I just found out I’m an imaginary character. Maybe you are too. I
never would have noticed except whoever is imagining me, imagined
that I would know I’m imagined.
Imagine that.
Do I really write a blog? Do I actually love Pop Tarts? Did I even
poop in an ever-so-satisfying way last night – or is it all in
somebody’s head?
(I pooped in your head!)
I still feel real. I still care. I still worry about deadlines and
lactose intolerance. Nothing has changed except that I am now aware
of somebody in the room. Some guy (I assume it’s a guy because any
woman who looked at my life would ask, “What’s the point?”)
watches me, what I do, what I think, and then occasionally says to
himself, “no, Headley doesn’t think that.” I get no choice in
the matter. I just go from thinking that to thinking this.
And this is what I think – that sucks.
I’m a big fan of Danny Kaye – or at least I thought I was. One
of his movies was “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.” Ben Stiller
did a remake recently but Ben Stiller is not really an actor as much
as he is an irritant, so I didn’t watch it.
The point of Walter Mitty was that the fantasies he lived through
were so real to him that they became more important than his real
life, and in the end, transformed it.
I think that I, Headley Hauser, am the imaginary creation of some
desperately evil Walter Mitty. Maybe I too, am more important than
this imaginer’s real life, and I am transforming it.
But it leaves me afraid. What will this guy imagine next? Will he
decide that I love Diane Keaton movies; that I go on a low-sugar
diet, that I become political?
(NOOOOOOOOOO!)
As horrifying as all these possibilities are, the most horrifying
thing is that I have no choice in the matter – unless my evil
personal Walter Mitty decides I have a choice in the matter. Then
I’ll be able to choose and there will be nothing he (or I?) can do
about it.
Turns out we all have our strings. Who’s the imaginary character
now, Pinocchio!
Here’s wishing you all, kind and creative Walter Mittys in your
life, and may you imagine a wonderful existence, free of strings and
full of Pop Tarts.
Or at least I wish that now. Who knows what Mitty will have me wish
tomorrow.
Walter Mitty (certified to be at least 98% Ben Stiller free for your protection.)
The following
is an officially sanctioned digression included in the text of Dirk
Destroyer’s Less Destructive Brother. Although digression sounds
like a term referring to poor performance, or lack of progress, I was
surprised (as I hear the word frequently,) to learn that it means
something different. I’m not sure what it means except that this
chapter is one.
If this, for
some reason, is your initial installment of Dirk Destroyer, first –
I’m sorry. Second, you may wish to know that the rest of the story
largely has nothing to do with the digressive material below.
Wow, the red
squiggly didn’t show when I made up the word, digressive. I must
have invented a real word!
Chapter Non - Twenty-Three
FICAL
Headley here.
This is so embarrassing. No, I’m not talking about the fact that I
wrote much of chapter 22 while sleeping; sleep-writing is not an
impairment, it’s an art-form, and I’m no longer ashamed –
especially since I started writing on computers, and don’t have to
change the sheets…
That’s not what I’m embarrassed about. Let’s start again.
This is so embarrassing.
The writing profession, or in my case, the writing impoverishment, is
not a matter of sitting idly at a table on the third floor garret of
a fine Victorian home, gazing out the window, and periodically
pecking at a laptop, type writer, ball point, fountain pen or quill.
For one thing, by the time people started building third floor
garrets to fine Victorian homes, very few writers used a quill
anymore except to tickle little children, spouses, or reluctant
acquisition editors.
But that’s not important here. What I’m interrupting this fine,
reasonably priced narrative to tell you about is a growing problem,
nay horror of the modern writer – the out-of-control imaginary
character.
Any fair-minded person, such as a judge, or lawyer that specializes
in defamation lawsuits, will realize that the Jonma Claim, who has
unilaterally changed his name to Jo4n McLame, is not the man of
similar intell – I mean similar sounding name who once ran for
President.
It was never my intent that the reader would believe such things. I
would swear to it, but as a lad, I was once forced to hold a bar of
soap in my mouth for swearing, and I found it less refreshing than I
hoped, so I am reluctant to swear to anything.
I would agree to one thing however, should the man with a similar
sounding name care to seek me out among the detritus of
Winston-Salem. I would give him a pinky handshake on the matter.
But this is just a recent example of a serious issue. Imaginary
characters are out of control. This is the reason, I, along with so
many other impoverished writers have come together to form, FICAL
(Fill In Clever Acronym Later) to fight this problem.
