is tomorrow's curds! "
We were both left in an awkward silence before going on with our business. "Pardon me," he excused himself, "but there's milk to be delivered."
Marty was kind of a born loser. Always wanted to be a dentist. He went to Dental School and graduated with honors. Yet, he failed to make any 'impressions.' Marty always felt his calling for notoriety-- his new aspirations were to become the next sheriff of Pothole county. He ran a massive campaign, but he was up against stiff competition as Deputy Doodah lead in all the polls, in spite of the fact he had little chance to prove his authority, being under the tight reign of incumbent, Sheriff Marshall Dumas. They were constantly at each other's throats, especially since Doodah often referred to him as "Doofus".
"It's Dumas! How many times do I have to remind you? It's Dumas!" The frustrated Sheriff often replied.
He wasn't a bright sort to say the least; he was constantly being reprimanded for chasing Indians on horseback, as there wasn't a Bingo parlor around that didn't get busted up occasionally. And today was no exception as I observed our lame duck Sheriff galloping off into the sunrise of another day of Bingo busting.
The morning sun illuminated the darkly desolate hopes of the general populous of Mountain Oyster, as our latest mortal of admirable exploits -- Deputy Doodah -- was at the front of a line, in a local department store, picking his nose... "Yes, Um... I'll take the one with the large nostrils and thinned out bridge......."
"Oh, that one? I'm so sorry Sir, that's the display model...We don't have any more in that particular style and size on stock..." The sales lady, syrupy sweet with much concern as if his mother had died, said.
"That's Ok, I'll just take the display model." Doodah mumbled.
"Oh, I'm sssssssso sorry, but..."
"Look lady, I called down here 20 minutes before I took the time to drive up here, and the assistant manager told me that he had five of them in stock; so I'll pick whatever nose I want to pick! Man, the service stinks here!!"
As the cashier was about to inject Doodah with a lethal dose of saccharine, there was a tumultuous thunder of breaking glass that woke even the sleepy floor sweeper. A large Good Humor truck had smashed non-stop through the exterior windowpane, knocking over cash registers, destroying merchandise, and scattering panty hose, merging with ice cream sandwiches, far and wide. Doodah loosened himself out of the rubble, removed a popsicle from his ear, and discovered the truck lying upside down.
"Fudge!" He exclaimed.
Slowly, a rather dwarfed, shady and eccentric character emerged out of the passenger's side door. "What in tarnation are you doin' and who are you!" Doodah demanded from what appeared to be a one-eyed midget shaking broken glass out of his hair.
"Sorry bout the mess," he began. "My name's Emilio Esparanza Mucho Gusto Julio Big John... Um... My friends call me Mr Big, for short... but not for long."
"Okay, Mr. Big..." Doodah snapped back, "what's the BIG idea crashin' into this here department store, scarin' children and old ladies, and just why were you in such a hurry?"
"Well sir, I couldn't reach the brake. Aside from that, as to how I got here... it's a long story," Mr. Big explained, "but to make it shorter, you don't have to read the whole thing, just revert about 2 or 3 pages back in this book!"
Subsequent to reading a few paragraphs, Doodah, in a brief span of minutes, understood that the one-eyed midget had been brought into physical existence after dying a fictitious death, in the previous story (Hint, Hint).
"Do you know where I might find a certain Mr. Clyde P. Hipwing? We have some unfinished business to take care of," Mr. Big sneered.
Doodah, in spite of the immediate pandemonium, was happy to help. He put his hand on Mr. Big's shoulder and vigorously lead him to a window with an exceptional panoramic view. "Well, if you take that there road up ahead, and turn right; you'll eventually come to a red light. Take a left and then you'll see Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro...Behind it, there is a gravel alley way. Now, if you're not careful, you'll miss the south turn around the corner hidden behind Mrs. Betcher's rose bushes. Go all the way till you come to Mister Mike's Mattress Mart on the corner of Rabid Skunk Blvd and 5th...You'll see the Lee West addition entrance, but don't turn there, go 4 blocks further. His is the first house on the second block, two miles up on the right… Oh no, come to think of it...that route is closed off cause of all the construction work... I guess you'll have to take the detour down that street over there... Mr. Hipwing lives in the only pink house on the right after the left turn. Sorry to have to inconvenience ya, fella," Doodah said, patting Mr. Big on the top of his head, when, all at once, the floor began splintering where he and the one-eyed midget were standing inside the emporium.
