"Oh yes!" chimed in Tom Jones, who was seated on a zebra striped settee, "I even brought my hero pants! They're the ones I wear to wash my car when nobody is looking."
"Glorious!" sang Bowie who was pouring a steamy, hot pink beverage from a, Bo thought, somewhat phallic decanter into three goblets that looked like noses. "I'm sure they are groovy to the five hundredth degree, but alas, my little piglets, that is why you are here."
He glided to the weary travelers, goblets in hand, as if he were on wheels. Bo took a sip from the cup he was handed and immediately fell into a spasm of cosmic euphoria. He quickly glanced over at Tom who had chugged the beverage faster than the little engine that could and had consequently leapt to his feet and was in the throws of performing a rather risque Irish jig.
"Duckies," said Bowie, who had assumed the lotus position and was floating around the room, avoiding Tom's flying legs, "I have given you my elixir of groove. It is a sad, sad beast of a pretty boy that I'm about to share with you and I want you in tip top spirits"
"Zip-a-dee-do-dah zip-a-de-ay, my oh my what a wonderful day..." howled Tom.
"You see... hahahaha!!! See... hahaha!!! Get it? See? No? Oh, well, you'll get it in a moment. Maybe not. I forgot you were punaphobes... anyway... see this eyes so blue? One of the mysteries of the world, my left eye is. People have analyzed it, come up with theories, lost sleep, gone insane, someone once tried to smother me with my own bed because of it... now that's what I call eye-nemosity. No? Well then... my point is that the truth is much grimmer, much more dastardly and horrible than the world could possibly comprehend. But my dear little pickle bottom, you and yippy skippy over there have proven to me that more than capable of heavy du'y business... I've been watching you in my crystal ball... I've seen your journey thus far and I know in my heart that you are the only ones capable of giving me what I most desire."
Bo, grinning like a drunken maniac from the elixir of groove began to speak in a cheery voice, "Ziggy, old buddy, old pal! What do you want us to do? Just say the word, mate, and we'll be there in a twinkle!"
Bowie grinned and floated closer to Bo. "I want you to bring me my eye back, Bo. The goblins stole it and replaced it with the orb you see before you. It has been the woe of my life, this eye... it was custom made to make clothes invisible to the beholder."
Bo choked on his beverage, his face turning a bright shade of red. He was unsure if this was because of the fiery liquid racing down his windpipe; the fact that David Bowie could and was seeing him in his full, porky, glory; or out of despair that the mystical emperor of glam could not admire and complement him on his exotic pairing of metallic purple go go boots with polka dotted felt bodysuit.
"Yes," said Bowie, sadly, "It was taken from the custom-made-body-part-workshop of Howard Stern."
Friday, August 19, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Part 30
Our young hero gulped hard, sweat washing over his face like salty spring rain. Growing up, he had heard tales of the mystical Bowie castle, stories of children being taken away in the night to the lair and having eyeballs torn painfully from their sockets, only to be replaced by elegant and undoubtedly very expensive jewels. Stories of having your flesh stripped and re-upholstered with bizarre and vibrantly patterned animal pelts. Stories of martian arachnids eating your face, leaving behind only the shape of a lightning bolt. It was a god awful large affair.
Bo sighed, "It's like a labyrinth in here," looking around quizzically. No sooner did the words escape his sweaty, grease-stained lips than did a brilliant puff of rainbow-colored, glittery smoke fill the area directly in front of our travellers. Through it walked an androgynous, tanned snow-white, and fashionably-minded being with a hairstyle that obviously never got the memo that the 80's was over.
"Greetings" the figure bellowed, shaking the very foundation they all seemed to be standing on. He gazed upon Bo and K Jax with a discriminating air. His once solemn glare brightened, seeming pleased with what he saw and confirmed it with a gleeful "Oh, you pretty things! You must come in. How I do loooOooove having guests over!" A weary wave of relief cautiously washed over our heroes, and although Tom didn't consciously know it, he had wished something more substantial would wash Bo.
"M-Mr. Bowie.." began Bo, only to be interrupted, "Please, my boy, call me Ziggy, or Starry D. Mister Bowie is my dad's name. He was a knife. He split up with my mother, no pun intended. It's a miracle I'm even here today!" Bo was briefly disgusted by the implications this carried and secretly hoped that the whimsical man would not make any further attempts at punnery. As his mind was slowly congealing this thought, Ziggy gasped and flounced, "What do you mean you didn't like my pun? It seems my taste in puns is not so sweet. Very well, I'm just happy to have you here! Come, join me for some light snacks!" With snacks now on his mind, Bo vibrated happily.