Your generous (but sadly not deductible) contribution will allow the
impoverished writers of FICAL to drink beer while we deliberate and
complain about this issue, and the deplorable state of everything
that exists.
Painful experience has shown that money sent to Headley Hauser c/o
the detritus of Winston-Salem too often finds its way to the dead
letter office where it’s later auctioned off or sent to a guy named
S. Claus. Instead, please send your checks (if you must,) money
orders (better,) cash (now we’re talking,) or gold coins (Jackpot!)
to: Will Wright 5765 Hickory Knoll Dr. Apt 7, Winston-Salem, NC
27106. Though Will is not a member of FICAL, he has a job, and so he
has an apartment and mailbox of his own. Though he’s not wealthy
by state worker standards, and he really needs to get a better couch
for his friends to crash on, he will probably forward the money to a
FICAL member, or at least use it for beer.
I didn’t feel good about what I’d done. Ono probably thought I
didn’t want her, and I didn’t want her to think that. But would
it be any easier for her if she thought that I hated her going to
Phasia without me?
There were a lot of things I couldn’t control. Being Dirk’s
brother had given me a deep appreciation of that fact, but I could
still avoid being selfish. As I searched for Dirk, or rather
separated myself from the Light Bringer enough for Dirk to find me, I
passed Swampy. The rat-bird was waddling like a duck.
“What’s wrong with you, Swampy?”
Swampy looked up at me with unfocussed eyes. “Fish stick?” he
said unevenly.
I’d never seen Swampy like this, and never was a long time with us.
The closest was the time when Swampy had tried to eat an entire
tuna. Maybe there were bigger fish in the brook than I’d seen.
“Do you need help?”
“Nope,” said Swampy followed by a disgusting belch.
It wasn’t as if I knew anything about fixing sick rat-birds. I
shrugged my shoulders and kept walking. A salamander fell from a
branch above me and landed on my shoulder. “So,” said the
salamander, “you fix things up for your friends?”
“Ono fixed it for them. I didn’t have much to do with it, but
yes, the monk will take them to Phasia.”
“Good,” said Dirk. He was sitting about two body lengths up on a
thick branch. Jonma Carry was tied to the trunk for some reason, but
he didn’t seem to be in distress, so I ignored him.
“You were never much for climbing trees, Dirk” I said.
“It’s something new I got from the school of amazing stuff.”
“Tree climbing doesn’t sound all that amazing to me.”
“It isn’t,” said Dirk, “but this is.” He put his hand on
the trunk above Jonma Carry, and the trees branches began to shift.
Three branches formed themselves into a rough basket. Dirk stepped
into the basket and the tree lowered him to the ground.
“Is that good for the tree – or even the Jonma?” I asked.
“Who cares,” said Dirk.
I didn’t pursue it. Apathy washed over me. I not sure why they
even use the word wash in connection with apathy because this
particular wash of apathy didn’t make me feel clean. I felt dirty,
low, and completely incapable of doing anything about it.
I just sat on the dirt and sulked.
“Elmer,” said Dirk. “Don’t be like that. You’ll feel
better when we get to So-Ho, I promise. There’s a little
tobacconist shop around the corner that has cigars like you’ve
never imagined.”
“That sounds good,” I said, sulkily. I wasn’t being sarcastic.
It did sound good. A week before, I would have been excited to go
with Dirk to a place like So-Ho and try new cigars. Now it just felt
empty.
“Well,” said Dirk, “I guess if we’re going to get cast out,
we might as well get to it. You got the scratchwing?”
I held up the instrument which Dirk could clearly see before I lifted
it. “Why is this so important?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” said Dirk.
“You know,” I said, “once in a while I’d like to be the one
to decide if I understand something or not.”
“You’re right,” said Dirk. “Tell me what you know about the
tonal aspects of trans-dimensional travel?”
“You’re right,” I grumbled, “I wouldn’t understand.”
We walked slowly back the way I came. It felt like a dream – not a
bad dream, or a good one either. It was as if I was in someone
else’s dream, playing an unimportant role. My whole life felt like
that – cannon fodder in someone else’s battle, an extra in
someone else’s play, a spare horickvock for somebody else’s
scratchwing.
I don’t know how far we walked. I didn’t care.
“They’re here!” shouted Akwar, as we approached a clearing. It
might have been the clearing I left Mage-e-not and Ono in. “They’re
right here!”