Isles scattered, as several of the surviving, terrified patrons from the previous calamity, were now being physically abused by, foaming at the mouth panty hose, boxer shorts and bras, while the least fortunate were forced to involuntarily break-dance among sadistically slick fudge-sickles. Concrete was instantaneously strewn barbarously in all points of an imagined compass, as an enormous flame-spewing Rumpusaurous Rex lurched upon Mr. Big, who darted out from beneath him with swiftness he in no way knew he had. Doodah observed the beast's feline-similar, whiskers and brutish face, outdone only by his enormously, hairy derriere, which made up three fourths of his physique. "Who in tarnation...?!" Doodah trembled.
"Permit me to introduce myself,” he beseeched, offering Doodah his forepaw, making evident his saber-toothed abundant grin...for which he offered heartfelt thanks to his orthodontist. "My name is Chairman Meow. I exemplify the one-eyed midget's persecuting conscience as self-punishment for all the tribulation he will be trying to bestow on a Miss Matilda Wattlebaum. This after all, is going to be Mr. Big's story, and every good short story, deserves an antagonist."
Doodah scratched his head in disbelief and reached for his talkie. "Dufas! We've got a 10 Sumpthin'er-other down here at the department store, on the corner of "I" and "Am", across the street from Sam's Deli. You'd better get down here, NOW!"
While waiting for the Sheriff to arrive, Doodah listened to the entire narrative Chairman Meow told concerning the one-eyed midget and his evil intent; who by then was very probably approaching my front porch, in want to banish me back into the Fictional Forest or The City of the Intellectually Inept; while he himself, sought to find his own train of thought (man, this is getting wordy!). All the while I was watching The Patti Peptalk Hour on television, with Matilda and Maggie:
"...........And its scums like you, who call this show, wasting my time with your petty, narcissistic concerns; that don't go beyond your own precious nose!!!!!(SLAM) .......I'm sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen, but there's some things I just don't put up with on this show...Omaha, Nebraska, thank you for calling The Patti Peptalk Hour, I'm Patti, can I help you?"
"Yeah, uh, Patti, I’m just uh.... well, what I....."
"You're just nervous, honey. Go ahead, I'm listening!" Patti sweetly assured him.
"Patti, I ...I'm at my wit's end. My wife of 30 years just told me that the kids aren't really mine.... I’m holding in my hand a 110-volt AC electrical cord, cut in half; and I might just plug it in, stick the wires in my ears, and fry myself! I hope I burn to a crisp! I could care less if this whole place, that I sweated, scrimped and saved for, for 20 years, burns down!!!"
"What's your name, honey?"
"Uh, Bill...My name's Bill."
"Ok, Bill, don't be hasty...You want to do the right thing.... And I want you to do the right thing, Ok, Bill...honey!?"
Bill answered, tearfully, "Oh…Ok, I really don't want to burn this place down, with all the money I put in it over the years. I made sure that if I ever ceased to be around, that she'd be able to make it on her own without me to look after her. But I'm desperate, Patti, what's the right thing to do?"
"Ok, Bill, honey, here's a solution..........FRY YOURSELF IN THE BATHTUB WITH THE WATER RUNNING SO YOUR LITTLE BRAINLESS WIDOW CAN STILL GET ALL THAT MONEY YOU SCRIMPED AND SAVED FOR, FOR THAT DOGGONE STUPID HOUSE!!! (Slam!!!!!) ............LET'S GO TO A COMMERCIAL, FOR THE LOVE OF MOUNT SAINT HELEN!!!!!"
"If you live in the Los Angeles area, the number to call Patti for the next 2 weeks, is, 1-999-767-8463, that's 1-999-PMS-TIME. If you don't live in the Los Angeles area, don't you DARE call collect!!!...For tickets to the upcoming, annual Patti Peptalk Pity Party, call, 1-9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 “SOMEBODY HAD BETTER FIX THIS SON OF A” (CRASH!!!!!!!!!)8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8"
"Oh dear," I do believe Patti's hair's a bit dreadful these days," Matilda sighed.
"Oh the lass has bloody well lost it since the divorce, ya know.... What might you think, Clyde?" Maggie asked.
But I wasn't listening. Instead I was day dreaming as to how to reconstruct my demolished train of thought. "If only I could get back on track," I mumbled.
