Agent Rackensack adjusted his tie and followed Stiffupperlip’s lead. They slid in though an opening in the weathered aluminium sheeting near the base of the old Fantasy Factory. And, as expected, they ended up behind some unmarked wooden crates (not unlike those that all of Indiana Jones’ stuff gets stored in). As far as either one of them knew, they made it in undetected. But they were both worse for the wear.
Being a Suit meant having certain privileges, foremost of which was never being folded and stuffed in a drawer. At a minimum it meant a nice wooden hanger and one of those plastic suit bags. Shoving oneself to fit into overhead compartments—or in this case wrinkling to fit through a small crack—was not in the job description. Both Agent Rackensack and Agent Stiffupperlip were noticeably miffed. Neither one of them spoke or paid any attention to the immediate danger surrounding them. Instead they kept running their white gloves over their suits trying to free themselves from the tyranny of wrinkles and softly cursing under their breath. It was quite amusing how congruent their motions and demeanor were, one might think that they taught this sort of thing at the academy.
Once the despised wrinkles were gone, the Suits scanned the area. It didn’t take much sleuthing to find that they had snuck right in to an enclave of boxes that were doubling as a stool for a rather large and ugly balrog. Agent Stiffupperlip took one look at the burly beast and said, “Alight Rackensack. When I give the signal, I need you to wrassle with the big fellow. It’ll provide me a good distraction.”
“Distraction from what? Having a partner?” Agent Rackensack said, almost forgetting that they were whispering. “That thing’ll tear me to shreds.”
“Don’t they teach you Rentals anything at the academy? That’s a balrog, all ya gotta do is scratch it under the chin. He’ll be your friend for life,” Agent Stiffupperlip said. “Heck, it’s like feeding a string of sausages to a guard dog. Honestly, I don’t know how balrogs keep getting work as hired muscle.”
“Stratch it under the chin,” Agent Rackensack repeated, searching for courage but instead came up with the willingness to believe the advice of a senior Suit paired with the desire to prove himself; in this case, perhaps that was even better than courage. “Alright, I’ll do it.”
“Not right away, Rackensack. You’ll need to wrassle him for as long as you can,” Agent Stiffupperlip hoisted himself atop one of the crates. “I’m gonna need as much time as you can give me. I know you can do it Agent. On my signal.”
John Barleycorn was able to convince someone on the wait staff to cover him for a moment while he went to tend his loose ends. As was the norm in situations, he was reminded that a stitch in time saved nine. Everyone thought they were so clever, but no one really understood the saying. A stitch in time usually only saved about five or six. Seven at the most.
Being new to working at the Labyrinth, John Barleycorn had a hard time finding the bathroom and he unwittingly stumbled down several wrong paths. One corridor led to a door behind which he found Daedalus and a minotaur doing something that he’d first hurl his button-eyes into the sun than see again. Lots of strange things happened in the Labyrinth, after all it was a place where creatures of all genres could get lost, but this was by far the weirdest he had ever seen.
What was seen could not been unseen, even after John Barelycorn took off his eyes and polished the black ivory buttons. Unable to see ahead of him, he navigated the maze, knowing that he had just as good of a chance at finding the bathroom without eyes as he did with them. Down the hall and around the corner, he heard running water. Following it to its source, John Barleycorn found the bathroom at last, entering just as a particularly hairy gentlemen was leaving.
It had to be the biggest bathroom he had ever laid witness to. There were hundreds of stalls on one wall and one massive trough lining the other. Peculiarly, there was only one person actively relieving himself in the trough while a congregation of other men stood in idle chatter, nonchalantly keeping an eye for an opening in one of the stalls.
Across the room to where the line of stalls and the single trough almost extended to the point of convergence, John Barleycorn spotted a single sinkwith a tiny, hazy mirror hanging above it. He strutted to the other side and went to work stitching in time. He was hopeful to save just one or two at this point.
Admiring his seamless handiwork, John Barleycorn was all set to leave when he dropped his needle on the floor. While he bent over to find it, someone mistook him for a towel and dried his hands of him. John Barleycorn didn’t know how he could be mistaken for a towel, after all, this bathroom boasted the noisiest, most inefficient hand blower in all of the land of Make Believe.
What one did others were sure to follow. Though he protested against their damp hands, he could not be heard over the deafening din of the noisiest, most inefficient hand blower in all of the land of Make Believe. Along the way, someone determined that the towel that was John Barleycorn was a single-use towel and threw him in the trash chute where he remained stuck until someone threw away a half-ton sack of bricks above him. Getting hit and crushed by a half-ton sack of bricks felt about as close to getting hit with a ton of bricks as he ever hoped to experience. Eventually, he was able to shimmy his way out from beneath the pile of rubble.
Climbing out of a Trash-co waste disposal until, John Barleycorn heard gruff laugher coming from a room nearby. He strutted over, eager to find the way back to the main bar area when he heard a name that sent shivers down his spindle-spine.
“Highwayman’s waiting for us. We have to act now,” one of the voices said. “If we don’t deliver, Highwayman’s gonna have a fit. I don’t want to test Highwayman, he’s crazy. I heard one time Highwayman—“
“Shut up Edgewise! You want everyone to hear you and find out we’re working for the guy.”
“You mean Highwayman?” Edgewise broke in.
“Yes you imbecile. Now we all know what the plan is: we grab the package and deliver it to the guy.”
“Mr. Fantasy.”
“Seriously Edgewise, shut up! Don’t you understand that there’s a Winking Moon tonight? The package is the package and the guy is the guy, that’s the code we decided on.”
“Hey I just thought of a new code: Edgewise is stupid,” a third, goofy sounding voice joked, clearly amusing himself and himself only.
“How did I get stuck with you two? Let’s just do the job and get the heck out of Make Believe.”
“Uh, hey boss, what’s that blinking light mean again?” The dimwitted one asked.
“Oh pooey! That’s the Narradar. There’s narration abound and seeing as how we’re only minor characters, there’s a protagonist nearby.”
John Barleycorn was found out and he didn’t wait a second more to see what would happen. He suspected that there would have been some rising tension followed by the point of no return and when all seemed lost some Deus Ex Machina would have set a series of events in motion that would let him save the day; but that was only supposing that he really was a protagonist. He didn’t feel like a protagonist, but he’d be lying if he told you that he didn’t feel as though he deserved it. He did, after all, have a pretty good turn as main character support in his adventures to see the Schmizard of Schmoz. If only the floor of the Labyrinth was paved with yellow bricks.
Hustling through the maze, John Barleycorn had only one thought on his mind: he had to warn Mr. Fantasy.
Stepping out into the hallway just as John Barleycorn was turning the corner, a giant baby smoking a cigar riding a two headed camel exited the room. “Hey what’s this?” The oafish voice asked, coming from the camel head on this right.
“Stop,” the giant baby demanded. “The narrator’s still here. Don’t do anything worth reading. It’s the only way to get him to stop telling people what we’re up to.”
The three of them stopped
Edgewise couldn’t wait to munch on more of the pieces of straw that littered the ground in a fashion resembling a trail left by a fleeing, shedding scarecrow. So what if there was a narrator around? He thought. This thing had to get to a climax anyhow.
“Is one of you getting introspective on me?” The baby said, digging his heels into the side of the camel. “Cut it out!”
“Hay huh? It must be that new bartender, Barleycorn. Stop!”