Kangy and Bo followed their host through winding corridors made completely of what appeared to be cocaine-brick and mortar, up flights of stairs that clearly harboured no interest in obeying the laws of physics, through a room with two doors each manned by one of two identical and equally irritating guards, across an unimaginably large snowflake, and into Ziggy's living room, which was large and very-much forgotten by the 1970's. In fact, it was so much so that even the shag carpet was velour.
"Now," exclaimed the oddity who very well may have been from space, "I understand that you fellows would like to be heroes, even if for just one day."
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Part 29
“Bo” Said Tom Jones, shaking the overweight monk. “BO! Wake up! You must have taken too many vicodin! You fell asleep before I could finish my thought!”
“Wha…what?” Bo said groggily as he forced his eyes to open. Everything was a bit blurry at first as his eyes slowly went into focus.
“You must have been having a bad dream about an all you can eat buffet that ran out of food, because..”
“What? What’s going on? Where are we?” Bo looked down to see the box full of his ingredients now seeping through the sides of the box. “Wait…so we aren’t about to have our souls eaten by some cloaked figure with poor English”
“Boy…you are crazy like a shoe” Tom belted out in a sort of sing-songy black preacher man voice. Bo looked at the singer puzzled, then remembered that Tom was about to reveal the secrets of the box.
“Boy…you are crazy like a shoe” Tom belted out in a sort of sing-songy black preacher man voice. Bo looked at the singer puzzled, then remembered that Tom was about to reveal the secrets of the box.
“Kangaroo Jim! Tell me, what did the box show you!”
“Oh…right….thaaaaaaaat” Tom whispered ominously. They sat there in silence as the now hungry Bo was staring at Tom, wishing for him to get on with his thought so they could have lunch. About thirty seconds later, Bo blurted out
“Tom! Will you just spill it! I’m famished!”
“Oh really? What’s new, pussy cat?” Pleased with himself, Tom ripped open his shirt to expose his chest hair. He opened his mouth to sing, but before he could even take a breath, Bo bellowed
“DAMN IT TOM! WE DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME! Repeat to me what you were going to say before I passed out!” Tom crept closely to the edge of the bed where Bo lay and said
“Your precious missing jar is inpossible to find without the help of David Bowie”
“Tom, I’m pretty sure it’s pronounced IMpossible”
“No no no, my dear boy. INpossible. This is David Bowie we’re talking about. It’s inpossible with the help of Bowie”
“What” Bo snarled out “You just said it was impossible without his help!”
“What” Bo snarled out “You just said it was impossible without his help!”
“No, I said INpossible. With Bowie, everything seems possible, and nothing is what is seems!”
“I don’t even…whatever….can we just get some lunch and head out?”
“I don’t even…whatever….can we just get some lunch and head out?”
The next day, they approached David Bowie’s castle. It was covered in glitter with sharp towers that seemed to have no way in or out.
“Wait” Tom said, reaching into a bag. “You can’t enter The Bowie Kingdom without these” He handed Bo a pair of tight leather pants and instructed them to put them on.
A few minutes later, the pair of tight leather clad men were walking through the front door. When Bo saw what lay before them he began to nervously sweat. The two men were faced with a myriad of stair cases. Some leading up, some leading down, some that had no real purpose at all. The thing that baffled Bo the most were the stair cases that were upside down.
“Well” Tom started “Where would you like to start?”
“Wait” Tom said, reaching into a bag. “You can’t enter The Bowie Kingdom without these” He handed Bo a pair of tight leather pants and instructed them to put them on.
A few minutes later, the pair of tight leather clad men were walking through the front door. When Bo saw what lay before them he began to nervously sweat. The two men were faced with a myriad of stair cases. Some leading up, some leading down, some that had no real purpose at all. The thing that baffled Bo the most were the stair cases that were upside down.
“Well” Tom started “Where would you like to start?”
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Pt. 28
YYYYYEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA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There was a moment of awkward silence as Bo spontaneously hit puberty.
"Well then... um... maybe we should get a box for this..." Tom said, indicating to their untouched meal.
As the weary travelers headed onward, Bo began to sense an accumulating wave of foreboding in the air... something was going to happen.