"Huh...?" Matilda meowed, as Maggie looked a bit concerned.
"Oh nothing, just thinking."
At that instant came a rapping on the unlocked front door, as Maggie barked. This was not a traditional knock. No! This was a very cunning knock. I hesitated, then glanced through the peep hole, perceiving no one. My shaking, sweaty palm smothered the knob as I swung open the door. Ah, whew! It was just the paper boy collecting his week's wages, "Oh by the way, here's your paper," he innocently beamed. Glancing down at the front page, I caught the photograph of a Ice Cream Truck on its back, on the floor of the downtown department store, resembling a desert-sunbaked carcass, and laughed to myself.
"Thanks a lot, Sonny," I said, handing him a couple of bucks.
Just as I shut off the doorway, unbeknownst to me, the paper boy peeled a sticky rubber like, synthetic mask from his face. He was, in fact, Mr. Big -- the one-eyed midget. "At last, I find him," he grinned. "This is gonna be easy, all I have to do is retire Mr. Hipwing to the Fictional Forest, grab his cat, and I'm off to Vegas!" As he grasped at the doorknob, he was at once tapped on the shoulder. "What?!!!!! Who?!!!" Mr. Big gasped.
Deputy Doodah, who had just been alerted of his wicked endeavors, was lost for breath from running several blocks; but managed to encounter the hoodlum with bodily force, and wrestle him to the ground. I wondered what the commotion was about, so I threw open the door and was immediately outraged by the perception of the burly Deputy whooping up on the clearly inferior, size challenged, paper boy. "Oh good golly!" Matilda exclaimed, "it's the one-eyed midget!"
Just as the words departed from her whiskers, Mr. Big slipped under the Deputy's dukes, barging his way inside and darted in the direction of my word processor, that I had just recently purchased to make my work more effortless. "So Clyde, who's at whose mercy now?" He, basking in the glow of his triumph, questioned.
"How did you come back to life, you spilt your own ink in the last story!?" I gasped as Mr. Big's only eye widened in even more amazement of his conquest.
"You forgot the rules, Clyde! Like you I died a fictitious death, therefore I've now entered your reality," he grimaced.
He therewith began counting down from five, and on each digit, descended his index finger closer to the delete button. "Four!"
"Just WHAT IS all this stuff about dying a fictional death?" Doodah scratched his head.
"No, Mr. Big, get a hold of your senses!" I begged.
"Is there anything, besides my cat, that I… I could give you? You know, we…we could be friends!"
"Say," Doodah spoke louder, "I asked a question!"
"ONE!" Mr. Big's brow emphatically expressed the thrill of the moment.
"Look, Mr. Big, I've got a good part for you in my next story. See…we could make you a good guy, yeah...You could.... Oh, Good Godfrey! Just go ahead and do it!"
"ZERO! Bye guys!" Mr. Big at that moment pressed delete as all existing mortality, excluding Matilda, was eliminated. "It worked! I've actually got my own creative powers!" Mr. Big rejoiced. With myself, his adversary, no longer an obstacle, it was now Mr. Big's tale. Grasping Matilda by her esophagus, he swiftly approached the nearest tracks and anticipated his next move.
"You're not going to get away with this!" Matilda vowed.
"Shut up, cat!" He snarled as his Train of Thought accelerated upon its approach.
On the outskirts of the Fictional Forest as MY Train of Thought swiftly passed, I discovered myself, once again, on a large pile of rocks. This time as the Merry Band of Calypso Singers neared, I tried desperately to get their attention. "Hold it guys!... I need your help!"
A bit agitated, they stopped as the apparent leader yelled "Yesterday's Milk is Tomorrow's Curds!" I was instantly atomized with large quantities of what appeared to be cottage cheese spurting from a fire extinguisher. Consumed in Curds, I made a breakneck retreat, slipping all over myself.
"What's with this yesterday's milk business? Where have I heard that before? It must be the secret phrase to this story.... Ah the large maple tree!!!" I strode up to the standing timber, finding no inscription, shrugged my shoulders and carved:
I'M PROBABLY HERE
But nothing happened. A moment later, to my astonishment, a sheet of lightning flashed and bit the bark. I waited in anticipation as the vapor from the combustion cleared. Hacking heavily and waving smoke away, I made out the assertion:
"Sorry, this isn't your story, sucker!... Tough luck!"