“John Barleycorn must die. Stop!”
“Stop!”
“Stop!”
“Stop!”
“But we’re almost there,” Edgewise pleaded.
“Just stop.”
John Barleycorn finally found his way out of the Labyrinth and into the bar area. By the time he got there he had lost nearly half the hay in his shin and developed a rather painful-looking limp. Mr. Fantasy was nowhere to be found.
“That’s some dance Barelycorn,” a slurred voice said from behind him. He recognized it immediately as Agent Rainmaker’s.
“Oh thank goodness! It’s pronounced Barleycorn, but thank goodness,” John Barleycorn said, exasperated. “I need help. It’s Mr. Fantasy…” He had trouble getting the words out. “Our dear Mr. Fantasy…I think he’s—“
“Dear Mr. Fantasy,” Agent Rainmaker said, slipping her hands around John Barleycorn’s shoulders. “I love that tune. ♪Dear Mister Fantasy♪” she sang. “♪Play us a tune♪”
“♪Something to make us all happy♪” Someone else joined in.
“I think he’s in trouble,” John Barleycorn said beneath the rising chorus.
“♪Do anything to take us out of this gloom♪” The entire ballroom was swept up in the catchy tune.
“♪Sing a song, play guitar—“
“♪Make it snappy♪” Mr. Fantasy appeared to a huge round of applause.
With all eyes on Mr. Fantasy, John Barleycorn felt like he had accomplished the task of keeping him safe. All he had to do now was warn him that Highwayman was after him.
Before he made his way through the crowd, a two-headed camel with a giant cigar-smoking baby on top emerged into the ballroom. (Somehow they were able to subvert even the most cunning attempts to get here free from description of their journey, motives or background. Blast that dang Narradar!)
Oh look. The Narradar fell out of giant baby’s hands and was trampled by a big fat guy. What a shame.
Giant baby rode his camel over and pulled something from his diaper. “Make it snappy indeed. Dying that is,” he said as he cast the handful of dust over Mr. Fantasy.
A swirling vortex portal opened up nearby and sucked Mr. Fantasy into it. Giant baby and his two headed camel jumped in afterwards.
Feeling the call of propagandistic duty, John Barleycorn lunged into the portal just as it was closing. He had a day to save.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A loss for words
Awesomosis (n.)
Awe-some-o-sis
1. The act of mishearing a word or phrase and mistaking it for something far more awesome
2. a) The diffusion of awesomeness between two people who are unequal in their awesomitude until an equal amount of awesome exists in both parties
b) The tendency of awesomeness to diffuse in such a manner
Ex. The word awesomosis was coined through awesomosis.
Ex. Just by being in the same room as Billy Dee Williams, a person's awesome quotient will rise significantly through awesomosis.
awesomotic (adj.)
awesomotically (adv.)
Awe-some-o-sis
1. The act of mishearing a word or phrase and mistaking it for something far more awesome
2. a) The diffusion of awesomeness between two people who are unequal in their awesomitude until an equal amount of awesome exists in both parties
b) The tendency of awesomeness to diffuse in such a manner
Ex. The word awesomosis was coined through awesomosis.
Ex. Just by being in the same room as Billy Dee Williams, a person's awesome quotient will rise significantly through awesomosis.
awesomotic (adj.)
awesomotically (adv.)
A loss for words
New feature! Because there are not enough words in the English language, I'm going to try to coin a few new ones. First up...
Increduality (n.)
In-cre-du-al-it-y
1. Not believing in one's disbelief
2. Too unbelievable to be true, but decidedly so
3. The dichotomy of that which has a perceived truth too strong to be false and that which has a perceived falseness too strong to be true; the divide between belief and disbelief
Ex. Lex Luthor despised the increduality of Superman that he would ever offer to work together even under the threat of Brainiac and the impending death of mankind.
Incredualism (n.)
Incredualistic (adj.)
Incredualistically (adv.)
Increduality (n.)
In-cre-du-al-it-y
1. Not believing in one's disbelief
2. Too unbelievable to be true, but decidedly so
3. The dichotomy of that which has a perceived truth too strong to be false and that which has a perceived falseness too strong to be true; the divide between belief and disbelief
Ex. Lex Luthor despised the increduality of Superman that he would ever offer to work together even under the threat of Brainiac and the impending death of mankind.
Incredualism (n.)
Incredualistic (adj.)
Incredualistically (adv.)
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Shootout at the Fantasy Factory - Chapter 3
Highwayman promptly took the low spark of the High Heeled Boys and put it in a tri-liddium plated suitcase. Pixanne knew it was tri-liddium and not di-liddium because determining the number of liddia was something that all pixies could do. It was a good thing that he did too, because although the static from the spark of the High Heeled Boys did a good job of wrinkling the Suits, it also did a heck of a job of attracting them.
Now that her task was complete, Pixanne decided it best to collect her bills of currency and head on out before whatever it was that Highwayman was planning went down. Unfortunately though, that meant that she had to pay a visit to Esteban Calcutta, the two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean.
There was a lot she just did not get about Esteban, like why he was living in the land of Make Believe and not Advert Isle; why he only existed in two dimensions, when all anyone had to do was stick their thumb in their mouth and blow to expand to x, y and z; why he kept a watch and a pocket watch; but most especially, why he thought that Pixanne wanted anything to do with him.
At the cusp of the door with his name emblazoned in roasted mocha, Pixanne took a moment to straighten herself out. Scrunching her dress and bending the edges of her wings even more, she tried to make herself as unappealing as possible. It saddened her to think that those were the only two things she could think of to make herself more unappealing.
She used to drive all the guys wild. They were mesmerized by her fuzzy-toed slippers, but now they looked like the tail of a rabbit that had succeeded one more time than he tried to light his toots aflame. When she smiled, it used to go “P-ting” just like old-timey toothpaste commercials, but now she tried to smile as little as possible to keep the ever growing army of wrinkles at bay. Pixanne missed all of the attention, though miss it she did, she did not want to receive any from Esteban Calcutta the two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean. (Though that is up for debate, as evidenced by this next little scene wherein Pixanne asks for her pay, all the while flirting with Esteban which she justifies by telling herself that she’s only doing it—hey wait a minute. If you want to know more you’re just going to have to read on.)
Jeez. No spoiler warning or nothing.
Pixanne rapped on the door and let herself in before Esteban could give invitation. “Highwayman says for you to pay me.” She said as Esteban’s face lit up with an eager smile.
“Pixanne, you’re looking lovely this evening. As usual, m’lady.” The two-dimensional coffee bean stood up and bowed, inviting his guest to sit.
Pixanne obliged him, promptly crossing her legs as she sat. Esteban was in the habit of turning sideways so that his prying eyes would be obscured by his paper thin sideways form so he could try to sneak a peek. “You’re looking well Esteban. Still living the 2-D life, I see.”
“Paper money, paper people,” he said, turning back to face her. “That’s what I always say.” He picked up a small digital clock from the edge of his desk. “Look at the time. I was expecting you sooner. The Highwayman said to expect you much, much sooner.”
“I know, I got held up.” Pixanne turned to the side, trying to convey her discomfort. This served two purposes, though she would only admit to serving one. The first was that she wanted Esteban to mimic her body language (pixies were very capable of making people copy their body language); the second was that (with the help of Agent Stiffupperlip) it exposed a fairly good percent of her tookus through her torn dress. Refer to Figure 1 for a more detailed description.