“Where’d that come from!” shouted Dirk, who was rarely
surprised by anything.
Well, there was one thing to look forward to. This was probably the
last time I’d ever see Youtickubus Akwar again.
“Dirth Dethroyersh,” said a wobbling, triumphant Jonma Claim.
“Thith worldth thwill finally beth flreeth ofth schou nowsh!”
Dirk just started laughing.
Even when we were children, Dirk used to say he wanted to learn to
laugh like a villain. Like most things that my brother set out to
do, he accomplished his goal, exceeding even his own expectations.
Dirk’s laugh wasn’t just loud, it was jarring, deep, throaty,
gravelly, and impossible to hear without the skin of my forearms,
(not to mention my ear lobes,) puckering and shifting, and looking
for a place to hide.
My brother really enjoyed being Dirk Destroyer, and most of the time
I was happy for him. I wanted my brother to feel fulfilled. I just
wish it didn’t require me to lose the love of my largely love-less
life.
“Uriculous!” shouted Dirk. “Is that you trying to control that
Jonma?”
Dirk started laughing again. He was really going over the top with
his evil laugh. I was about to nudge him, when I realized that tears
were forming in his eyes. He wasn’t just laughing for effect. He
was really laughing.
I looked around and tried to figure out what was so funny. I hate it
when I’m the only one that doesn’t get a joke. I saw Ono and
Mage-e-not. I went over to them.
“What’s he laughing about?” asked Mage-e-not.
“You don’t get it?”
“No,” he said.
“Good. I don’t get it either.”
“Uriculous!” shouted Dirk, “You sound like your tongue
connection is loose; you wouldn’t be having any trouble with your
Jonma now, would you?”
“Ofsh coursch snot!” snapped Jonma Claim.
“Because,” said Dirk, “you weren’t much brighter than a Jonma
yourself, and that was when you were still alive. I don’t think
being dead all this time has helped that much.”
“Schtill shalive enoughsh shew baniscsssh shoe.”
“What’s that you say Uriculous? I think someone else is fighting
you for that tongue.”
“Where’s the Jonma Carry?” said Akwar. “The Jonma Carry is
supposed to help the high priest keep control.”
“The guy whose face looks like a bad sculpture?” asked Dirk. “I
left him tied up to a tree back there.”
“I’ll get him, High Priest,” said Akwar. “Just hold on!”
“Shno Schneedsch,” said Jonma Claim. That might have been, ‘no
need,’ but he was getting harder to understand by the minute.
Akwar took off, supposedly in search of the Jonma Carry.
“You’re barely holding on, Uriculous,” said Dirk. “My guess
is that you’ve been getting weaker for some time. Pretty soon,
you’ll disappear, and there won’t be enough of you to possess a
Jonma rat-bird.”
“Like Swampy?” I asked. “Is Swampy a possessed Jonma bird?”
“What’s he talking about?” asked Mage-e-not,” who had Ono’s
silver bag in his hand for some reason.
“He wants the Light Bringer,” said Dirk. “Watch this.” The
look of fury and triumph in Jonma Claim’s eyes turned to fear as
Dirk approached. “I’ll be your Light Bringer,” he said, and as
he stuck out his middle finger at Jonma Claim, a two-inch flame
appeared at the end.
“Schnosh!” screamed Jonma Claim in obvious, though unintelligible
distress. “Schelpsh! Schelpsh!”
Dirk made little feints with his lighted finger at Jonma Claim. “I’m
not torching you,” he said. “I’m not torching you!”
“That’s it,” said Mage-e-not. “I can’t follow him at all
now.”
“I’m not torching you.”
“Schschschscheeeeeesch!” said Jonma Claim, as he fell to the
earth in a heap.
“Am I late,” said the stone-faced Jonma Carry, now free of the
tree and looking down at the other Jonma.
“Elmer,” cried Ono. “Uriculous Wisehind is kaput! You’re
jingle, jangle, wee! You no zap ka-pow!”
“I wouldn’t count on that, Little Lady,” sang Lustavious,
slightly more late than Jonma Carry.
Mage-e-not went over to the pile of Jonma Claim and prodded it with
his foot. The pile lurched, and made a gurgling sound, then said,
“No more torture. I give up. One of you guys tell me how to say,
‘I’ll cooperate’ in Phasian.”