"Kangaroo Jim, do you think we should stop somewhere for the night?" he asked.
"Little boy kitty, I do believe that's an excellent idea! Where to?" replied Tom.
"Well, I was thinking we could stop in at the local tourist bureau and see if anyone there could tell us about a nice bed and br--- GAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!"
Out of the blackness of night sprung a cloaked figure, and gripping Bo by the neck and Tom by the chest hair, swung them in a high arc into the back seat of a horse-drawn hearse. Springing into the drivers seat, the mysterious figure took up the reigns and sent the coach whizzing into the black abyss of a starless night.
" This sure is one owl of a pot pie!" cried Bo, as he clung to his newly rebooted gut for dear life.
"I'd say it is!" Chirped Tom Jones, "If ever two cats on a way to the races were to be glued to the windshield and ran out into the storm, this is it!"
"Eye-eye-eye-eye..." began the driver before Tom Jones cut in,
"...Knee! Oh boy, this is a fun game!"
"Eye say, where da bloody bang farting blowtorch'd you boys say yous come from?" asked the cloaked figure.
"You watch your language, mister!" Snapped Tom Jones.
"We're going to... er... Nantucket... to um... sail... boats... we're sailors," said Bo.
"Well den! Dat's a right bloody fluffy fish of a profession!" said the cloaked figure, making conversation.
"Listen here, mister Tutti Frutti," said Tom Jones, rising to his feet, then sitting back down when he found the crouching position he could assume less threatening than he had originally anticipated, "I'd like you to stop using language like that! It is offensive and rude and ads little or nothing to the efficiency of the point you are trying to express! If you do not comply, I may have to become cross with you!"
"W-w-w-w-w-ell don'tchew be a bone busting bag of barf! I taught chew was a bleedin sailor!"
"I like to maintain an air of professionalism in my conversation, so as to make up for the generally tarnished reputation of a my profession's dialect. GUMDROPS!!!!!!"
"Eye-eye-eye-eye-eye beg yer bleedin pardon?"
"What?"
"Why'd yewe just say bloody gumdrops to me?"
"I didn't."
"Yes you bleedin' did, Eye 'erd it wit me own ears!"
"Then your ears are full of leprechauns because I most definitely did not say..."
"Enough!" cut in Bo. "Sir, we do so appreciate the ride, but perhaps you could let us off in a bit. You see, my... matey... and I are... um... looking to batten down the hatches in a... um... land... galley..."
"Eeee, donchew worry 'bout dat, bloody 'elephant! Me and SHAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRROOON, da missus, be fixin ya a right cozy cuppa before we SLAUGHTER YOU AND EAT YOUR SOULS... er... give yewe a nice bit a rest."
"Oooh! I'd like that!" said Tom Jones, who had found a catalog under the seat and was looking at pictures of standing mixers.
There was a moment of awkward silence as Bo spontaneously hit puberty.
"Well then... um... maybe we should get a box for this..." Tom said, indicating to their untouched meal.
As the weary travelers headed onward, Bo began to sense an accumulating wave of foreboding in the air... something was going to happen.
"Kangaroo Jim, do you think we should stop somewhere for the night?" he asked.
"Little boy kitty, I do believe that's an excellent idea! Where to?" replied Tom.
"Well, I was thinking we could stop in at the local tourist bureau and see if anyone there could tell us about a nice bed and br--- GAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!"
Out of the blackness of night sprung a cloaked figure, and gripping Bo by the neck and Tom by the chest hair, swung them in a high arc into the back seat of a horse-drawn hearse. Springing into the drivers seat, the mysterious figure took up the reigns and sent the coach whizzing into the black abyss of a starless night.
" This sure is one owl of a pot pie!" cried Bo, as he clung to his newly rebooted gut for dear life.
"I'd say it is!" Chirped Tom Jones, "If ever two cats on a way to the races were to be glued to the windshield and ran out into the storm, this is it!"
"Eye-eye-eye-eye..." began the driver before Tom Jones cut in,
"...Knee! Oh boy, this is a fun game!"
"Eye say, where da bloody bang farting blowtorch'd you boys say yous come from?" asked the cloaked figure.
"You watch your language, mister!" Snapped Tom Jones.
"We're going to... er... Nantucket... to um... sail... boats... we're sailors," said Bo.
"Well den! Dat's a right bloody fluffy fish of a profession!" said the cloaked figure, making conversation.