Figure 1. Over here==>
The x-axis is the number of degrees that Pixanne is turned from Esteban Calcutta. Right now, she’s at about 50°. According to the chart, that’s approximately 255 TPI.
“It is not my duty to judge, m’lady. My purpose is best described by—how do you say?—paying the bills,” he laughed. “Who are the Bills. I don’t know any Bills. Your colloquialisms confuse me.” He sat back and took a not so sly look at the 255 TPI and smiled. “So, how much does the uh…the uh—what did you deliver again m’lady?
“The low spark.”
“Ah, yes. That’s right. The low spark of the High-Heeled Boys,” He disappeared into two dimensionality. The file cabinet opened up an paper-thin fingers rifled through the papers. “Would I have put that under ‘L’ for ‘low spark’ or ‘H’ for ‘High-Heeled Boys’?”
Pixanne sighed and turned about seven more degrees from the plane of Esteban’s desk (about 300 on the TPI scale). She told herself she was turning because she was annoyed and uncomfortable, bit we all know the real reason, don’t we? “It’s under ‘P’ for ‘Pixanne’. We went over this last time Esteban.” Two more degrees. “Let’s go, I don’t have all day.”
“Ah yes. Of course, of course. Here it is,” he returned to facing her holding a manila folder. “Oh no. This isn’t good at all.”
“What. What is it now?”
“Did you say you brought the low spark?”
“Yes, Esteban,” Six more degrees (for at total of about 65 degrees on the TPI scale). “The low spark.”
“Are you sure? Because I have you down here for the high spark. Are you sure it wasn’t the high spark that you brought?”
“Yes, Esteban. Can I please just collect my currency?”
“Perhaps I should call Highwayman. He’ll be able to sort this out.”
Pixanne sighed and turned even more in her seat. Bringing her to somewhere near 75° on the TPI scale. “I’m sure we don’t need to bring Highwayman into this Mr. Calcutta. He probably has a lot on his mind right now. I don’t think he wants to deal with bureaucracy right now. Couldn’t you just make an executive decision.”
Esteban loved to think of himself as a premier bureaucrat. In his mind, executive decisions were all he made. Two dimensions or three? Executive decision. Wristwatch or pocket watch? Executive decision. Ham sandwich or turkey sandwich? Executive decision. “I suppose you have—how do you say?—pinned the tail on the donkey. What donkey? And what kind of story are you stapling to this poor donkey? Your colloquialisms, I don’t get them.” He shook his head and looked from his wristwatch to his pocket watch to the small digital clock at the edge of his desk. Then he looked back at his wristwatch. He grabbed his hand to restrain himself from repeating the whole time cycle. “I will pay you the currency for the low spark. You say you were commissioned to deliver the low spark, I will pay you for the low spark. You are very trustworthy, Pixanne. And very beautiful too.”
Pixanne recrossed her legs, putting her at an even 80° turned from the plane of Esteban’s desk. At this point she was showing about 700 tookus per square inch. That’s a lot of tookus. She held out her hand. “The currency Esteban.”
“Ah, yes m’lady. Here is your currency,” he handed her a prepared envelope (and lost a lot of TPI in the process too).
Pixanne took the currency and stuffed it in her satchel. She knew better than to count it. Doing so would only prompt Esteban to declare his business savvyiety. For a split second, the TPI index shot drastically down. That was until a loud tremor (nothing to do with K. Bacon) shook the entire foundation. The TPI index shot way back up to 83.2°. “What was that?”
“That m’lady was the shoot hitting the fan.” And this time, he was right. In a PG-13 setting, that colloquialism made no sense.
Now that her task was complete, Pixanne decided it best to collect her bills of currency and head on out before whatever it was that Highwayman was planning went down. Unfortunately though, that meant that she had to pay a visit to Esteban Calcutta, the two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean.
There was a lot she just did not get about Esteban, like why he was living in the land of Make Believe and not Advert Isle; why he only existed in two dimensions, when all anyone had to do was stick their thumb in their mouth and blow to expand to x, y and z; why he kept a watch and a pocket watch; but most especially, why he thought that Pixanne wanted anything to do with him.
At the cusp of the door with his name emblazoned in roasted mocha, Pixanne took a moment to straighten herself out. Scrunching her dress and bending the edges of her wings even more, she tried to make herself as unappealing as possible. It saddened her to think that those were the only two things she could think of to make herself more unappealing.
She used to drive all the guys wild. They were mesmerized by her fuzzy-toed slippers, but now they looked like the tail of a rabbit that had succeeded one more time than he tried to light his toots aflame. When she smiled, it used to go “P-ting” just like old-timey toothpaste commercials, but now she tried to smile as little as possible to keep the ever growing army of wrinkles at bay. Pixanne missed all of the attention, though miss it she did, she did not want to receive any from Esteban Calcutta the two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean. (Though that is up for debate, as evidenced by this next little scene wherein Pixanne asks for her pay, all the while flirting with Esteban which she justifies by telling herself that she’s only doing it—hey wait a minute. If you want to know more you’re just going to have to read on.)
Jeez. No spoiler warning or nothing.
Pixanne rapped on the door and let herself in before Esteban could give invitation. “Highwayman says for you to pay me.” She said as Esteban’s face lit up with an eager smile.
“Pixanne, you’re looking lovely this evening. As usual, m’lady.” The two-dimensional coffee bean stood up and bowed, inviting his guest to sit.
Pixanne obliged him, promptly crossing her legs as she sat. Esteban was in the habit of turning sideways so that his prying eyes would be obscured by his paper thin sideways form so he could try to sneak a peek. “You’re looking well Esteban. Still living the 2-D life, I see.”
“Paper money, paper people,” he said, turning back to face her. “That’s what I always say.” He picked up a small digital clock from the edge of his desk. “Look at the time. I was expecting you sooner. The Highwayman said to expect you much, much sooner.”
“I know, I got held up.” Pixanne turned to the side, trying to convey her discomfort. This served two purposes, though she would only admit to serving one. The first was that she wanted Esteban to mimic her body language (pixies were very capable of making people copy their body language); the second was that (with the help of Agent Stiffupperlip) it exposed a fairly good percent of her tookus through her torn dress. Refer to Figure 1 for a more detailed description.
Figure 1. Over here==>
The x-axis is the number of degrees that Pixanne is turned from Esteban Calcutta. Right now, she’s at about 50°. According to the chart, that’s approximately 255 TPI.
“It is not my duty to judge, m’lady. My purpose is best described by—how do you say?—paying the bills,” he laughed. “Who are the Bills. I don’t know any Bills. Your colloquialisms confuse me.” He sat back and took a not so sly look at the 255 TPI and smiled. “So, how much does the uh…the uh—what did you deliver again m’lady?
“The low spark.”
“Ah, yes. That’s right. The low spark of the High-Heeled Boys,” He disappeared into two dimensionality. The file cabinet opened up an paper-thin fingers rifled through the papers. “Would I have put that under ‘L’ for ‘low spark’ or ‘H’ for ‘High-Heeled Boys’?”
Pixanne sighed and turned about seven more degrees from the plane of Esteban’s desk (about 300 on the TPI scale). She told herself she was turning because she was annoyed and uncomfortable, bit we all know the real reason, don’t we? “It’s under ‘P’ for ‘Pixanne’. We went over this last time Esteban.” Two more degrees. “Let’s go, I don’t have all day.”