“Which Phasian Language,” asked Lip Ton Tease, who would’ve
been later even than Lustavious and Jonma Carry, but for the fact
that nobody asked for him, which made him independent of time –
though not of space.
“The nation needs me,” said Jonma Claim, who in his present state
was probably oblivious of many things, and specifically Tease’s
question. Either that, or he was being rude.
“I must serve where I’m needed,” he said.
“Do you have any skill as a waiter?” asked Dirk.
At this point the Jonma Claim went into a monolog about heroism,
straight shooting, taking bribes, and undermining his own party in
the quest for fair play. The monolog’s best quality was that it
was ignorable, so I went up to Dirk.
“So,” I said, “this changes things, right?”
“I wouldn’t count on it, Big Brother.”
“But without Uriculous, we can…”
“Live on a world about to fall to global swarming?”
“We could live in Phasia. You’re good at math.”
Dirk grimaced. “Not that good. And you’re forgetting the Light
Bringer.”
“I still don’t get how…”
At this point, Jonma Claim raised his voice sufficiently to be less
ignorable, and Dirk’s attention turned to him.
“I am not Uriculous,” said Jonma Claim. “I am not even Jonma
Claim,” said the non-Jonma Claim. “I am,” and the round-faced
man raised his arms to shoulder height, peering around at each person
in the clearing, “Jo4n McLame!”
“Big deal,” said Swampy, waddling in and standing by Ono.
“I have to go with the bird on this one,” said Mage-e-not.
“I’m Jo4n McLame,” said Jo4n McLame unnecessarily. “I was
this close to being the leader of the…”
“Not that close,” said Jonma Carry. “I was closer.”
“What about him?” asked Akwar, who had not only reappeared, but
she had brought All Bore with her,
“You know,” said All Bore, “I should have won, but I have a
patent pending on politics, so I’m a sure bet next time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Mage-e-not, “we don’t care.”
“How about giving me a shot,” said the RunPol monster who
unexpectedly showed up at this precise moment in the story.
“Never,” cried Jo4n McLame, Jonma Carry, and All Bore in
bipartisan unanimity.
“Still don’t care,” said Mage-e-not. “What we need to know
is if we’re still sending Elmer and his evil brother to oblivion.”
“And that’s what I’ll do right now,” said Lustavious.
“Wait,” said Jo4n McLame, “I’m Commander in Chief around
here. You take orders from me!”
Ono stepped up to the former Jonma. “And you want Elmer and Dirk
to stay, don’t you?”
All eyes turned to Jo4n McLame, who held his chin up, and would have
been impressive – except he wasn’t. He was still, round, frumpy,
and stupid-looking, but he looked like he thought he looked
impressive, which while pathetic is… Well, it’s still pathetic.
“This is my decision,” said Jo4n McLame…”
A friend posted this on FB and said it was funny. I don't get it, but maybe you will.
Just as there are people alive today who can’t name
the Queen of England, there are a significant number of people today
who have no idea who Lucille Ball was.
I wish I was one of them.
I never got it – in any of its forms, I
Love Lucy, The Lucy
Show, Here’s Lucy –
they were all a study in bad comedy writing – just waiting for the
big redhead to cry at the end.
I Love Lucy was the best of the three because Fred was
actually funny, though William Frawley was funnier on My Three Sons,
where they bothered to write real scripts. Sometimes Ricky was funny
too, but I’m not sure it his humor was always intentional.
Even so, each episode involved a hair-brained plot
by Lucy to do something without Ricky knowing. Ethel always had her
doubts, but went along with the scheme. Things went predictably bad,
and Ricky would eventually say, “Lucy, you’ve got some ‘splaining
to do.” (Usually followed by the biggest laugh in that episode’s
laugh track.)
Then the big finish with Lucy crying.
By the time her third show, Here’s
Lucy, came around – they’d lost all the
funny elements of I Love Lucy
and depended on guest stars to prop up the ratings. For some reason,
she could always get A-list people.
It was like some comic con-game.
One thing I noticed about each of the series was that
the intros and closings were always instrumentals. I think that's a little odd, so I’ve written words to go with each theme.
I Love Lucy theme
Lucy’s
bawling out Wah Wah-wha
Sound
track laughs out Ha Ha-ha
While
Ricky’s congas go Bom Ba-bah
And
that
Is
all there is
To
Amer-i-ca’s-Num-ber-One show!