"Listen here, mister Tutti Frutti," said Tom Jones, rising to his feet, then sitting back down when he found the crouching position he could assume less threatening than he had originally anticipated, "I'd like you to stop using language like that! It is offensive and rude and ads little or nothing to the efficiency of the point you are trying to express! If you do not comply, I may have to become cross with you!"
"W-w-w-w-w-ell don'tchew be a bone busting bag of barf! I taught chew was a bleedin sailor!"
"I like to maintain an air of professionalism in my conversation, so as to make up for the generally tarnished reputation of a my profession's dialect. GUMDROPS!!!!!!"
"Eye-eye-eye-eye-eye beg yer bleedin pardon?"
"What?"
"Why'd yewe just say bloody gumdrops to me?"
"I didn't."
"Yes you bleedin' did, Eye 'erd it wit me own ears!"
"Then your ears are full of leprechauns because I most definitely did not say..."
"Enough!" cut in Bo. "Sir, we do so appreciate the ride, but perhaps you could let us off in a bit. You see, my... matey... and I are... um... looking to batten down the hatches in a... um... land... galley..."
"Eeee, donchew worry 'bout dat, bloody 'elephant! Me and SHAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRROOON, da missus, be fixin ya a right cozy cuppa before we SLAUGHTER YOU AND EAT YOUR SOULS... er... give yewe a nice bit a rest."
"Oooh! I'd like that!" said Tom Jones, who had found a catalog under the seat and was looking at pictures of standing mixers.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Pt. 27
"I really wish we didn't have to do this," Bo grunted as he slowly heaved his generous frame onto the motorized cart Tom Jones had brought to him at the edge of the parking lot, where the bus had let them off. By the time the young monk was settled in his seat, Tom was already a good fifteen yards ahead of him, gleefully pushing a regular cart in a serpentine pattern, narrowly missing a parked brown sedan after trying to challenge a twelve-year-old to a backwards shopping cart race.
Once within the unholy depths of Wal-mart, Bo managed to gather all of the items on the list before he ran into Tom again. He found him in the pets section, having what looked to be a heated debate with the fish, about the welfare system. The fish appeared to remain unconvinced. Actually, to be fair, the fish didn't seem to understand what was happening at all, or why random items were being thrown into their tanks as "visual aids".
"Tom, I've got the ... ingredie--items. Let's go - leave that cart there, we can't afford - and definitely don't need - all of that stuff." Tom's cart was filled nearly to overflowing with women's plus-sized jogging suits, children's novelty sunglasses, two magic 8 balls, a couch cushion from a piece of display furniture, various and sundry office supplies, three Toblerones and a Hanson cd. "Except for the chocolate, grab those." Bo added.
The pair nearly got thrown out when Tom Jones kept trying to get a price on his chest at the self check-out, but the boy managed to distract him by claiming to have seen a doo-wop group in the parking lot. Bo was disturbed beyond words when he exited the store to find Tom singing with a couple of homeless gentlemen.
--------
"Do you think this will work?" Tom asked, squatting in front of the box as he dumped the yogurt in. Bo was still a bit tender from his recent surgeries as well as exhausted from their shopping trip, so he was just observing the experiment from his perch atop the bed. "I ... nothing surprises me anymore." Bo replied, shaking his head.
Tom continued adding ingredients, one after another, until everything on the list was inside the box, and the crotch of his pants was splattered liberally with yogurt, milk, ice cream and egg. "I think I might have added the block of cheddar last, Bo." Tom mused. The boy squeeked painfully in reply, stiffling a guffaw. "Close the box, Tom." Bo ordered. Tom Jones dutifully closed the box. "Now open it!" Bo said breathlessly. Tom lifted the lid and peered inside.
"Well? What do you see?" the young monk asked impatiently.
The deeply tanned crooner began to sing, "Up north where the snow grows colder, I travel onward 'cross the border--"
"Christmas cake!" Bo interrupted. "What the freshly-washed handkerchief are you babbling about this time?"
"It's quite simple, my dear boy," Tom replied, gesturing toward the box, "your precious missing jar is in...
Once within the unholy depths of Wal-mart, Bo managed to gather all of the items on the list before he ran into Tom again. He found him in the pets section, having what looked to be a heated debate with the fish, about the welfare system. The fish appeared to remain unconvinced. Actually, to be fair, the fish didn't seem to understand what was happening at all, or why random items were being thrown into their tanks as "visual aids".