Feeling desperately forsaken, I remembered my friend the Strange Stranger. With Strange nowhere to be found after a lengthy search, I buried my face in my hands and cried aloud. "Woe is me! For what reason was I born? My life is but a cruel joke to which their laughter is like a slick dagger, twisting and turning, purging me of any reason or desire to go on...Woe is me!" Again I buried my face and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, until I was doing the backstroke in my own lamentations. Then what sounded like tennis shoes swishing through shallow water---(I never had the courage to swim in water more than a foot deep)-- startled me.
"Pardon me, but do you know where I might find the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City of The Intellectually Inept?" Strange quizzed.
"Strange !!!" I delighted.
"Strange? What's strange?" Strange asked.
"You're Strange, of course!"
"I beg your pardon, but, you're not so ordinary looking yourself!" Strange protested.
"No, Strange, I know who's the Intellectually Inept!... It's Homer!" I exclaimed, grabbing Strange by the shoulders.
"Homer?... Now that's strange." Strange nearly sprained his brain as his mind almost tripped over its own confusion. I gave up trying to clarify myself and grabbed him by his bewilderment, and hastened him to Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger's Bistro. Upon arrival, Strange looked around, closed his eyes and pondered deeply, "Yeah it's vaguely clear...I think it's all coming back...I ate here once!!! Yeah I had a Spam Slam. Yeah, it was...."
"No Strange. You've got to think real hard. Don't you remember the phrase...Dawn Comes With Rosy Fingers!" I frantically queried.
"Oh! So you're the Intellectually Inept... that explains everything!"
"Yeah...No... Yeah! Wait a minute...No, it's Homer. I'm just the Gate Keeper, remember?!!" I attempted to clarify in frustration.
Slowly, a white haired man, who resembled Homer, though I thought it couldn't have been-- on account of he was sporting a mature Van Dyke-- strolled up to where we were waiting in line for a vacant table. "Dawn Comes With Rosy Fingers," he spoke in a hoarse whispery voice.
Strange drew a revolver from a holster I hadn't noticed, strapped to his right knee, and pulled the trigger, aiming for Homer's chest.
"Whadja do that for?!!!" I shouted.
"Well, I figured he was this 'strange' character you've been warning me about."
"No Strange!" I attempted to forcefully assist him to remember what I was trying to drive into his thick skull by slapping the top of his head. "You've just shot Homer, the Intellectually Inept!"
"Oh, now I get it!" Strange remarked, shrugging his shoulders as I stooped down to Homer who lay dying.
"Homer, you got to think real hard; this isn't my story, and I have no inkling as to what the answering phrase to Yesterday's milk is tomorrow's curds, is."
Homer gasped for breath, but managed to declare "I'm not the... the... milkman...uh (cough cough) ..." Then breathed his final breath.
I closed Homer's eyes as Strange crossed himself. "What did he mean, the milkman?" I sighed.
As Strange was gobbling down his lunch while sitting on Homer's corpse, for the lack of empty seats, I was trying to put the pieces together in my mind. A couple of rows up sat a face I was well-acquainted with. Could it be? Yes, it was Marty! Of course! Marty is the Milkman! "Marty, how did you get here?" I hooted kind of puzzled. He looked up in surprise with a piece of lettuce from his buffalo burger hanging from his mouth.
"I was out deliverin' milk in yer neighborhood early this mornin', when all the sudden, this one-eyed midget holdn' a cat in one arm and runnin' outta yer house, holdin' a word processor under the other. Next thing I knew I'd landed on a large pile of rocks... head first!"
"So, Marty," I whispered closely, "what's the answering phrase to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds?!"
Startled by my intrigue of a seemingly meaningless lyric, he almost choked on a Bunion Ring. "It ain't nothin', Clyde. Just a stupid poem I made up."
"Stupid or not," I said grabbing his hand as it was about to once more feed his face, "it's probably our only hope of getting out of this fictional muddle we're in!"
He stopped and took a big slurp of his Fermented Brussels Sprout Soda, and belched politely with his face imbedded in his napkin. "Ok, Ok...Yesterday's Milk is Tomorrows Curds; But Cow Patties Burn Better Than Buffalo Turds...I told you it ain't nothin'." Marty informed me that there were others deep in the Fictional Forest, hiding in a cave. I instructed him that we'd have to assemble the entire group together and search for The Merry Calypso Singers, they were undoubtedly our only covert connection in this whole matter.