The Lucy Show theme
Lucy,
Lucy, Lucy Show
Why
we, watch it, I don’t know
Grandpa
controls the clicker
He
says she is a honey
Even
though
She’s
not funny
Oh
yes we know
She’s
not funny!
Here’s Lucy theme
Here’s
Lucy
Isn’t
it strange?
We
watch it
Are
we deranged?
Lame
set up and then a gaff
Is
that enough to make us laugh?
Sorry
– I can’t continue.
From the mid-fifties to the end of her life, Lucille
Ball was hailed as the Queen of Comedy. It makes me wonder what
Gracie Allen,
Lily Tomlin,
Gilda Radner,
Carol Burnett
and Madeline Kahn
thought when they heard that.
Not to mention our laugh-a-minute Queen Elizabeth.
Who sent us a special greeting yesterday for July 4.
Things are
moving towards a conclusion in Dirk Destroyer’s Less Destructive
Brother. May I point out that unlike James Patterson, I have not
employed a hard-working patsy to do my writing for me. That may be
because no self-respecting patsy (if there is such a thing,) would
work for a novelist that makes considerably less than your average
drone for each entirely original, non-James Patterson-inspired story
he writes.
Full
disclosure: I may have used a few (26 to be exact,) letters that I
have seen in the one eighth of a James Patterson novel I’ve read
(before becoming too depressed to continue.)
Maybe a few
numbers as well.
Chapter 21
There Shall Be Showers of Fish Sticks
Swampy was the first member of the party I found, or more likely,
Swampy found me. He landed on my shoulder and defecated. I didn’t
mind, I just focused the feces to fall to off my shirt and onto the
ground. It was a handy skill to have with Swampy around.
“Hungry,” said Swampy. “Need a fish stick?”
“A fish stick?” I had no idea where Swampy had run into fish
sticks before. Maybe they had them at the ministry. I walked over
to the stream that Tease had reshaped to create his shower. There
were fish swimming at the base of Tease’s manufactured waterfall,
probably trying to figure out how to get back upstream.
“There are your fish, Swampy. They couldn’t be much easier to
catch.”
Swampy hopped off my shoulder and was about to hunt when his head
turned suddenly. “Fish stick,” he croaked, and flew off.
Even after all this time Swampy did stuff that made no sense to me.
I continued my search for Ono, and as I entered a clearing, I saw her
sitting with Mage-e-not. Ono had a stick levitated in the air, and
Mage-e-not was concentrating on it. Half his head was phasing in and
out of visibility.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
The stick poked Mage-e-not in the nose, then spun off into the
bushes. “Oh no,” said Ono, “poke and pick.”
Mage-e-not rubbed his nose. “What we’re doing,” he said to me,
“is trying to get some food.”
“I’ll go make some algae bars,” I offered.
“Real food,” said Mage-e-not.
“From a stick?”
“Well it makes as much sense as a guy whose head disappears, a
woman who makes things float, and a big jerk who sets his finger on
fire being able to cast the planet’s greatest villain, and his
algae-dealing brother into oblivion for ever.”
“You have a point.”
“No offense,” said Mage-e-not.
“Of course not.”
“We shuffle powers,” said Ono, “zing, whish, whoosh
symbiotically.”
I nodded wisely as if I had any idea what sympytockicly meant.
“Do I smell fish sticks?” asked Akwar.
We all froze until she went away. Several seconds after she
disappeared, Mage-e-not whispered, “That’s what we were trying to
make, fish sticks.”
A number of things popped into my mind. First, I thought – that’s
why Swampy was acting so strangely. Second, I thought – how can we
stop Akwar from popping in on us like that – but I imagined that I
was hearing her voice again in the bushes, so I stopped thinking
that. Thirdly, I thought – what would ever lead Mage-e-not and Ono
to believe their powers combined might turn regular sticks into fish
sticks. I didn’t express this third thought because I was afraid
that it was something obvious that I was missing, and I didn’t want
to look stupid in front of Ono. Fourthly, I thought – I’ve been
standing here for a while without saying anything, and they are both
staring at me expecting me to say something, so I better say
something fast. Fifthly, I thought – I can’t think of anything
to say that sounds halfway intelligent. Sixthly, I thought – Maybe
I can do that thing the monks do and trust that if I relax and open
my mouth, truth will flow.
“Gum is sticky,” I said.
“I can’t argue with that,” said Mage-e-not.
Eighthly, I thought, (after cursing myself seventhly) – I have to
remember that that trick only works with monks.