"Tom, I've got the ... ingredie--items. Let's go - leave that cart there, we can't afford - and definitely don't need - all of that stuff." Tom's cart was filled nearly to overflowing with women's plus-sized jogging suits, children's novelty sunglasses, two magic 8 balls, a couch cushion from a piece of display furniture, various and sundry office supplies, three Toblerones and a Hanson cd. "Except for the chocolate, grab those." Bo added.
The pair nearly got thrown out when Tom Jones kept trying to get a price on his chest at the self check-out, but the boy managed to distract him by claiming to have seen a doo-wop group in the parking lot. Bo was disturbed beyond words when he exited the store to find Tom singing with a couple of homeless gentlemen.
--------
"Do you think this will work?" Tom asked, squatting in front of the box as he dumped the yogurt in. Bo was still a bit tender from his recent surgeries as well as exhausted from their shopping trip, so he was just observing the experiment from his perch atop the bed. "I ... nothing surprises me anymore." Bo replied, shaking his head.
Tom continued adding ingredients, one after another, until everything on the list was inside the box, and the crotch of his pants was splattered liberally with yogurt, milk, ice cream and egg. "I think I might have added the block of cheddar last, Bo." Tom mused. The boy squeeked painfully in reply, stiffling a guffaw. "Close the box, Tom." Bo ordered. Tom Jones dutifully closed the box. "Now open it!" Bo said breathlessly. Tom lifted the lid and peered inside.
"Well? What do you see?" the young monk asked impatiently.
The deeply tanned crooner began to sing, "Up north where the snow grows colder, I travel onward 'cross the border--"
"Christmas cake!" Bo interrupted. "What the freshly-washed handkerchief are you babbling about this time?"
"It's quite simple, my dear boy," Tom replied, gesturing toward the box, "your precious missing jar is in...
Friday, June 24, 2011
Part 26
a raging, paralyzing case of gut rot. Bo's rotund hoagie boiler, it would seem, had finally had enough. It endured, unceasingly, a miserable and arbitrary pattern of hoagie enjoyment, intertwined with seemingly infinite periods of grease-soaked reminiscence of said hoagies. The young monk's tummy-tums would have no more of this nonsense, it decided. Bo doubled over and collapsed. The last words to escape his wanton lips before everything went black could faintly be heard, "i regret not a single sandwich..."
Yogurt. Blackness. Darkness. Milk.
Nothingness. Kix. Void. An ambiguously dead/alive cat.
Has our hero's unscrupulous disregard for dietary health finally caught up with him?
Not if Kangaroo Jim has anything to say about the matter.
A sudden rush of pain overwhelmed Bo's senses who, quite frankly, were perfectly content existing in a vacuous plane of numbness. This made it all the much more difficult for our hero's battered and abused mind to cope with all the sensory information he was once again experiencing.
Needless to say, it didn't do Bo any favours as his eyes gradually focused on what hovered atop him. A large bald-eagle, with white leather tassels in place of feathers, large cubic zirconia in place of eyes, and a pair of Pringles chips arranged in the vague shape of a beak in place of a...beak.
The majestic animal proceeded to gracefully devour it's own salty beak, slap Bo across the face swiftly, and take a sip of the coke it just ordered.
Bo was having a bit of trouble putting all this together, and with all the grace and style of piece of roadkill stuck under a car carrying two teenagers making out for the first time, mused rather loudly, "What the FU-" "Fun, fun, fun!" Kangaroo Jones announced, tearing off his makeshift surgeon outfit and adding, "Yes, sir, performing a quadruple-bypass and emergency stomach flush in a questionably hygienic environment with nothing but basic bartending tools on a Friday night is my idea of fun, fun, fun!" It is worth noting that this was said with all the seriousness that someone willing to perform open heart surgery in the middle of a sketchy bar, wearing a giant eagle mask can possibly muster.
Bo, understandably, was still groggy and his mind was working as hard as it could (not so hard) to fill in what seemed to him to be an eternity's worth of blanks. After a long while, Bo finally summoned the courage to speak. "Is this-" "Yes," Jim "Tom" Jones blurted out, "You'll be fine. I'm sure that's the question you were going to ask," and in a moment of inexplicable Kangaroo Klarity, Tom "Jones" Jim made his best attempt to further the plot line through insightful dialogue.
