Dirk Destroyer Part 45 Chapter 25

Contrary to Elmer’s nature he’s ignoring his younger brother’s instructions and is trying to do something clever.

This rarely ends well.

Chapter 25

Dude

Dude had told me not to come back to the school, and not to play with time again, but as glorious as Dude was, not to mention his mop, I had more information now. After all, Dirk bargained with Dude. Maybe I could too. I had the greatest power of human creative power working in my favor.

The power of Desperate Male inSecurity DMS™.

That didn’t tell me how I was going to sway Dude, but I had hints, like a fish stick in my fanny pack, and the origin of my fanny pack as well. As I surfaced into the school of amazing stuff, I headed right for the kitchen. There was only one way I knew to call Dude. I wasn’t at all surprised when after twisting the knob, that I saw fish sticks come out the spigot. I filled my fanny pack with fresh, and wholesome fish sticks, and watched as hundreds more cascaded onto Dude’s once clean floor.

The sticks started to pile up. Maybe this wouldn’t work.

I tried a fish stick. It was good. Was that cilantro and basil? Who ever thought of adding that to a fish stick deserved to live in the Celestial realm. I could probably skip Dirk’s gold-digging trip and make plenty of money making fish sticks with cilantro and basil.

I had a couple more. Oh yes, there were all sorts of things to learn in the school of amazing stuff.

“A-hem.” I’d never heard a-hem put so eloquently. I shut off the knob. I was up to my knees in fish sticks.

“I’m waiting for it.”

“My excuse?” I asked.

The custodian nodded regally.

“I need your help,” I said, “and you didn’t tell me how to contact you.”

“You need my help.” Dude pulled two of his magic silver squares from his back pocket, vigorously swung them in the air, and they became shiny silver bags. He handed one to me, and I gladly began gathering fish sticks, though I was careful to only take the ones that weren’t touching the floor. “I remember banning you from the school until you were old enough.”

“You did,” I agreed, “and you were really convincing, but that was before I heard the moral law of something-or-other, and heard a story about a tobacco thief named Dude.”

“Dirk!” said Dude in a vaulting tone full of grace and frustration. “It’s the moral code of causation.”

“That’s the one,” I said.

“I don’t see how that helps you,” said Dude, filling his bag, also from non-floor-dwelling fish sticks, handing me the bag, and then flicking his mop of glory at the ones that remained eliminating them instantly. “According to the code, you just caused the waste of many high-quality fish sticks.”

“Yes,” I said, “but how did that come about?”

Dude stared through me as if I was made of glass and shook his head. “Dirk said you were stupid,” he said forthrightly. “It’s the only reason I agreed to let him introduce you to the school.”

“You never should have let him give me the fanny pack.”

“He told you?”

“I guessed,” I said as smugly as I could manage. “I didn’t know for certain until you just confirmed it.”

“What do you know?”

“I know that my fanny pack doesn’t follow all the other laws of this world. I couldn’t pick up this mixer,” I said, trying and failing to pick up the mixer, “and take it with me back to my world. But if it was in one of your silver bags, or in my fanny pack…”

“I’m not telling you anything,” said Dude.

“And you’re also not stopping me.”

“What?”

“I am going into the nurses’ office, and I am going to twist that dial of second chances.”

“No,” said Dude, but it was no longer the melodic authoritative voice he used before, but a melodic pleading and desperate voice. “You have more moral feeling that Dirk, even if you aren’t very bright. Try to see how much moral trouble the dial of time could cause.”

“I’m just trying to go back and save my friends.”

“Save your friends? You’re not going ahead in time to get tomorrow’s race results?”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but…”

“No!” shouted Dude, and the sound of his voice was like a chorus of pissed and anxious angels.

“I know I can do this, Dude,” I said. “There was a day-old fish stick in my fanny pack this morning. I don’t know how this pack works, but I believe it means I can succeed in going back in time and saving my friends.”