“Ah yes. Of course, of course. Here it is,” he returned to facing her holding a manila folder. “Oh no. This isn’t good at all.”
“What. What is it now?”
“Did you say you brought the low spark?”
“Yes, Esteban,” Six more degrees (for at total of about 65 degrees on the TPI scale). “The low spark.”
“Are you sure? Because I have you down here for the high spark. Are you sure it wasn’t the high spark that you brought?”
“Yes, Esteban. Can I please just collect my currency?”
“Perhaps I should call Highwayman. He’ll be able to sort this out.”
Pixanne sighed and turned even more in her seat. Bringing her to somewhere near 75° on the TPI scale. “I’m sure we don’t need to bring Highwayman into this Mr. Calcutta. He probably has a lot on his mind right now. I don’t think he wants to deal with bureaucracy right now. Couldn’t you just make an executive decision.”
Esteban loved to think of himself as a premier bureaucrat. In his mind, executive decisions were all he made. Two dimensions or three? Executive decision. Wristwatch or pocket watch? Executive decision. Ham sandwich or turkey sandwich? Executive decision. “I suppose you have—how do you say?—pinned the tail on the donkey. What donkey? And what kind of story are you stapling to this poor donkey? Your colloquialisms, I don’t get them.” He shook his head and looked from his wristwatch to his pocket watch to the small digital clock at the edge of his desk. Then he looked back at his wristwatch. He grabbed his hand to restrain himself from repeating the whole time cycle. “I will pay you the currency for the low spark. You say you were commissioned to deliver the low spark, I will pay you for the low spark. You are very trustworthy, Pixanne. And very beautiful too.”
Pixanne recrossed her legs, putting her at an even 80° turned from the plane of Esteban’s desk. At this point she was showing about 700 tookus per square inch. That’s a lot of tookus. She held out her hand. “The currency Esteban.”
“Ah, yes m’lady. Here is your currency,” he handed her a prepared envelope (and lost a lot of TPI in the process too).
Pixanne took the currency and stuffed it in her satchel. She knew better than to count it. Doing so would only prompt Esteban to declare his business savvyiety. For a split second, the TPI index shot drastically down. That was until a loud tremor (nothing to do with K. Bacon) shook the entire foundation. The TPI index shot way back up to 83.2°. “What was that?”
“That m’lady was the shoot hitting the fan.” And this time, he was right. In a PG-13 setting, that colloquialism made no sense.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Shootout at the Fantasy Factory - Chapter 2
“Sorry Mr. Fantasy, but did you say Vlad the Impaler? I believe he was an actual historical figure. He wouldn’t be here in the land of Make Believe.” John Barelycorn said, immediately regretting it as he did.
“Pardon the confusion.” Mr. Fantasy spoke slowly and clearly. “I did not say Vlad the Impaler. I asked if you had anything made by Glad, the Imp Aler, the finest, yet unfortunately unrecognized, potion brewer in all the land.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” John Barelycorn laughed nervously. “Glad the Imp Aler, of course I’ve got some back here. I mean I think that there’s bound to be a bottle or two somewhere in here.” John Barelycorn was an anxious wreck. He had no idea how he had landed a gig bartending at the Labyrinth. Furthermore, he was even more mystified on how his first day also happened to be the day that Mr. Fantasy—the Mr. Fantasy—was hosting a gala. “Ah, here it is!” John Barleycorn exclaimed. The discovery made him genuinely happy, as though he just completed his life’s great quest. “One bottle of potion brewed by none other than Glad, the Imp Aler. Is there anything else I can get for you Mr. Fantasy?” He asked, tugging at the neck of the bottle.
“I would not uncork that if I were you,” Mr. Fantasy spoke with great caution. “To do so would be truly catastrophic for you and I, not to mention about half of my guest list—though between you and I, if I could choose which half I just might tell you to get on with it.” Mr. Fantasy reached across the bar and removed the bottle from John Barleycorn’s willing hands. “Allow me, “ he said.
“Yes, of course Mr. Fantasy.” John Barleycorn said. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, I believe that this will suffice. Best of luck with the rest of your first day, Mr. Barleycorn.” With that, Mr. Fantasy took his leave from the bar.
John Barleycorn puffed out his cheeks and scratched his forehead. He turned to the mirror behind the bar and straightened his straw hat. Leaning in close, he could see the stitching coming loose near his eyebrows. Combing it with the grain, he made a note to get his patch himself up on his next break.
In the mirror he saw a Suit approach the bar. Not just any suit either, this one had somewhere between twelve and fourteen ties, which was thirteen ties by his estimate. There were so many that the Suit was practically a Tuxedo.
John Barleycorn smiled and immediately felt the stitching come loose on his forehead. “What can I do for you Agent?” He said, making it a point not to emote too much. But not to little either. He emoted the exact right amount.
“Was that Mr. Fantasy who was just up here?” The Suit said, glancing backwards to catch a glimpse of the high society.
“In the flesh,” John Barleycorn answered positively. “I mean, I think he was in the flesh. I suppose he could have been an apparition or something.” Positivity went out the window, which was generally the case for John Barleycorn. There wasn’t much he was certain of, but even that was a fact which he wasn’t terribly certain of.
“So what was he drinkin’?” The highly decorated suit asked.
“He ordered a bottle of Glad the Imp Aler.”
“Hmm. Wasn’t he, you know, a real historical figure?”
“You’re thinking of Vlad the Impaler. This is Glad, the Imp Aler, one of the finest, yet unfortunately unrecognized potion brewer in all the land.” John Barleycorn recited from memory. “He was an imp too. I mean he is an imp.”
“Gotcha. I’ll have a bottle of that. If it’s good enough for Mr. Fantasy then it’s good enough for me. Plus, the closet’s picking up the bill,” the agent laughed. “All the overtime I’ve been putting in, it’s about time I took them to the cleaners.”
John Barleycorn laughed, tearing the stitching on his forehead even more. Some straw began to poke though. He would need to stitch it up soon, less he end up feed for the agent’s pega-stallion.
“I would that I could,” he began. “But that there was the only bottle. Probably for the best though. You uncork one of those bottles the wrong way, well let’s just say to do so would be truly catastrophic for you and I—not to mention half the guest list.”
“I gotcha,” the Suit said, surveying the scene once more. “I’ll take a glass of Colored Rain. Whatever you got.”
John Barleycorn grabbed a glass and stuck it under the spout. “Actually it’s Coloured Rain. With a ‘U’,” he handed the glass over, cascades of coloured fog spilling over.
“You sure do know your stuff there,” the Suit peered in to read the nametag, “John Barelycorn. That’s an odd name: Barelycorn.”
“Actually, it’s Barleycorn,” he replied.
“Gotcha. I’m Rainmaker. Agent Rainmaker,” the Suit stuck out a white glove and grabbed John Barleycorn’s prickly hand. “How’d you end up in a gig like this anyway?”
“I don’t know,” John Barleycorn answered, removing his straw hat and scratching his head. “Honestly, I don’t remember yesterday. You ever get the feeling that you were just made up today? Like today was the first day of your life, but you got this whole back story, character traits, shortcomings and quirks?” John Barleycorn said, and this time he was absolutely correct. Only he didn’t have enough conviction to believe it.