Upon departing from The City of The Intellectually Inept, we entered deep into The Fictional Forrest on a drawn-out quest for everyone else. Nearing the underground shelter deep-set into the fringe of a humble foothill, Maggie came running toward us. "Mag, is that you?" I asked, blocking the sun from my eyes.
"Aye Clyde, I'm sure you know me good friend Deputy Doodah!"
Doodah appeared out from behind some bushes then recognized us. "Clyde, I have some very important information for you..."
(We'll return to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds, after this brief public service announcement).
If you smoke.... Stop!!!!!!!!
(We now return to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds, starring Clyde P. Hipwing!)
"Now what in tarnation was that all about?" Doodah scratched his head. "Now I've lost my train of thought..."
"YOU TOO?!?!" I asked surprised.
"Oh yeah," Doodah remembered, "There's an unusual fella inside with some big news for ya about the one-eyed midget!"
Upon entering the small but spacious cavern, I spied a middle aged hooligan looking fellow with an effortless-to-behold-in-the-dusk 5 o'clock shadow. "Hello Clyde." He somberly spoke.
"Mr Pigglesworth, is that you?"
Elmo cleared his throat. "I've got some information concerning Mr Big, the one-eyed midget. Now, I haven't been able to maintain contact with my colleagues as to whether Chairman Meow, the Rumpusaurous Rex, has in fact completed his task in devouring him as of yet, but if not, your job once you return from the Fictional Forest is to, in essence, blackmail the one-eyed midget to return, or face public disgrace in light of the following info. Listen carefully: As a young sprout, Mr. Big financed his college tuition 25 years ago with a money making scam, targeting the old and senile, making a killing by posing as a 'Professional Door to Door Toilet Flusher,' charging $10 a flush! He's been twice abducted by Europan Moon Women, and is known to have fathered as many as a dozen half human/half Europan children; thus contracting an extremely rare skin disease called, The Bacteria Poop Syndrome (BPS). Bacteria from the inner body work their way up to the outer layer of the epidermis and defecate in large quantities, turning the flesh into Cheddar, Mozzarella, Swiss, Colby, Monterey Jack, Parmesan or Cottage Cheese, depending on your ethnic background. Every month the victim sheds about a pound of cheese that's sold to your unsuspecting neighborhood Mom and Pop grocery store; to help pay medical costs and earn a little profit for the grocer.
Mr Big is now suffering from the far more advanced stages of the disease; and his feet are gradually succumbing to the final, most decisively horrifying manifestation due to the affliction; Limburger cheese. For that very reason, he belongs to a highly, secretive support group, called 'Odor Eaters Anonymous.' The group gets together two times a week, wearing paper bags over their heads so as to not recognize each other. Everyone is to participate in an hour long session of foot washing; to share in each other's misery and shame. You present the warning to Mr Big, and he'll have no choice but to return to the Fictional Forest." Pigglesworth announced.
"Wow, where did you get all of this?" I whispered, being very deeply struck that a simple cherry picker would have the resources to gather such sensitive information. But, how stupid of me, he could For-saw the past!
Then He leaned closer... "It's all in The X-Wife Files!"
After a near complete fortnight while surviving on wild berries, nuts and maple sap; we woke on the 13th morning, eyeing the the Merry Calypso Singers approaching our encampment. "Go ahead Marty, you know what to do!" I prodded.
Marty swaggered toward the obvious chieftain of the gleeful bunch. "Are you the Milkman?" The band leader demanded.
"I am!" Marty boasted.
"Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds!" the leader prompted.
"...And Cowpatties Burn Better Than Buffalo Turds!" Marty heralded with his chin held towering high.
I, with much ado, darted at the leader who subsequently reared back and hurled a blazing cowpattie, just missing my right shoulder, after I approached to greet him. "Why do you guys keep doing this to me?!" I whimpered.
"We don't want you! We want the Milkman!" The headman insisted.
Marty advanced forward as the Merry Men picked him up over their heads, hailing "God save the Milkman!"... and marched on.
We tarried along for miles, and still more miles, until we fell upon a massive pile of mangled wreckage..."My demolished Train of Thought!" I cried.
MEANWHILE IN VEGAS…
"I hope you know, though I don't need to assist you much... I'm going to do everything I can to make a fool of you!" Matilda clawed at Mr. Big.
"Shut up, pretty pussy cat, you're gonna make me rich!"