Dude hung his glorious golden head. “It is the fanny pack of possibilities, so yes, it is possible to go back, but there is no guarantee that you will save your friends.”

“You could help me.”

“Why should I do such a foolish thing?”

“Because if you help me, I will promise not to do two things.”

“What are the two things?”

“I will not go ahead in time to see tomorrow’s race results.”

“And?”

“And I will not tell Dirk about the dial of time – or second chances which is what I call it.”

“Dirk!” squeaked Dude in a squeak that only a heavenly mouse or Celestial Custodian about to pee himself might make. “With the dial of time, Dirk might…”

“Do anything,” I finished in not nearly so glorious a tone as Dude might, but sometimes you have to nail down your bargaining position.

“I never should have gathered tobacco on Two that day. I don’t understand why this school is non-smoking!”

“Are you asking me?”

Dude started laughing. I wasn’t sure why he was laughing. I was suspected the joke might be on me, but celestial laughter is contagious so I laughed right along with him.

“All right, I’ll help you. And you can keep the fish sticks; your friends are probably getting hungry in relative time.”

I thought about asking him to define relative time, but instead described my situation, and as he told me to hurry up several times, I won’t relate all that here. I don’t know why people think I go on and on with things. I think I just say what needs to be said, but then somebody calls me a bore and somebody else calls me stupid.

You know what I call stupid? People who call other people stupid, that’s what I call stupid! Maybe I don’t always get right to the point, but that’s no excuse to… stupidify me.

I’m thinking as fast as I can, you know!

When I finished my story, which I didn’t think was too long, or contained useless detail, Dude shook his head.

“You should just give up,” he said.

“I’m not going to give up.” I wished I could think of some way of saying ‘give up’ other than just echoing Dude’s ‘give up.’ I know I sounded like a parrot, and I was feeling sensitive about how Dude was looking down on me just because he was millions of years old and his boots shone like sunlight on a warm spring day.

“See if you can understand what I’m saying,” said Dude very slowly.

I wanted to hit him in the nose, but I just nodded instead.

“You’ve moved progressively through time – the way you ordinarily do. You know about that, right?”

Nod.

“But you’ve also moved trans-dimensionally. Do you know what that means?”

Nod.

“I doubt it,” Dude muttered beatifically. Then he shook his head as if he wasn’t going to go on.

“Dirk will love that dial,” I said.

“You can’t go back in your body!” Dude shouted.

“Oh,” I said, trying desperately to look smarter than Dude thought I was. “I’ve heard something about this. It’s called a time paradox, right?”

“A time paradox?” Dude started giggling in an entirely masculine and awe-inspiring way. “How did you learn to read – from pulp science fiction?”

“No.”

“Don’t try to be smart,” Dude warned me. “You do stupid well. Stay with what you know.”

I wondered what would happen if I hit Dude with his mop of glory.

“You can go back in time, but you have to avoid yourself. You can’t join with the you from before. That’s because of… Just believe me. Think of it as a rule and breaking the rule will cause an explosion that will kill everyone you ever met.”

“Including you?”

“Of course not me,” said Dude as if that was obvious.

“Okay,” I said, using that So-Ho expression once again. I could see how that could become a habit. I wondered why we didn’t say, okay on Two. “I’ve got it.”

“You’re sure?”

“You’re worried about us?”

“Actually,” said Dude, “it would be convenient for me if you did kill everyone you ever met. Unfortunately, if I don’t do everything I can to prevent it, the moral code of causation will bite me big time.”

“Well said.” I enjoyed complementing Dude. He obviously hated it, but he couldn’t complain about it. Maybe complements from a lower life form is like receiving mud pies from two-year-olds. You know the gesture is meant well, but the last thing you want is a pile of excrement-filled mud in your hand, and then half the time the kid expects you to eat it.

I considered staying around and complementing Dude the rest of the day. After all, the time dial meant I wasn’t in a rush, but I was also anxious to get this done, and I knew the fish sticks weren’t getting any fresher.