John Barleycorn was just made up today. He’s a scarecrow-turned-bartender on his first day on the job, having spent most of his life relegated to the unenviable task of scaring crows, until one day some odd-looking girl and her pretty little dog took him along on their quest to confront the Scmizard of Schmoz (his backstory); who is instantly likeable, friendly, conversationable and abashedly courteous to those he considers worthy of his respect, making him an ideal tender of bar (his character traits); who doesn’t quite believe in himself enough to say anything with conviction (a shortcoming) except for the things that he can repeat verbatim, something he is quite apt at doing (a quirk).
Agent Rainmaker took a long pause (It’s good timing too, because that was one lengthy bit of exposition). “I know exactly what you mean Barelycorn. If it weren’t for all these ties around my neck, I’d say I’m right there with you.” A white glove ran down the length of an the orange and blue striped tie. “I guess it doesn’t matter either way though. I mean we’re all make believe in the land of Make Believe. You know Barelycorn?”
John Barleycorn almost spoke up to correct Agent Rainmaker (about his name (For the dyslexic in the audience: Rainmaker keeps saying Barelycorn; his name is Barleycorn)), but decided against it when his forehead tore a little more.
“You should get that looked at Barelycorn,” Agent Rainmaker said, pointing a gloved finger. “You’ve got some straw poking out.”
“Ah yes,” John Barleycorn said, stuffing the straw back in. “Thank you sir.”
“That’s ma’am, Barelycorn,” Agent Rainmaker raised her glass and finished it off.
“Sorry, Agent Rainmaker.” John Barleycorn said fretfully. “I didn’t realize you were a Pant Suit.”
“Take it easy kid, I’m not gonna bust you,” Agent Rainmaker said. “But it’s just ‘Suit’, you know? No more Suits and Pant Suits. Women’s rights and all.”
“Gotcha.” John Barleycorn said as though it were one of his own quirks, though it most assuredly was one of Agent Rainmaker’s.
“No, I got you,” she drew a pistol from her holster and pulled the trigger. A bill of currency unfurled from the spool that shot out and landed on the bar. “I’ll see you around Barelycorn.”
“Pardon the confusion.” Mr. Fantasy spoke slowly and clearly. “I did not say Vlad the Impaler. I asked if you had anything made by Glad, the Imp Aler, the finest, yet unfortunately unrecognized, potion brewer in all the land.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” John Barelycorn laughed nervously. “Glad the Imp Aler, of course I’ve got some back here. I mean I think that there’s bound to be a bottle or two somewhere in here.” John Barelycorn was an anxious wreck. He had no idea how he had landed a gig bartending at the Labyrinth. Furthermore, he was even more mystified on how his first day also happened to be the day that Mr. Fantasy—the Mr. Fantasy—was hosting a gala. “Ah, here it is!” John Barleycorn exclaimed. The discovery made him genuinely happy, as though he just completed his life’s great quest. “One bottle of potion brewed by none other than Glad, the Imp Aler. Is there anything else I can get for you Mr. Fantasy?” He asked, tugging at the neck of the bottle.
“I would not uncork that if I were you,” Mr. Fantasy spoke with great caution. “To do so would be truly catastrophic for you and I, not to mention about half of my guest list—though between you and I, if I could choose which half I just might tell you to get on with it.” Mr. Fantasy reached across the bar and removed the bottle from John Barleycorn’s willing hands. “Allow me, “ he said.
“Yes, of course Mr. Fantasy.” John Barleycorn said. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, I believe that this will suffice. Best of luck with the rest of your first day, Mr. Barleycorn.” With that, Mr. Fantasy took his leave from the bar.
John Barleycorn puffed out his cheeks and scratched his forehead. He turned to the mirror behind the bar and straightened his straw hat. Leaning in close, he could see the stitching coming loose near his eyebrows. Combing it with the grain, he made a note to get his patch himself up on his next break.
In the mirror he saw a Suit approach the bar. Not just any suit either, this one had somewhere between twelve and fourteen ties, which was thirteen ties by his estimate. There were so many that the Suit was practically a Tuxedo.
John Barleycorn smiled and immediately felt the stitching come loose on his forehead. “What can I do for you Agent?” He said, making it a point not to emote too much. But not to little either. He emoted the exact right amount.
“Was that Mr. Fantasy who was just up here?” The Suit said, glancing backwards to catch a glimpse of the high society.
“In the flesh,” John Barleycorn answered positively. “I mean, I think he was in the flesh. I suppose he could have been an apparition or something.” Positivity went out the window, which was generally the case for John Barleycorn. There wasn’t much he was certain of, but even that was a fact which he wasn’t terribly certain of.
“So what was he drinkin’?” The highly decorated suit asked.
“He ordered a bottle of Glad the Imp Aler.”
“Hmm. Wasn’t he, you know, a real historical figure?”
“You’re thinking of Vlad the Impaler. This is Glad, the Imp Aler, one of the finest, yet unfortunately unrecognized potion brewer in all the land.” John Barleycorn recited from memory. “He was an imp too. I mean he is an imp.”
“Gotcha. I’ll have a bottle of that. If it’s good enough for Mr. Fantasy then it’s good enough for me. Plus, the closet’s picking up the bill,” the agent laughed. “All the overtime I’ve been putting in, it’s about time I took them to the cleaners.”
John Barleycorn laughed, tearing the stitching on his forehead even more. Some straw began to poke though. He would need to stitch it up soon, less he end up feed for the agent’s pega-stallion.
“I would that I could,” he began. “But that there was the only bottle. Probably for the best though. You uncork one of those bottles the wrong way, well let’s just say to do so would be truly catastrophic for you and I—not to mention half the guest list.”
“I gotcha,” the Suit said, surveying the scene once more. “I’ll take a glass of Colored Rain. Whatever you got.”
John Barleycorn grabbed a glass and stuck it under the spout. “Actually it’s Coloured Rain. With a ‘U’,” he handed the glass over, cascades of coloured fog spilling over.
“You sure do know your stuff there,” the Suit peered in to read the nametag, “John Barelycorn. That’s an odd name: Barelycorn.”
“Actually, it’s Barleycorn,” he replied.
“Gotcha. I’m Rainmaker. Agent Rainmaker,” the Suit stuck out a white glove and grabbed John Barleycorn’s prickly hand. “How’d you end up in a gig like this anyway?”
“I don’t know,” John Barleycorn answered, removing his straw hat and scratching his head. “Honestly, I don’t remember yesterday. You ever get the feeling that you were just made up today? Like today was the first day of your life, but you got this whole back story, character traits, shortcomings and quirks?” John Barleycorn said, and this time he was absolutely correct. Only he didn’t have enough conviction to believe it.
John Barleycorn was just made up today. He’s a scarecrow-turned-bartender on his first day on the job, having spent most of his life relegated to the unenviable task of scaring crows, until one day some odd-looking girl and her pretty little dog took him along on their quest to confront the Scmizard of Schmoz (his backstory); who is instantly likeable, friendly, conversationable and abashedly courteous to those he considers worthy of his respect, making him an ideal tender of bar (his character traits); who doesn’t quite believe in himself enough to say anything with conviction (a shortcoming) except for the things that he can repeat verbatim, something he is quite apt at doing (a quirk).
Agent Rainmaker took a long pause (It’s good timing too, because that was one lengthy bit of exposition). “I know exactly what you mean Barelycorn. If it weren’t for all these ties around my neck, I’d say I’m right there with you.” A white glove ran down the length of an the orange and blue striped tie. “I guess it doesn’t matter either way though. I mean we’re all make believe in the land of Make Believe. You know Barelycorn?”