"And now, live from the Sands Motel, in Las Vegas, Nevada.... Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my privilege to introduce to you this evening...Emilio Esparanza Mucho Gusto Julio Bigjohn, i.e. Mr. Big, and the world's only talking cat!"
After about five minutes of thunderous applause, Mr. Big started his gigantic leap into world fame. "Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen .... What I'm going to demonstrate to you this evening, took years of hard work in exhaustive efforts to teach a rather dumb feline to master the English language. No one else in all the world can take credit for my fantastic feat. She holds a PhD, has dined with 3 US presidents, 14 different world ambassadors; and knows 23 different languages from many different nations."
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" The audience sighed in adoration.
And now! .... Ladies and Gentlemen," Mr. Big proudly announced, "I shall ask Miss Matilda Waudlebaum the following Question: In all the years of my exhaustive genius efforts, as concerns your education, how be it that you of all dumb... er um...uneducated species can express your innermost thoughts in the English dialect?"
Matilda replied quite profoundly....... "Meow."
The crowd dotingly chuckled as she rubbed up next to the microphone, purring for all to hear.
"I'm gonna have violin strings made from your entrails, if you don't co-operate, cat!" Mr. Big whispered, covering the mic. "She's just kidding, aren't you, Matilda?"
"That's right, Ladies and Gentlemen, I was left at an orphanage at 3 months of age, until my humble Mr. Big rescued me. I never had to sleep outside, ate the most nutritious of food; and after he taught me to speak, he enrolled me in the finest Ivy League school in the nation!"
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" The audience melted as Mr. Big smiled and winked his only eye to the camera.
"But, if you think I'M fascinating," Matilda purred, "I'd like to introduce you all to someone who REALLY has a lot to say!"
"WHO?!" Mr. Big nervously inquired.
"Let's give a big hand for Mrs. Nelly Big, who is sure to entertain us with a fun-filled evening of fascinating tales of her estranged husband, come on out, Nelly!"
"But, but, but there is no Mrs....."
"Hi, dumplings," Nelly winked, "as soon as Miss Waudlebaum informed me of this occasion, I cancelled all my prior promised appointments just to speak on your behalf. Now, where do I begin? Oh yes, let's talk about all the troubles in the bedroom..."
"Woooooooooooooooh!" The crowd lit up.
"Oh, I'm gonna kill you, cat!!!!" Mr. Big yelled, while in pursuit of Matilda as the crowd became indignant -- throwing chairs, shoes, the four basic food groups, and whatever else was available, on to the stage. Just as you'd think there absolutely wasn't anything left to throw, a brawny gentleman in the first row leaped onto the stage and clobbered Mr. Big with a 60-pound kitchen sink over his oversized head, knocking him senselessly comatose. BONK!!!!!!!
Then, there was a sudden hush on the crowd as the floor rumbled and the fire breathing, Rumpasourous Rex, Chairman Meow, exploded like a ruptured appendix... and pounced on Mr. Big, rump first, over his entire face; then loosed an enormous 300 decibel hunk of cheese, shattering Mr. Big's every bone... not to mention bringing down all the fancy portraits hanging on the walls. He arose triumphantly and swallowed the One-Eyed Midget whole, as the audience begged for more. Nelly, not having good hearing or eyesight, figured they wanted more of HER and lectured for another half hour before she was escorted off stage. A book publisher quickly approached her with a gigantic book offer, and a $10,000 check as an advance. "I was married once to an old fart just like him," she whispered, grabbing her elbow and escorted her to her van to sign contracts.
Matilda, meanwhile, had made a mad dash out a side door, not realizing what was going on while jumping into the backseat of a waiting cab. "To the airport please! Do hurry!"
The sleepy cab driver nodded without looking in the rearview mirror. Matilda was frantic as to what to do next. No more than fifteen minutes later, the taxi screeched to a halt. "Ah, dattle be five bucks, ma'am."
Matilda answered nervously. "I don't have any money, but...."
"Hey look, ma'am, I ...." The driver realized he was conversing with a cat as Matilda gave him a cute but dumb animal look, and left him in a CATatonic trance (sorry, couldn't help myself).
She ran past the indoor crowd, looked up at the flight schedule. She noticed that 'Tragedy Airlines, Flight 13,' had a plane headed for Oklahoma City, boarding passengers in 5 minutes. "How am I going to board a plane? Oh! In the luggage compartment, naturally."