“I’m glad that monks came up,” I said, belatedly realizing that
it had only come up in my inner monologue, “because I want to talk
to you two about Phasia.”
“Big place,” said Mage-e-not.
“Zim, zing math,” said Ono.
For not the first time I considered how Ono’s sound words were not
always a clear indication of what she wanted to communicate. “Do
you like math, Ono?” I asked.
She nodded noncommittally.
“That’s good,” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt. “I’ve
talked to Dirk, as you know, and I have good news and bad news.”
I’m not sure what either of them said, because for a few seconds my
hearing, my field of vision, my sense of touch and even my taste buds
broadcast the color red to me. I couldn’t believe I had said that
I had good news and bad news. I tried to imagine the things I would
rather have said to Ono. Phrases like, ‘I’m sexually unable to
please a woman,’ came to mind. I couldn’t stand the old, ‘I
have good news and bad news’ line. As far as I was concerned, the
bad news was that I would have to go through with this stupid pattern
of insincere exposition, and the good news was that I would die
eventually – hopefully.
And why was it that while my sight, taste, hearing and touch was all
red, that my nose was smelling fish sticks?
They were looking at me again. It was my turn to speak, and I had
already used my, ‘gum is sticky,’ line. Best to say it straight
out.
“The bad news is that I’ll be banished to the land of So-Ho with
Dirk; the good news is that Phasia is free of the global swarming
threat, so you can go to Phasia with Tease.”
“I fear not,” said Tease, who Akwar-like appeared behind me
“because my order allows only one carry-on when we travel.”
“What’s your carry-on?” asked Mage-e-not.
From beneath his robes, Tease produced his loofah, which made Ono
blush, and me to feel strangely inadequate.
“But Tease,” I said, “they have to go with you. You and Swampy
are all that stand between Ono and Lustavious’ non-fraternal
intentions.”
“Even so,” said Tease.
Ono looked me in the eyes. They were sad, beautiful eyes. They made
me feel like going swimming. I don’t know why. “You want me to
go with him?” she asked without a single sound word.
“I can’t take you with me,” I said. “Dirk tells me that the
trip would kill you or that you would at least lose half your nose.
This continent is doomed, and this is the only way to save you.”
“Is the continent doomed?” Mage-e-not asked Tease.
“Yes,” said Tease.
“What’s the idea of keeping it a secret?”
“I wasn’t keeping it a secret. You didn’t ask me until just
now.”
“I can’t argue with that,” said Mage-e-not.
“Lip Ton Tease,” said Ono, “if I we sizzle for Showr Rinn, we
shuffle to Phasia?”
“If you can prove your usefulness? yes, the masters would consent.”
“What about,” said Mage-e-not, “if Ono and I can create fish
sticks out of regular sticks?”
“With or without tartar sauce?”
“We haven’t worked on tartar sauce yet.”
“Talk to me when you have.”
“Naught ought,” said Ono. “Mingle at tinkle creek.”
“I hope she means the brook,” said Mage-e-not.
We stepped over to the brook. Ono raised her hands and said,
“sprinkle ups-a-daisy.”
Water rose up out of the brook and began showering down – mostly on
Tease, but like most of Ono’s spells, not everything went where it
was meant to. A bit of moss attached itself to her face, giving her
a distinguished looking mustache. A small fish landed in
Mage-e-not’s hand. He stared at it intently.
“Be a fish stick,” he said, and his head disappeared.
The fish looked resentfully at where Mage-e-not’s face should have
been, wiggled out of his hand, and flopped its way back to the brook.
Water sparkled on Tease’s brow as he loofah’d his head
vigorously. “Your ability,” he said to Ono, “is a truly useful
talent. Can you tolerate being around hundreds of naked men?”
“Mutter, shrug,” said Ono.
“Then you may come to Phasia.”
“What about me?” asked Mage-e-not.
“What talent do you have?”
Mage-e-not’s head blinked back and forth between visible and
invisible.
“I am sorry,” said Tease. “I would not be permitted to bring
you.”
“Neigh,” said Ono. “Mage-e-not whoosh as carry-on.”
“What about Swampy?” I asked.
“Swampy has always been welcome,” said Tease. “Wise birds are
honored in my order.”
“There are more birds like Swampy?”
“No,” said Tease as if he completed a masterful poem.
I searched folk tune on YouTube and got this. Pretty, but they should enunciate better. I couldn't understand a word.