John Barleycorn almost spoke up to correct Agent Rainmaker (about his name (For the dyslexic in the audience: Rainmaker keeps saying Barelycorn; his name is Barleycorn)), but decided against it when his forehead tore a little more.
“You should get that looked at Barelycorn,” Agent Rainmaker said, pointing a gloved finger. “You’ve got some straw poking out.”
“Ah yes,” John Barleycorn said, stuffing the straw back in. “Thank you sir.”
“That’s ma’am, Barelycorn,” Agent Rainmaker raised her glass and finished it off.
“Sorry, Agent Rainmaker.” John Barleycorn said fretfully. “I didn’t realize you were a Pant Suit.”
“Take it easy kid, I’m not gonna bust you,” Agent Rainmaker said. “But it’s just ‘Suit’, you know? No more Suits and Pant Suits. Women’s rights and all.”
“Gotcha.” John Barleycorn said as though it were one of his own quirks, though it most assuredly was one of Agent Rainmaker’s.
“No, I got you,” she drew a pistol from her holster and pulled the trigger. A bill of currency unfurled from the spool that shot out and landed on the bar. “I’ll see you around Barelycorn.”
Monday, July 12, 2010
Shootout at the Fantasy Factory - Chapter 1
“Hey there pixie. What’re you doin’ way out here this time a night? And this far into the land of Make Believe?” Agent Stiffupperlip chided from his winged horse “A pretty little pixie like you, on the night of the winking moon, it’s like your asking for trouble. Are you askin’ for trouble? Are ya pixie?”
“Just my luck,” she replied. “A girl can’t go out for a stroll without being hassled by a couple a suits. And I know what you’re thinkin’. But I ain’t got no pixie dust.”
“We were never supposin’ ya did there pixie. Heck, a pretty little pixie like you. We was just figurin’ you were lost, bein’ out here all by yourself. We were thinkin’ that maybe you were on your way to the Labyrinth. Providin’ a little protection for them high class wizzers.”
“I ain’t goin’ to no Labyrinth.” She responded trying her best to shake the sheen from her speech. The trouble with being a pixie was that everything you said just sounded so damned cheerful. Like everything was all sunshine and fairies and houses made out of little candies. Maybe it used to be like that, before the Magic Acts. But now, it was every pixie for herself and a run in with the suits was the last thing she needed. It was times like these that she wished she filed for a petition to keep her wings unclipped.
“That’s where me an’ Agent Rackensack here were headin’ before we decided to take a little detour. Agent Rackensack here didn’t think we’d find anything of intrest. But good heck, we found you didn’t we? She’s pretty intrestin’ eh Rackensack?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Agent Rackensack flitted nervously in the saddle of his steed. He was still a probationary suit. A Rental. They called all the new Suits Rentals, because most folks weren’t tailored for the rough and tumble cycles that it took to be a Suit.
“She’s pretty ain’t she Agent Rackensack? I bet you gotta glass slipper you’d like to give her.”
The young Rental’s pega-stallion reared back, asserting it’s dominance over the inexperienced rider. “I don’t go for pixies. Not my type.” Rackensack said, thinking it the safest answer. He didn’t know Agent Stiffupperlip from Merlin and didn’t feel comfortable with his harassing of the pixie. Not only that, he was recently married with a tyke on the way.
“That’s right,” Stiffupperlip grunted. “Ain’t got no use for a pixie with clipped wings.”
She had had enough. “You suits gonna charge me with something?” Honey soaked dissent with tinges of ginger came from her lips. It was the best she could do. “I ain’t got no dust. I ain’t wearin’ no glass slippers either. Just goin’ for a walk is all.”
Agent Stiffupperlip laughed which turned into a cough and then back into a laugh. “You’re right pixie. I s’pose we best be on our way. Y’know off to the Labyrinth. You sure you don’t wanna…interrogate her, Rackensack? We can swing by the dry cleaners ‘fore the big gala.”
“Not tonight,” he responded. Not that it would be any other night either with his newly budding family, but not this night especially. Tonight was the night of the Winking Moon. Usually the moon was content to bathe in the aura of misdeed to brighten its smile, but the Winking Moon was wont to spread a few secrets around just to keep entertained. “We should probably get on to the Labyrinth.”
“I s’pose your right. You Rentals can be so stiff, I forget that sometimes. Give it a few more cycles out here, you’ll loosen up. One day you’ll trade in that belt for some s’spenders and let out the seams too.” Agent Stiffupperlip said, taking his suspenders in the thumb crease of his white gloves. “Consider this your lucky night pixie. Though I will have to take a swath of your cloth.” He reached over and pulled a tattered piece from her ever-shrinking dress. He tore up instead of down and nearly ripped her dress in half. Bundling the swath in his hand, he gave it a long, savory sniff. “Just followin’ procedure. I’m not gonna find anything when I take this to the cauldron, will I?” He smelled it again. “Nah, of course I won’t. A pretty little pixie like you wouldn’t be up to no toil and trouble.”
She felt repulsed by the starch of his white gloves as they brushed against her skin. It wasn’t the first time a Suit took a swath from her. Probably wouldn’t be the last either. A few more swaths that size and she’d have naught but her wings to keep her covered. That or go to the Loom. She shuddered at the thought. As much as the Suits tangled her up, they were nothing compared to the Loom.
“Alright pixie, you be safe now. I wouldn’t head too much farther towards the coast if I were you. Lots of Riff Raff.” Agent Stiffupperlip yanked the reins of his pega-stallion and took flight. Rackensack followed suit and followed the Suit.
Once the two pega-stallions were out of the way, the tears stared coming. “My name ain’t pixie, you filthy suits.” She was right, that wasn’t her name. Her name is Pixanne. She fumbled in her satchel for a small vial and pressed it to her face, making sure to catch every last drop. As much as she hated it, pixie tears was one of the only legitimate ways she had to make a little dough. And legitimate was subjective, harvesting your own tears wasn’t legal anymore, they were all supposed to be harvested by the Bees and processed through the Hive. No one could tell the difference though. No one checked either. It was one of the few magics that you could carry without a permit.
Holding the vial up to the light of the Winking Moon, she measured how much she got. Not even enough for a hit of dust. She grinned, causing her nose to involuntarily twitch. She hated that damned twitch. Even when she was beyond angry she couldn’t help but to be adorable. Pixanne walked down the empty street. Contrary to what she told the suits, she did indeed have a destination in mind: the abandoned Fantasy Factory.
Meanwhile, up in the Heavens, Agents Stiffupperlip and Rackensack cruised the skies. Stiffupperlip grabbed a dozen smokes and lit them with a lighter shaped like a tiny revolver. He put it back in the holster, next to the gun that shot a ‘bang’ banner, next to his Closet-issued six shooter. Taking a puff off of the bundle of smokes, he said “You did good back there, Rackensack. I know you know I was only testing you with all that glass slipper jibe. You know that don’t you.”
“Of course, Agent Stiffupperlip,” he answered. It was the only answer. “I know.”
“Gosh darn right you do Rental. Gosh darn right,” he coughed, but instead of taking the smokes from his lips, he took another drag as though he was trying to teach his double-breasted vest a lesson. “You’re okay Rackensack. The wardrobe needs more Suits like you.”