She sneaked past the gate and noticed the loading attendant not paying attention, apathetically loading luggage, then she prowled behind and noticed he was about to sneeze. With his eyes shut and nose itching, he didn't see her jump inside, just before he shut the compartment and locked it tight.
Meanwhile deep in the fictional forest I was trying to piece my Train of Thought back together. This was going to prove taxing, creating a story within a story, but I had it settled in my mind it could be done. Of course, I dreaded the chore of using a pen once again, but, I had no choice; the one-eyed midget ran off with my word processor and hocked it. As I began my introduction, my locomotion of ideas was starting to be put back on track (corny, huh?). Gradually my Train of Thought was beginning to piece together. I excitedly got into the engine. "Good Godfrey! No fuel! Where am I going to get the ink? The life blood of my story?!!" I asked myself aloud.
"Why don't we jest push it till it gets uphill and then let'er rip?!" Doodah suggested.
"Okay, just push it till she starts goin' down. Then everyone jump on."
Doodah and Marty pushed as Maggie held a megaphone in one paw, giving directions. We were having a difficult and laborious time till the Merry Band of Calypso Singers joined in pushing, and singing "We Shall Overcome."
Once the train reached the top it began to speed up. Marty and Doodah jumped aboard just as steam erupted from the spout. I looked down at the front panel. "Ink! We've got ink... a full tank!" The entire group was elated with enthusiasm. We did it!
As I looked out the window I noticed my exact 'Fictional Likeness' that the One-Eyed Midget had created waving farewell to me. I returned the gesture, realizing I was no more subjected to Mr. Big's imagination, for I was leaving my fictional self behind and would again enter my own reality... by again dying a fictitious death. Something I hadn't informed the others about. "Shouldn't I tell them? Or just do it?" I thought to myself. But there wasn't much time to explain as the unfinished track was fast approaching. Upon its advance, Marty immediately passed out
"Where in tarnation are you goin'?! Look out!" and..."We're gonna bloody die!" were Doodah and Maggie's inquisitions and proclamations concerning their inevitable --inescapable demise.
"Hold on! It's gonna be all right!" I shouted, holding on to Doodah's arm as he thinks about jumping. The train gathered momentum, going faster and faster, approaching the same fall as before. Then as everyone gasped it plunged into the rocks and exploded. We opened our eyes, still screaming--- and realized we were back in our physical reality. We were also in the middle of the intersection on the corner of “I" and "Am" and everyone was honking, demanding we get out of the road as Doodah began making threats to arrest the next horn blower. We had all just shaken the dust off ourselves when the ground began to tremble and the fire breathing, feline looking, Rumpasaurous Rex came ripping up through the ground in the middle of the intersection, scattering concrete fragments in all directions... "Hey, yer gonna have to stop doing that, buddy!" Doodah demanded.
"Yeah, yeah, okay." Chairman Meow shrugged. "The-one eyed midget and all his mischief are no more!" he proudly affirmed.
"Where is he?" Doodah asked, needing reassurance.
"Consumed in kitty litter (hee hee)…" the cat-like Rumpasaurous joked, though no one laughed, instead everyone headed home, each one of us going in separate directions.
Just as Maggie and I were about a block away, Matilda observed us from the topmost of her favorite shade tree and came running. "Oh dear luvs, I worried so much about you! You'll just never believe what I've been through." She excitedly rapped on and on.
"Well," Maggie replied, "while the lad and me-self had been risking our lives, you got to go Vegas."
"Oh my, aren't we in a bitchy mood today?" Matilda purred.
"Oh you sissy little pussy willow!" Mag growled. The two of them battled similar to cats and dogs, all the way to our humble abode.
Meanwhile, Next Monday Night at The Bid for Sheriff Debate:
... And as the next sheriff of Pothole County," Marty promised, "I'll make sure we don't have nothin' like that again."
"Would you like a rebuttal, Doodah? You have one minute." The Debate Judge asked.
"Yeah, I'd like to say that my opponent is an arrogant S.O.B.!" Immediately fists began to swing as the band started up, and a singer stepped up to the microphone to lead those in attendance with a cheerful campaign chorus--- with the melody of Camptown Races:
Who's the man who'll cut your grass?
Even carry out your trash
And meet your every whim.
He'll even wash your car
Or treat you at the bar
He'll go so far as kiss your butt--
If you'll vote for him!