Dude led me into the nurses’ office. “How much time you need?”

“I’ll just turn it until I…”

“No, no, no,” said Dude as he might have to a wet dog about to jump on his bed. “I don’t want your hands on this control.”

“About a day.”

“About a day? You can’t be more specific?”

“Well, it’s mid-morning now, right?”

“In So-Ho, New York City? Yes,” Dude answered. “It’s ten twelve Anti-meridian.”

I pretended that I had an idea what that meant. “Yup,” I said. “About a day.”

Dude sighed and turned the dial.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Elmer just had a minor triumph. Will Elmer continue to succeed or will he return to form and end up rescuing Swampy or even Youtickubus Akwar (shudder,) instead of Ono? Or maybe this time he’ll end up in the real oblivion that Dirk has been avoiding for thousands of years. Tune in next Friday for the exciting conclu… (don't overstate it,) for the conclusion to Dirk Destroyer’s Less Destructive Brother.

Of course it won’t be the last post of the book because I can never leave well enough alone.

There are those who accuse me of drawing everything I write from The Tick (especially Volition Man.)  What libel! (or is it slander?)  (Oh, and any resemblance between Dude and Plunger Man is entirely co-incidental.)

Medical Pushery

I got my first pair of real glasses in decades a couple months ago. My eyes are marginal and I’ve been able to get by on Dollar Tree magnifiers, though I lack sufficient knowledge of botany to tell you what tree grows dollars (or magnifying glasses for that matter.)

It wasn’t so much that I needed prescription glasses; it was a bene at work and I figured if it’s free, I should get it.

You see I forgot the axiom of medical pushery, whether it’s from Doctor Respectable behind the marble pillars, or Doctor Freak hanging out on the corner of Fifteenth and Main: The first one is always free. A few days after getting the real glasses, I had trouble reading with the Dollar Tree cheapies. Not only that, but my ears and the bridge of my nose started craving for the optometrist custom fit. That’s right, I’m an addict; I’m hooked, and I can’t find a 12 step program for medically-assisted presbyopia. Already my eyes are toying with astigmatism - the hard stuff.

(May induce hallucinations)

We’ve always known that pain killers are addictive, but we’ve been laboring under the impression that prescription dope was a medical anomaly. Maybe it’s time to reevaluate. The doctor biz is a racket like any other. They work to grow their customer base and protect their territory.

Does your back give you trouble? You got two choices. You can go to the doc-in-a-box and get the pain killers, or you can go to quack-in-the-shack and have a chiropractor do an “adjustment.”

Oh, I’ll go to the chiropractor. At least I won’t get addicted.

Don’t be too sure. Whenever I hear someone rave about the bone-shifter I ask them a few questions. The answers are always the same.

The Chiropractor heals you?

Sure does!

How long you been going to him?

Oh, for years!

How are you when you miss an appointment?

Miserable!

Does that sound like an addiction to you? It does to me.

Three years ago, my friend Marie went to a cosmetic surgeon to get a mole removed. Now she has a new nose, chin, cheek bones, and I think she’s getting a Jacuzzi installed somewhere (I don’t want to know where,) next month.

Lenny from work let his dentist whiten his teeth two shades. He’s been back four times and his teeth are so bright he gets up in the middle of the night and finds the bathroom without turning on a light..

I even know people who visit their doctor once a month to get an enema. What kind of crap is that? What’s next – going to an anesthesiologist for sleep therapy?

It’s all the same game in the medical field. Once you start going, you’ve got a monkey on your back. The only difference is that the guys with the nice offices pay off the politicians.

You never heard Nancy Reagan say, “Just say no to prescription glasses.”

So they’ve got me now. I’m hooked on optometry. Sometimes I even drool during commercials for photochromic lenses, but I’ve learned my lesson – I’m not going to fall for next “free” medical addiction they pitch at me.

Especially not that enema thing – yuck!

And then there's this.