“Thank you sir.”
“You can loosen that tie kid. Call me Fupper.”
“Alright, Fupper.” Rackensack answered. He was grateful to be on Stiffupperlip’s good side, though he couldn’t help but feel that this was more of a test than their meeting with the pixie. “So we heading to the Labyrinth?”
“Never did care much for them wizzers. Spellin’ was never my strong suit,” he laughed and coughed and laughed and coughed. Then there was a moment where he didn’t laugh or cough. And then he laughed and coughed. “That one never gets old.” Little laugh and little cough.
“Me neither Fupper, but orders are orders, right?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. C’mon,” he tilted the reins of his pega-stallion and started his descent. “Let’s take a look in on and see what these wizzers are up to.”
Rackensack knew what he was supposed to do. But he also knew what he was supposed to do. As much as he didn’t want to, he knew he had no choice. “You know what, Fupper?” He said, corralling his pega-stallion to a halt. “That pixie might be in trouble. Maybe we should go and check out by the docks. Just a quick fly-by. No one’s gonna bother them wizards.”
Laughing and coughing. Stiffupperlip threw his bundle of smokes down and watched the shooting-star embers of amber fall to the ground. “Just a quick fly-by. I like that. Let’s go Rackensack.”
Rackensack could only hope that the Winking Moon had better things to be watching right now.
“What’s the password?”
“Just let me in Ballord.” Pixanne said. Her orders sounded so sweet that she might as well have the Abeetees.
Ballord the Balrog stood aside and let her in. He wasn’t the best guard, but he was loyal and he was scary. Even if he was nothing but a huge leather-skinned forged-from-the-lamentations-of-the-innocent softy.
“Your late Pixanne,” Highwayman said. His face was obscured by the wide brim of his hat, but even without the hat on the brightest of days he would still be cloaked in shadows. The darkness followed Highwayman like Samwise followed Frodo. Highwayman was so villainous, that even his speech didn’t follow the rules. “U were supposed to be here at 10 after 11teen. Do U no what time it is?”
“I’m sorry Highwayman. I got stopped by a couple of Suits. Had to make sure they didn’t follow me.” Pixanne said.
Highwayman’s mile-wide mischievous grin flattened to match the horizons of the Wasteland. “Soots? Wut R U doin’ that attracts all tehm Soots? You llookin to get a few galss slippers on the side?”
“No, no I wasn’t.”
“♪Pixanne! U don’t have to put on the red light. Pixxxxannne♪!” Highwayman sang. Even the music notes. He knows how to pronounce them, they kind of sound like ‘aaeyy’. “You better B write about given them the shakes.”
“They didn’t follow me, they said they were headed to the Labyrinth,” she answered, fishing through her handbag.
“The Labyrinth?” he tilted the horizon of the Wasteland back to its normal ‘U’ shape. “Perhaps we will be seeing your Suits this evening after all.”
Arnie the Armadillo couldn’t help but hear Highwayman’s supposition. He scrunched into a ball and rolled over. “Tonight Highwayman? We’re not ready.”
“No. Ure not ready.” Highwayman picked up the ball that was Arnie the Armadillo and shook him as though he were a crystal ball that someone forgot to pay the premonition bill for. “I’ve been E since I sat on this plan and hatched it myself.” That ‘E’, it was really red—he can actually speak in color. A red ‘E’ as in ‘red-E’, as in ‘ready’. Perhaps now you are beginning to understand just how villainous Highwayman is. “The Winking Moone is watching. Eye don’t want 2 let him ⇓.” Highwayman dug his fingers into Arnie the Armadillo’s rolled up body and with his best water buffalo Fred Flintstone impersonation, he bowled Arnie the Armadillo like a bowling ball.
Speaking of villainy and Flintstones, Highwayman was the mad man behind this:
Gasp!
Arnie the Armadillo toppled into a conveniently arranged array of bottles and came to with a circle of blue jays circling his head. “It’s a living,” he said compulsively.
“Get back 2 work!” Highwayman demanded.
The rest of the henchmen, who may or may not receive names later, followed their orders. For they knew that as long as they remained unnamed that they were expendable to the narrative. But as much as they were worried, none had as much to lose as Enrick Schmidt the duck-billed simian who was only moonlighting the henchman gig to put himself through conductrician school. The only thing worse than being an unnamed henchman was being the a named henchman with aspirations beyond the life of henchmennery.
Highwayman has over one hundred teeth. He licked the back of every one of them with his slimy tongue. The ninety-eight gaps between his teeth were as sharp as razors from decay and gingivitis caused by his complete refusal to floss. His habit of tracing the valleys with his tongue gave it its callousness and poor spelling. “Besides knews of the Suits, what else dew U have 4 me?”
Pixanne rifled through her satchel and presented the half-filled vial of pixie tears. “I got some tears.”
Highwayman snatched the vial. “Yesss. Wut else?” the tears were hardly of value, but that was all he could expect from a clipped-wing pixie. Perhaps his henchmen could make some use of it.
“I know it’s in here,” Pixanne said, now elbow-deep in her handbag. She found what she was looking for and let out a sigh of relief. “Here it is: the low spark of the High-Heeled Boys.”
Highwayman was pleased.
“I don’t see anything Fupper,” Rackensack said, glad to not actually be seeing anything rather than seeing anything and saying otherwise. “Maybe we should head over to the Labyrinth now. We’ve been looking for a while and haven’t found any traces of wrongdoing.”
“Think about that for a tick Rackensack.” Agent Stiffupperlip said. “No traces of wrongdoing is the first sign of wrongdoing. Especially in this neighborhood. Now be on alert.”
They flew their pega-stallions over the abandoned docks. On first inspection, Rackensack was right: there was no activity. Pirate’s Cove was completely empty and not a single Leviathan was docked on the pier. The fringes of Make Believe were awfully quiet tonight, though it wasn’t that out of the ordinary on the night of the Winking Moon.
Agent Stiffupperlip pulled out another dozen smokes and reached for his light. As usual, his grip went from his six shooter to his ‘bang’ shooter to his novelty lighter. No matter how many joke guns a Suit had holstered, he was always trained to pull the real one first. Fingering the trigger, Stiffupperlip couldn’t get it to light. The lighter sparked but there didn’t seem to be any go-juice. He shook his lighter, and in the flutter of his pega-stallion’s wing he caught a glimpse of another type of spark. It came from the abandoned Fantasy Factory.
“Did you see that?” he asked, the unlit smokes still pursed between his lips.
“See what?” Rackensack answered.
“The Fantasy Factory. I think it might be open for business. C’mon Rackensack. I think we might get to see some action tonight.”
Landing over a block away, the two Suits left their pega-stallions and headed over on foot. Stiffupperlip walked in front with his ‘bang!’ gun readied. He found it to be the most effective of the novelty guns. It was silent but also deadly—at least to the literate. Rackensack followed closely behind, he held his closet-issued six-shooter just like he learned at the academy.
By the time they reached the Fantasy Factory it was obvious. The Suits wrinkled and creased. Static electricity was in the air and there was only one explanation. The low spark of the High-Heeled Boys. Whoever was in there wanted to make sure that the Suits would have plenty of static to deal with.
“That’s the low spark, isn’t it?” Agent Rackensack asked, lifting the flap of his jacket with a gesture of his glove. “Should we call for backup?”