"My dear boy, I'd love to explain to you how I was able to perform a complicated surgery, successfully, under the worst conditions possible, but I am afraid that there is yet work to be done! We must decipher the meaning of this shopping list! It starts with milk, an-"
Bo gasped loudly, memories of his delicate dance with death rushing back to him. "Milk! I've got it! It isn't a shopping list at all. It came to me while I was dead...dying...err..or whatever. It was all so clear to me after everything went black. It is a list of ingredients, for a powerful potion. We must put all these ingredients in a box - and close the box. Inside, it will have precisely a 50% chance of being the correct formula which will serve as the necessary component to lead us to the missing jar. We will not know whether it is the correct formula until we observe it."
"Great googly moogly!" Timmity "Kangaroo Tune" Jonesey exclaimed dramatically, "That's just crazy enough to work! So, where do we get all these seemingly random items necessary for a complex quantum physics experiment?"
A dark and foreboding look cast across Bo's sweaty face. With a deep sigh, he uttered the words...
"Wal-mart."
Yogurt. Blackness. Darkness. Milk.
Nothingness. Kix. Void. An ambiguously dead/alive cat.
Has our hero's unscrupulous disregard for dietary health finally caught up with him?
Not if Kangaroo Jim has anything to say about the matter.
A sudden rush of pain overwhelmed Bo's senses who, quite frankly, were perfectly content existing in a vacuous plane of numbness. This made it all the much more difficult for our hero's battered and abused mind to cope with all the sensory information he was once again experiencing.
Needless to say, it didn't do Bo any favours as his eyes gradually focused on what hovered atop him. A large bald-eagle, with white leather tassels in place of feathers, large cubic zirconia in place of eyes, and a pair of Pringles chips arranged in the vague shape of a beak in place of a...beak.
The majestic animal proceeded to gracefully devour it's own salty beak, slap Bo across the face swiftly, and take a sip of the coke it just ordered.
Bo was having a bit of trouble putting all this together, and with all the grace and style of piece of roadkill stuck under a car carrying two teenagers making out for the first time, mused rather loudly, "What the FU-" "Fun, fun, fun!" Kangaroo Jones announced, tearing off his makeshift surgeon outfit and adding, "Yes, sir, performing a quadruple-bypass and emergency stomach flush in a questionably hygienic environment with nothing but basic bartending tools on a Friday night is my idea of fun, fun, fun!" It is worth noting that this was said with all the seriousness that someone willing to perform open heart surgery in the middle of a sketchy bar, wearing a giant eagle mask can possibly muster.
Bo, understandably, was still groggy and his mind was working as hard as it could (not so hard) to fill in what seemed to him to be an eternity's worth of blanks. After a long while, Bo finally summoned the courage to speak. "Is this-" "Yes," Jim "Tom" Jones blurted out, "You'll be fine. I'm sure that's the question you were going to ask," and in a moment of inexplicable Kangaroo Klarity, Tom "Jones" Jim made his best attempt to further the plot line through insightful dialogue.
"My dear boy, I'd love to explain to you how I was able to perform a complicated surgery, successfully, under the worst conditions possible, but I am afraid that there is yet work to be done! We must decipher the meaning of this shopping list! It starts with milk, an-"
Bo gasped loudly, memories of his delicate dance with death rushing back to him. "Milk! I've got it! It isn't a shopping list at all. It came to me while I was dead...dying...err..or whatever. It was all so clear to me after everything went black. It is a list of ingredients, for a powerful potion. We must put all these ingredients in a box - and close the box. Inside, it will have precisely a 50% chance of being the correct formula which will serve as the necessary component to lead us to the missing jar. We will not know whether it is the correct formula until we observe it."
"Great googly moogly!" Timmity "Kangaroo Tune" Jonesey exclaimed dramatically, "That's just crazy enough to work! So, where do we get all these seemingly random items necessary for a complex quantum physics experiment?"
A dark and foreboding look cast across Bo's sweaty face. With a deep sigh, he uttered the words...
"Wal-mart."
Friday, June 17, 2011
Part 25
Bo looked up at the beet clad woman and began to open his mouth. Before he could even force a sound out, Tom had leapt onto the table in a frantic scurry, knocking over the bowl of beet dip that Anna had brought out with her. He began to do what resembled a river dance, and spewed something from his mouth that sounded much like the strange ramblings of a southern Baptist minister who had been taken over by the spirit. He finished his strange dance with a triple back tuck and the “pew, pew, wink” move. Anna mimicked his “pew, pew, wink” and rushed into the kitchen. How he managed that triple back tuck without cracking his head on that flail completely perplexed Bo, but he had become accustomed to the strange while on this journey. Tom turned to Bo and said
“I just ordered us two cokes”
Bo gave him a puzzled look and pulled out the note.