Dirk Destrroyer Part 44 Chapters Twenty-four and 24

Elmer McFarland finds himself in a mid-rise apartment in So-Ho, which bears little resemblance to the Planet Two. He is also brokenhearted.

But there’s cappuccino gurgling in the kitchen.

Chapter Twenty-four

Legal Disclaimer

Subsequent to my uneventful and therefore successful transfer on Qantas, I became aware that Qantas trans-dimensional service is not yet available in most locales. Although the people of Qantas provide good service, with a friendly (though sardonic) attitude, I don’t recommend that you utilize your telecommunications device to inquire about their six-day Big Bang excursion. Inquiries through their WWW site (brought to you by All Bore,) is also not recommended.

Chapter 24

“Splaining” Chapter

Or

Dirk Ex Machina

It was morning in So-Ho. We were high up in a building, surrounded by many buildings of such height, and buildings unimaginably high, visible to the south. I couldn’t help but wonder how many sheep you could fit in so many buildings.

The Stevens twins slept seductively in each other’s arms on what Dirk called a futon. It didn’t seem to matter that I wasn’t willing to join in their lovemaking. Dirk was one of those few men able to satisfy more than one woman, or perhaps the sisters assisted each other in that venture.

Dirk handed me a cup. The top was full of sweet foam with sprinkles of a dark substance that I hoped was chocolate, because I didn’t wish to contemplate what else it might be.

“It’s hot,” he warned me a second after I had scalded the lining of my mouth.

“So what do you think of New York, Brother?”

“It’s very impressive,” I said. “I wish Ono could see it.”

Dirk made a dismissive gesture. “You’re better off.”

“Living here on your charity?”

“Only until we find you a place of your own.”

“And how will I obtain this place? I have no So-Ho skills. For what type of work am I suited?”

“Can you still do that trick with precious metals?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“They’re very fond of precious metals here in New York. We’ll take a trip to Alaska or the Dakotas next week. You’ll have enough gold to get three places like this.”

I sighed. What he said was probably true, but I wasn’t really worried about that. I had thousands of years ahead of me – maybe in So-Ho if it lasted that long, or on any other place I wished once Dirk showed me the dial for trans-dimensional travel.

But was a long life such a good thing when it was empty? What was there to live for?

“Look Buddy,” said Dirk. “I know you’re down, and if you’re like me, you probably want all the bad news at once.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

Dirk laughed. “It’s just I’ve been holding out on you. You see I’ve been letting you believe that we’ve lived this long because we’re different from other humans, and it’s true we are, but only because I made us that way.”

“What?”

“Remember my twenty-fourth birthday?”

I thought back. It was too long ago. I shook my head.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dirk told me. “What matters is what happened. I was out in Glaz’s tobacco field…”

“I remember Glaz,” I said.

“That’s good, Buddy. Try to focus. I was out in the tobacco field filching some tobacco to make a few home-made cigars.”

“That’s right,” I said. “You didn’t work.”

“And I had no money,” Dirk agreed. “But I wasn’t the only one stealing tobacco that day. There was this guy who looked like he was made out of shiny gold. He had a mop on his shoulder, and a shiny silver bag. He was stuffing leaves in the bag.”

“The Celestial Custodian?”

“Yeah,” said Dirk. “You’ve met him?”

“Recently,” I said.

“You must have made a mess in his kitchen. He hates that. His name is Dude.”

“Dude?”

“Yeah.”

“The Celestial Custodian is named Dude?”

“Just let me finish, will you?”

“Okay,” I said, trying out the new So-Ho expression. Did I do it, okay? How often did one say, okay? Could okay be said sarcastically, or if from Pogo, sardonically? Did one strive to be okay, or was okay only achieved passively?

“Focus, Brother,” said Dirk.

“I said, okay!” I said plaintively, and found that I liked the sound of it.

Dirk sighed, but went on. “I guess Dude didn’t see me, and when his bag was full, I grabbed at it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean Dude could have vaporized me with his mop of glory, but he was busy at the moment traveling back.”