All cheered as Doodah and Marty were tumbling all over the platform, still punching it out. Everyone except the little neighbor lady, Mrs. McPherson, who paced up to the mic. "Will everyone please just shut-up and listen? Neither one of these heathens deserve our votes. I say let's draft Sheriff Marshall Dumas for another term in office!"
Everyone, but Doodah and Marty, who were still rolling on the floor, catcalled her off of her soapbox. The whole community wanted to see more blood, gore, and guts. After the judge broke up the battle and calmed the crowd, he demanded that the debate resume peacefully. Doodah was the first to get up, bloody nose and all, surprisingly sportsmanlike though... as he lent a hand to Marty, who now was adorned with a plaque-stricken bicuspid, lodged in his left earlobe. "You boys oughta be ashamed of ur-selves." the Judge harped. "Now Doodah, if you can't say anything respectable about your opponent, then don't say nothin' at all! You hear?"
"Ah yes sir.... Ma opponent wants to be easy on first time offenders. He wants to have readin' and rithmatic books in the jail cells. My opponent has a big heart... a real big heart... a really, real big heart... but there's still plenty of room in it for his really, really, real big mouth... and... I still say he's an arrogant S.O.B.!!"
Following fifteen more minutes of knuckles soaring, Marty ascended up to the microphone to secure the platform. "I'd just like to say... I know my opponent don't like me much. But I've always looked up to him as my big brother...er somethin,’ and I've just decided that if this here election is gonna divide everyone, I'd just as soon go back to deliverin' milk. I don't want your vote. I want my old buddy, Doodah, back!"
All the people booing and hissing began leaving in disgust as Doodah rose to his feet to bear-hug Marty, and let loose on his shoulder. "When I said Marty was an S.O.B, I was right." A stillness fell on those who stuck around as he continued, "He's a full fledged Son of a Boy Scout! And I demand that you vote for Marty, tomorrow!"
"No, no, no, Doodah, YOU deserve it, my friend!" Marty replied.
"Nope, I'm takin' over yer milk business, Heh Heh." Doodah snickered.
"What's so funny 'bout the milk business? Think you could do it better?" Marty boiled.
"Why no, Marty, Heh Heh! Unlike you, milk and I aren't in the same league, Heh Heh!"
Before long, the entire affair started up again. The debate judge took charge of the festivity as Doodah and Marty, more vicious than before, rumbled about, throwing punches. "Thank you, everyone, for comin' to the debate. Votin' time starts tomorrow at 7 A.M. Should there be a problem with the electricity tonight an yer clocks should stop 'cause of the up-coming blizzard.... that's around the time Frank Jones lets the chickens out, and the cock crows thrice."
And, In The Middle of The News The Following Day:
"....................Concerning the situation in the former Soviet Union, 'all hope for Russia is lost, cause Vladimir's Pootin'!' said an up and coming......... Oh, I'm sorry, I read that wrong.... "All hope, for Russia, is a lost cause!" Vladimir Putin said.... An up and coming member of the Duma, who's seriously considering the Prime Minister-ship, if offered. More details on that later, as they arrive.
"In National news today........From Los Angeles, California, we've just received word that popular television show host, Patti Peptalk, from The Patti Peptalk Hour, is being held in the Los Angeles City Jail on 2nd degree murder charges of 61 people, and attempted murder of 12 others who were all attending the annual Patti Peptalk Pitty Party. Her defense lawyers are trying to negotiate a deal, that if she pleads guilty, the charges would be lowered to 1st degree manslaughter. But, the DA's office is not budging and wouldn't release any details, other than the apparent incident occurred when a sweet, grandmotherly like woman in the front row kindly advised Mrs Peptalk that her dress didn't quite match her eyes.
"Oh, I've just been handed a late breaking story... ‘Vladimir Putin just called... I don't understand Russian, but he sounded pissed! The boss told me to tell you to clean out your lock.....er’...........Uh
"............In local news: so far, there is a low voter turnout in the efforts of electing a new sheriff in Mountain Oyster and the surrounding area. Everyone is either watching the noon parade, taking their kids to the park for the big picnic; or playing bingo since it's once again legal in Pothole County. Tonight there's supposed to be a big fireworks display, and the newly elected sheriff is to make a big speech. But of course this celebration has nothing to do with election day... No, it's simply George Birthington's Washday!!!!!!!!"
Proceed to Story Three…