“No way Rackensack,” Stiffupperlip shot back. “Do you wanna call the Iron in here and mess up our crime scene? Those guys make the worst kind of wrinkles: creases.” He carefully unloaded his novelty gun and sprayed fabric softener over the ‘bang!’ banner. “You ready Rackensack? This might get sticky.”
Monkey Terror
The threat level just went up to banana!
It's only a matter of time before this:
And this:
Should we be afraid?
Yes.
It's only a matter of time before this:
And this:
Should we be afraid?
Yes.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
An Open Letter
To Whom It May Concern,
Who are you? Are you concerned? Why? I am perfectly aware when things concern me and when they don't. It's really quite simple, really. And what more, how come you never write me back? Whenever I send you a message you never write me, Ms. May Concern. I'll either get a letter from one of your lackeys or from no one at all. This makes me sad, just like all those letters I wrote to Santa Claus growing up. I never did receive that gun I asked him for. Don't be like him Whom It, please, I can't lose another. First the Easter Bunny, then it was the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, Doc Brown and then Jack Bauer. I'm very concerned about this and I hope that your are too. I know that this may concern you, so if you're concerned please write me back. And please, don't get your dad or brother or husband to do it for you. I don't want to receive another letter from Who it Did Concern. I hope this message finds you well. Give my regards to Sir or Madam. And if you get the chance, let All Interested Parties know I said 'sup. Thanks Whom It.
Regards,
A Concerned Citizen
Who are you? Are you concerned? Why? I am perfectly aware when things concern me and when they don't. It's really quite simple, really. And what more, how come you never write me back? Whenever I send you a message you never write me, Ms. May Concern. I'll either get a letter from one of your lackeys or from no one at all. This makes me sad, just like all those letters I wrote to Santa Claus growing up. I never did receive that gun I asked him for. Don't be like him Whom It, please, I can't lose another. First the Easter Bunny, then it was the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, Doc Brown and then Jack Bauer. I'm very concerned about this and I hope that your are too. I know that this may concern you, so if you're concerned please write me back. And please, don't get your dad or brother or husband to do it for you. I don't want to receive another letter from Who it Did Concern. I hope this message finds you well. Give my regards to Sir or Madam. And if you get the chance, let All Interested Parties know I said 'sup. Thanks Whom It.
Regards,
A Concerned Citizen
Friday, July 2, 2010
Cause and Effect
"Those who don't learn from the past are doomed to repeat it."
Generally we think of things in terms of cause and effect. As in the past informs the present. As in everything that is happening now is the result of some undisclosed happening at an earlier time. This is simply a function of the linearity of time. The ball hit the window and shattered it to pieces. The effect: the window shattering to pieces. The cause: the ball hitting the window. No denying that.
Now remove the cause. All that is left is a shattered window and a ball resting near by. A broken window and a ball and no explanation save for the obvious one: that the ball smashed into the window and broke it to pieces. Given the same set of circumstances, not too many people would think twice before blaming that pesky neighbor boy (Dennis!). From the effect, you assume the cause. And by Doyle's Law you'd be right most every time. But what if an opportunistic burglar found a ball in your yard and used it to smash in the window? What if a fat lady singing nearby hit that note that we all remember from cartoons and such that shatters glass and then the neighbor boy (Dennis!) smacked a dinger that landed in your living room?What if an over-imaginative blogger broke your window to make a point?
In any of those cases, or the literally two or three more zany (do they have to be zany?) examples I could come up with, the perceived cause would not be the true cause. You'd go on living your life based on the assumption that that no-good neighbor boy (Dennis!) was slated to grow up a social miscreant. Shortcut to making a point: without actually observing it, the cause can be one of literally five or six alternatives. You'll never know because you could possibly never know. Maybe Dennis (Dennis!) never grows up to be a social miscreant, he probably will though.
How we doing so far? You still with me? Please leave a comment if you are, you'd be the first.
Okay, so if you're not there to measure the cause, that means that you're only seeing the effect. Talking about the historical scale--measured in epochs, paradigms and/or milieus (at least one of those words is applicable to what I'm trying to convey. welcome to the 1%)--we're only observing the now. The right now. I mean, not even yesterday. Not even two seconds ago. But I digress, I don't want to sound too existential, so let's stick with the past as we see it. Images in black and white are old, older in sepia, and even older carved in stone. The past: newsreels, silent films sped up to comical proportions and contraptions. Always contraptions. I'm having way too much fun describing the past, so once again, I digress.
Every single notion that we have now based on what happened before is from accounts of those events that are not our own. Did Gutenberg invent the printing press (You're goddamn right he did!)? Shoot! We'll I didn't see it and all evidence leads to that assumption. So the printed word in mass quantities exists because of Gutenberg. Books are the effect. Gutenberg is the cause. (So he's to blame! Man books are lame.)
History is written by the victors. - Winthorp Churchill
Every assumption that we've ever made about our effect (our now) has been written by the victors. First, of all who the hell is Victor? And is he some sort of clone/robot/spider type individual?
So we have all of these effects, but we can't verify any of the causes. This can lead into two possible discussions, one of which I will latch onto and the other of which I will give a cursory explanation due to my growing drowsiness.
There are people writing our history to shape our now. Bah! Illuminati and all that tin foil hat wearing jazz. No fun. Please don't let me become that person. Yawn. Okay onto the one that I actually want to discuss.
Things happen and there is a cause. Cause then effect. But no, what if it is the other way around? Effect, then cause. The effect is the cause and the cause is the effect. The pesky neighbour boy (I changed my spell-checker to UK English) hit the ball through the window because it was going to break. The window was deemed to have broken at that particular instance because the neighbour boy's (Dennis!) entire life had led him to breaking that glass. His love of baseball, his lack of a strong father figure to teach him not to throw like a pansy, his stupid little sister hogging the TV watching Dora the Explorer. All of that as a result of that window needing to be broken at that particular time. The explanation follows the occurrence and the cause follows the effect. Such is the case in blame.
In shirking responsibility the first thing we do is look for a culprit. We look for a cause to our effect. The cause is determined after the effect.
Cause and effect. Effect and cause.
'Those who don't learn from the past are doomed to repeat it."
"Those who are doomed to repeat the past have not yet found a patsy on which to blame their troubles."
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Extreme of Consciousness
What started off as a pun ended up being the entire impetus behind the entire blog. The extreme of consciousness is the apogee of human thought. It is the liminal space between the known and the unknown. It is also a place for me to post funny youtube videos and lolcats.
It makes you think
Assuming my supposition that only 1% of the written word is actually being correctly communicated, consider expanding that. The tip of the pen as the tip of an iceberg. A pyramid balanced on its point. What if I could say exactly what I meant? What if through tone, cadence, expression and body positioning I could achieve 100% of my desired communication? Now consider the notion that humans only use about 10% of their cognitive capacity. If you could expand that what would become of the message? Could an idea come to life? Spreading, infecting mutating across the collective unconscious until it has become so ubiquitous that it is accepted as truth without a second thought. What if that had already happened. What if all we know, all we think we know and know we can't know is the result of an idea that became too large and too powerful? An idea as the impetus to the universe. The big bang as an epiphany. Life as a watershed moment. Thinking minds as thought. Creativity as an avenue to attain that pure moment of realization. An idea spawning new ideas, desperately searching for the one that is itself. What if we discover that idea? It makes you think, doesn't it...
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