“To the school of amazing stuff!” I said, and almost shouted, ‘I knew it,’ but I certainly hadn’t known it and I was still feeling awkward about misusing that phrase earlier.

“That’s where we went,” Dirk agreed. “I went there because I had hold of his bag. Dude was pretty surprised when he saw me.”

“What did he do?”

“That’s the funny thing. I mean Dude could have done just about anything he wanted to me, but he was bound by the moral code of causation.”

“Huh?”

“It’s kind of like the thirty-seven ideas in the world of the school of amazing stuff. I never would have gotten to the school if he hadn’t been stealing tobacco from Glaz, and so anything that came of that was his moral fault.”

“Anything you do?”

“Or you do too,” said Dirk. “You never would’ve gone to the school if it weren’t for me, and I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for Dude. Dude tried to bluff me, but for a Celestial being, he’s pretty easy to read. I wasn’t sure what I had on Dude, but I knew I had some bargaining power and I used it.”

“What did you get?”

“Among other things, I learned how to be immortal.”

“So you weren’t immortal before?”

“No, just potentially immortal. It turns out that everybody is potentially immortal. We all have this switch in the back of our skull; it switches back and forth, immortal, not immortal. Here, I’ll show you,”

I followed Dirk to the sleeping Steven’s twins. He pushed one of the twin’s hair aside, and sure enough, there was the switch. “Why didn’t I see that before?”

“It’s a lot like the dials at the school,” said Dirk. “Most of the time, you can’t turn the dial unless you know what you’re looking at. The only reason you see this switch is because I told you I was going to show it to you.”

“You’d think barbers, or hair-dressers…”

“Yeah,” said Dirk. “and masseuses. I’m surprised they don’t trip the switch thousands of times a year.”

“Maybe they always do it an even number of times,” I guessed.

“Wow,” said Dirk. “That’s pretty good math for you.”

I didn’t know if I should be complimented or insulted, so I asked him, “so you flipped both of our switches?”

“I did,” said Dirk. “That’s why I’m forever twenty-four, and you’re forever twenty-six.”

“But Uncle Egbert was still alive then. Why didn’t you switch him?”

“It might have slipped my mind, I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

“Why didn’t you switch Mom?”

“I asked her. She said being fifty forever didn’t sound like paradise.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I kind of felt bad when she died.”

That sounded like an understatement, but while I’ve always been slow to think, Dirk has been slow to feel. Maybe seeing Mom die when he could have prevented it wasn’t as hard for him as it would have been for me. “Hold on,” I said, loud enough to make the twins stir. I staggered back towards the couch. “Wait a minute.”

“You’re catching on,” said Dirk.

“You said that we were more…”

“Durable,” Dirk finished.

“You…”

“Lied,” he said. “But I did it for your own good. If it were up to you, you would have filled this apartment with every sad story on the planet Two. You probably would have rescued Uriculous and his Light Bringer.”

“I would have rescued Ono!”

“Yeah, and her buddy whose face disappears, and Swampy, and…”

“No,” I said. “That’s it. Just those three. Unless you were lying about Phasia.”

“No,” said Dirk. “I was straight with you about Phasia. So you know that Ono will be fine. The monk will probably take your faceless friend too, and you know Swampy will follow the girl, so everything’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“Maybe not now,” said Dirk, “but everything will be fine when you get over the girl. You’ve lived long enough. You know you’ll get over her.”

“You’re right,” I said.

“And besides,” said my brother. “It’s not as if you can do anything about it now.”

“I can if you’ll teach me trans-dimensional travel.”

“I will teach you,” said Dirk, “but not until you’ve had a couple decades here in New York, or someplace else if this one self-destructs. The Light Bringer and the others won’t be kind to you if you try to help your friends.”

“They’ll just cast me out again.”

Dirk laughed.

“What?”

“They can’t do anything to you – at least not anymore than light your cigars or punch you in the nose.”

