Chapter 12 read by Wendy
If you don't see the Media player above then click here to play in a separate window (or right-click and download)
-ÁNooooo! -It was the grief-stricken and repulsive voice of Mr. Spellman.
I opened the door. I could hear the catcalls and I could hear Sir Thomas warming up his voice. Any other time I wouldÕve simply set him on fire and been done with it. But not this time. This time I was determined to acknowledge and to move on.
I lashed out in the general direction of the creepy cowboy. And I doubled my alcohol intake. I turned around and around, ready to clobber the clueless cowboy - or at least produce some kind of segue.
But instead, I was looking down the barrel of my own home-made gun.
Old Man Spellman was in love with himself. And he was now falling for Sir Thomas.
The red flames that sailed from Sir ThomasÕs face were actually coming from his cigar. He stoked the flames with his haggard breathing, laughing and lap dancing. His dirigible lifted off directly in front of me.
As the dirigible rose in front of me, a door opened in the incalculable distance.
Sir Thomas hissed like a poor manÕs Syd Barrett. His heart was so in love with Old Man Spellman that it forgot to pump blood. He was accelerating desperately towards love and death. Meanwhile, the door was, IÕd say, ummm, three kilometers in the distance.
One second more of this hokey suspense and I wonÕt even try to find the door.
And then I heard a rude noise. And all the air that didnÕt smell foul had disappeared. Now I was on fire to find that door.
I prepared to gulp.
It had finally happened - ÁI had turned into a vulture! It was the only logical explanation. It was either that or I, too, was in love with Old Man Spellman.
When I tried explaining this sordid mess to Dad, he had a conniption fit and passed out right after knocking me upside the head. It was then that I started seeing cowboys.
I woke to the sound of crayons drawing, sucking the dilettante from Sir Thomas and spitting it out like so many clavicles. Like otter clavicles in soiled snake sauce.
Arrested for DWC - Driving While Cowboy. And while wanting to be a lizard.
It was a rude thing to do, but they circled the crayons anyway. The cowboy was trapped with his crayons. His cowboy hat rose up, gulped, swallowed some soiled snake sauce and then did a little cha-cha dance.
Sir Thomas had been ready to see the world on fire. Instead, his agri-business brazenness poured out of the seam in his head. The red llamas had a word for this. Translated to English, itÕs ŌHave a nice day,Ķ but translated to American, itÕs ŌHave a brilliant eviscerationĶ.
-ÁCome on! -I had to say something. Something alive. Something other than holding hands with Old Man Spellman. I argued and argued with my self, but thatÕs all I could come up with.
ĀHow come I have to question everything? ĀWhy canÕt I just intend to having had done the right thing?
And then just repair to my cold goo ice cream stand.
The blue humidity inside the lab was actually a sea of sleep-deprived rats and – strangely - Lance Corporal Lindy Englund. As brilliant as the humidity was, it also gave off a strange, blue smell. It was so intense that it actually pecked-out Sir ThomasÕs eyes.
-ÁGwah! -He was already screaming before his eyes hit the ground. I knew he was in pain, but ŌgwahĶ sounded like something youÕd put on a Tudor resume.
I guess it had that certain scent of cold goo. ÁIt was magic!
I had never changed my mind so quickly. From that ŌTudor resumeĶ crack to ŌÁItÕs magic!Ķ All in the space of three seconds.
ĀWhat sin could I have committed that would send a carton of rocks cascading through my breakfast cereal like a Spanish Armada cannon blast? ĀWhat sin could I have committed that would send the hilarity of the lambs sailing like volcanic lava through the air at me?
-ThatÕs it. ÁThatÕs it, Spellman! ĀYou know what? -I lifted the cold goo as an offering to the moonÕs moon-. YouÕre right. I ate something and I feel much better. ItÕs the cold goo. ItÕs magic.
With the cold goo everywhere and one every ware, I circled the cagey cowboy.
Old Man Spellman was a misanthrope, and this time I had the aces up my sleeve that Dad was always pouring cold goo on to prove it. I had aces and a pair of sidewalk chalks the Contras would die for. A battalion of Lasse Hallstrms had been called in to cordon-off the air.
ÁIt was air-a-licious!
A penis wouldÕve said, ŌÁI donÕt bee-leeve it!Ķ Probably say it twice, upsetting the cold goo that was close to me, but even closer to the cowboy.
Sir Thomas knew extremism. HeÕd had it converted into a metallic rooster in his old age. The fire he had felt as a teen had been pummeled, eviscerated and later stepped on by my arpeggios.
-Listen to me, you bad cowboy. ÁIÕm pitchinÕ a hissy fit! -I was so intent on calling a bad cowboy a bad cowboy that my voice sounded like it had risen from the grave and punched me out. I sounded like a pair of broken CIA agents whoÕd decided to sell sonar to Switzerland.
I had to focus:
Intensity. Importanticity. Podiatry.
-ÁI canÕt even Juan Encarnacin my own motto!
I lifted the cold goo in the direction of Sir Thomas.
The aces were entrenched under the cowboyÕs hat. I didnÕt give gopher shit if he had three aces. He was a strange motherfucker. And he was going down.
I lifted the cold goo. The fire from the last of the moonÕs coffee crystals was de-fire-ing. You heard me. De-fire-ing. And after de-fire-ing its resplendent rays of light, it was going to kick Sir ThomasÕs ass.
You heard me. Ass.
When the light became low on actual light, Sir Thomas actually sat down and made a complimentary gesture to the moon.
His armor shook and then actually shimmied for a second. And then...