“All of it was you? You cast yourself out?”

“Haven’t you ever noticed how dreadfully dull Two is?”

“So I have nothing to fear from the Light Bringer?”

“I don’t know,” said Dirk. “He’s bigger than you – and he has a Showr Rinn monk with him.”

“Teach me trans-dimensional travel.”

“No.”

“You have to!”

“Did that argument ever work?” Dirk gathered the cups. Mine was still full, though the sweet foam was gone, so I didn’t want it. “You’ll be fine, Elmer. You have plenty of time to get over her.”

Dirk left me alone except for the sleeping twins. I got up and started to pace. I was upset. I was angry with Dirk. I was worried about Ono. I wanted a cigar.

All these things were true, but there was something else. I didn’t know what to do about something else, so I automatically reached into my fanny pack for a cigar, even though I knew I didn’t have any.

I pulled out a fish stick. How did that get in there? Did Mage-e-not and Ono magically create it and put it there? But there wasn’t anything in the fanny pack to transform.

It looked like it might have been a pretty good fish stick yesterday, but not any more. I looked around for Swampy, but of course, he wasn’t there. I threw away the fish stick and thought about what Dirk had said.

What was memorable about his twenty-forth birthday?

Then I remembered. On his twenty-forth birthday, he gave me a present which is unusual for someone to do on their own birthday, and doubly unusual for Dirk. He gave me a fanny pack. He gave me this fanny pack!

My brain hurt, but I felt pretty strongly about one thing. I needed to talk to someone other than Dirk about this. In spite of the ban, I needed to find the Celestial Custodian. I needed to talk to Dude.

   So many things explained.

My First Love

When you’re a three-year-old Don Juan, it’s hard to find a babe that’s shorter than you are. That’s why my first crush was – Tinkerbell. I saw her flitting around in glorious black and white each Sunday evening on the Wonderful World of Disney. She was easier to follow, and also in color in our Disney story collection, and in miniature (of course,) on the back cover of our Golden books.

I wonder if she is the reason my favorite color is green.

It never bothered me that she convinced the Lost Boys to shoot Wendy out of the air. True love overlooks little faults like conspiracy to commit murder.

Of course I had rivals. Timmy Thorne, who was five and could recite almost the entire alphabet, also loved Tinkerbell.

“I’m going to write her a letter,” he said to me.

“You can’t do that,” I said, though I had no idea what Timmy could do. I’d seen him ride a big kid’s two-wheeler just the other day, and he told me he was taking piano lessons.

How could I compete with such an accomplished suitor?

I decided to draw a picture of her. I worked very hard, sure that if I drew the most perfect picture, I would win the tiny lady’s heart.

Of course I would need an adult’s help to send it to Tinkerbell. The only thing I was good at in mailing stuff was licking the stamp.

“Very good,” said my father when I showed it to him. “Wonderful detail!”

I beamed with pleasure and renewed confidence.

“Do you have an orange crayon in your crayon box?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, proud that, unlike many three-year-olds, I could say yes without lisping.

“You know that a bird’s beak is not pink, right?” said my father.

Oh, no…

My picture ended up on the refrigerator instead of in an envelope to Tinkerbell. I stared at it mournfully when I got milk for my Sugar Smacks.

My brother, who was very wise and old, (he was almost a teenager,) saw me staring at the picture one morning.

“You know Tinkerbell's not real, don’t you?”

“Huh?”

“She’s just made up,” he said, “like Bambi and Davy Crockett.”

“You mean all the stuff on TV is made up?” I asked.

“Only the good stuff.”

Timmy Thorne got a letter a week later, but it wasn’t from Tinkerbell. It was an invitation to join the Mickey Mouse Club.

“Do you think she’s made up?” I asked him.

“Nah,” said Timmy. “She just doesn’t read letters. They’re too big, you know.”

And so I lived with a confused heart, pondering the love of my young life. Was she real? Would she like a picture of her that looked like a bird? Would she even open the envelope if I sent it, or would it be too big?

And then one day, the picture came down off the refrigerator and was replaced by my sister’s report card. There wasn’t much art to it, but there were a lot of A’s which I was told was a very good thing.

I’m going to have to figure this out, I decided. Maybe I should go to school like my brother and sisters. Then I’d learn if Tinkerbell is real, and maybe even how to write to her.

When I finally got to Kindergarten, I hadn’t forgotten that this was the place I would finally learn about my lady-love. I was full of determination and resolve!

That was, until I met my teacher, Mrs. Taylor.

Ah… Mrs. Taylor.

I'm sorry, but these new Disney vids titled "Tinkerbell," just isn't Tinkerbell.

Dirk Destroyer Part 43 Chapter 23

Elmer Destroyer, the brother of Dirk Destroyer is about to have his first exposure to oblivion. He might be more excited about it, but it means abandoning Ono, the love of his life, and Mage-e-not, who he doesn’t like that much anyway.

Chapter 23

That Ought To Do it

“Chirp,” said Ono.

“Chirp what?” said Jo4n McLame who, as you may recall has been called Jonma Claim, Uriculous, Uriculous the Great, High Priest, Translator, Director, and possibly other names in this book, but not Jon, which is the name Jonma Carry wished to be called, and not Penelope Oddswart, who does not appear in this story.

“Chirp, cheep, cluck,” said Ono.

“Huh?”

“I think what she means,” said Mage-e-not, “is that you were about to give your decision.”

“About what?” said Jo4n McLame who apparently was no smarter than Jonma Claim, Uriculous, Uriculous the Great, High Priest, Translator, Director, or for that matter Penelope Oddswart.

“About Elmer and Dirk Destroyer,” said Mage-e-not.

“Oh them,” said the character of so many names, adding ‘character of so many names’ to his burdensome list of names. “I don’t like them. Banish them.”

“Oh no,” cried Ono.

“It’s just politics,” said All Bore.

Ono and Mage-e-not rushed to my side. I held out my arms expecting an embrace, or at least a handshake, but as neither shook my hand or embraced me, I ended up faking a yawn so I wouldn’t look so stupid.

“No one is buying it,” Dirk whispered in my ear. I dropped my arms.

Swampy waddled over as well, jumped with far more effort than usual, and just managed to land on Mage-e-not’s shoulder, though he appeared to be aiming for Ono’s. A nasty streak of defecation accented the dried tomato paste on Mage-e-not’s increasingly disgusting upper garment.

I tried to look into Ono’s eyes. I wanted my last sight of Two to be of her. Instead, I was looking at the top of her head. She had a lovely scalp, and I’m not complaining, but I wondered why she seemed so much more interested in my scratchwing than she was in me.

“This is my task!” sang Lustavious in an impressively operatic voice. “I am the Light Bringer. You are the Destroyer (and his brother.)” He added the, ‘and his brother,’ line in a res-sis-a-tiff which always seemed like cheating to me, but opera is full of them so I guess it’s allowed.

“Today is the day,” Lustavious sang in a booming base. “Now is the moment,” he added in a lilting Irish tenor.

“What a show-off,” mumbled Mage-e-not, grabbing one of Ono’s hands with both of his for some reason.

Lustavious closed his eyes and made a building vocalization from the back of his throat, that is difficult to putting in type. It wasn’t really a, mmmmmmMMMMM. I mean that looks like I’m talking about a hum, and what Lustavious was doing had very little hum-like quality. It had plenty of M, but almost no hu, and it almost had an, ‘Ah,’ quality to it except there wasn’t any ‘Ah’ sound to it.

It was a vocalization. It built as it went. It was well done. That’s all you’re going to get for now.

There might have been a bit of ‘R’ in there somewhere.

As Lustavious was vocalizing, he very slowly rotated his right arm clockwise. Well, it would be clockwise if you were standing at his front. Then Dirk and I would be at three-o-clock, and the rotation began at six, and came around two hundred and seventy degrees. If you were standing at his back, the rotation would have been counter clockwise, with Dirk and I standing at nine-o-clock and he still would be rotating two hundred and seventy degrees counter clockwise.

So, you know, he was facing us, with his eyes pointed at two-o-clock, or ten-o-clock from the back, and his arm started behind him,(in front from the back,) then above him, (the same,) then began slowly descending towards Dirk and me.

Wait – I think I have the angles wrong. There was a hypotenuse in there somewhere.

The math involved is too complicated for me to describe. Dirk was right. I never would have gotten along in Phasia.

Just as Lustavious’ finger reached either three or nine-o-clock depending on your angle of observation, Lustavious, the Light Bringer, opened his eyes, and fire appeared at the end of his finger tip.

“That ought to do it,” said Dirk.

I felt a flood of sensations. None of them were interesting, so I’ll move on.

Dirk and I were in some sort of pod with lights flashing by us. Maybe we were flashing by them. I would have asked one, but there wasn’t time because some of us – either the lights, or Dirk and I were really moving.

“I’ve got the scratchwing,” I said.

“Good,” said Dirk.

“What should I do with it?”

“Just hold onto it.”

“Right! So where’d you learn to be a Light Bringer?”

“The school.”

“Oh,” I said. “Do you think Lustavious and the others went there?”

“Nah,” said Dirk. “Spontaneous human combustion is just a basic human ability. The hard part is learning to do it without setting your clothes on fire.”

“Right, so what about Swampy?”

“You mean is he a Jonma bird?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, he is.”

Dirk didn’t seem interested in elaborating any further. We sat there for a few minutes. There were dinging sounds, and the increasingly less impressive whooshing of lights going past the pod.

“So who is he?” I asked.

“You mean Swampy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember Uncle Egburt?”

“Uncle Egg?” I grimaced. I had never liked Uncle Egg. He used to smell like dead cat soaked in bourbon. “Why’d you bring back Uncle Egg?”

“Oh, I made a promise once. I promised that if I ever discovered the secret to immortality, I would make him immortal.”

“So you brought him back as a swamp-rat bird?”

“Hey, you start out as a smelly egg, you end up a smelly bird. There wasn’t that much left of him when I finally got around to it. I was about to be cast into oblivion, and I didn’t want to leave you alone. I made Uncle Egg promise that if I made him immortal, he’d watch over you.”

As I thought about it, he had. Sure, Swampy was unpleasant and smelly, but he was no more unpleasant and smelly than Uncle Egg had been. “So why didn’t he tell me who he was?”

“Not sure,” said Dirk. “I don’t think he ever liked you that much.”

Whatever I was about to ask was interrupted by a pleasant female voice with Pogoian accent.

“Welcome to transfer queue Wombat. Please remain seated, with your seats and tray tables in the upright position. Our speed is incalculable at present, and our altitude is meaningless. As this is a short transfer, there will be no in-transfer meal served today. If you really want us to light up the barbi, you might want to consider our six-day Big Bang excursion.

“In the event of an emergency, we urge you to remain calm and relaxed. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Reassuring,” I mumbled.

“Qantas,” said Dirk. “They’re a bit sardonic, but they have the best trans-dimensional safety record in the business.”

There were more sensations including a flash of light followed by a voice saying, “G’day, trans-dimense us again.”

The next thing I was aware of, I was in the dark, drooling on a throw rug.

“Home again!” said Dirk, manipulating a device that illuminated the room. “So, you want a Stevens twin?”

“No thanks.”

“More for me. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

   This bit from the Simpsons is in my head this week.  It was funny in 1996.  It seems more troubling this year.  Why would that be?

Walter Mitty is Changing My Life (without asking first.)

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.)

Dirk Destroyer Part 42 Chapter Non-Twenty-Three

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.

By-the-way, Will, you’re out of Pop Tarts.