“Tom..er….Kangaroo Jim, we need to find out what this note means. It’s got to be related to why the other jar is missing!”
Both men had come to the conclusion that it must be some sort of acronym, but an acronym for what, and how were they going to find out what it meant? Seconds later, a mysterious man with bilateral torn rotator cuffs walked up to their table and said
“I think I can solve your mystery, boys.”
Bo’s eyes lit up like the first time he ever saw a hoagie. Then his mouth started to salivate because he couldn’t stop thinking about that very first hoagie and how oh so special it was, and how much it changed his life and his waistline and how everything was surreal each and every time he took a bite. The man was expanding upon each letter of the acronym, but Bo didn’t hear him, all he could hear was the rustle of the wax paper as you tore open a freshly made hoagie, dripping with vinegar end to end. Bo finally snapped out of his greasy coma to hear this mysterious man finish by saying
“And that’s why we can’t have nice things!”
With that, the man was gone in a puff of beet dust. Bo turned to Tom, who at this point was admiring his own chest hair in a small, my little pony pocket mirror.
With that, the man was gone in a puff of beet dust. Bo turned to Tom, who at this point was admiring his own chest hair in a small, my little pony pocket mirror.
“You don’t think I need to wax this, right? I mean, the ladies love a lit..”
“Forget about that! What did bilateral torn rotator cuff guy say about the note and what M I C K E Y meant!” Blurted Bo
“Note? He didn’t say anything about a note. He just recited his shopping list, Milk, Icecream, Cheese, Kix, Eggs, and Yogurt, then started babbling about quantum physics”
“Hush poppet” Whispered Bo.
In that instant, it hit him…
Friday, May 27, 2011
Part 24
And off our one and a half men fled (three and a half if you ask Tom Jones) into the black of night with jar and note in tow.
As they journeyed across the vast, craggy New England Sahara, Bo's stomach began to growl.
"Tom, do you see anywhere we could stop to get a bite to eat?" he asked his companion.
"Please," said Tom holding his hand up modestly, "I feel we've grown very close, you and I. Almost like best buddies, except I've never given you a foot massage. I want you to call me by the name that my Welsh grandmother bestowed upon me the first time I beat her at Candyland-- Kangaroo Jim."
"Kangaroo Jim," began Bo again, too ravenous to object, "Do you see anywhere we could eat at? I'm starving."
"What about Igor's House of Beets and Eats?" He suggested, pointing to a kinky looking stone building on the horizon that Bo's glance had somehow passed over.
As they drew nearer, Bo's gut began to growl ever louder, both out of apprehension about entering an establishment that looked like a prison rigged up with torches at the entrance and neon pink barbed wire encircling the rooftop, and with his ever-mounting hunger.
"Yo yo yo!" said Tom Jones cheerily to the shirtless bouncer at the door, "we be hankrin' for some gruuuuub to ruuuub in the tuuuuub, know what I'm sayin' hawk-baby?"
The bouncer turned around and Bo realized with a start that the face Tom Jones had been speaking to was merely a tattoo on the back of the bouncer's bald head. Glancing down at the name tag pinned directly onto his bare chest, Bo noted that the man's name was Zbrtp.
"If you don't mind me asking," said Bo, a bit meekly, "Would you be in possession of any information regarding the name of this fine establishment... particularly the 'beats' part of it?"
"Look bubble boy," said Zbrtp in a gravely high-pitched Jamaican accent, "If you don't think you can handle what we got, you'd better just get. Got it?"
Bo nodded, a hundred nightmarish scenarios rushed through his brain and made his face begin to sweat.
"Think we might fluff our stuff in the ruff dufff tuff?" said Tom Jones.
"I'm not so sure." said the bouncer, staring wickedly at Bo. "He don't look like he's of age to be frolicking in a joint like this here. I don't think he'd last, know what I'm talking about, cowboy? I don't think he's got enough guts."
"Now listen here!" snapped Bo, stomping one rhinestoned suede platform moccasin in disgust, "I'll have you know that I was nearly killed earlier today!"
"YEAH, KILLED!" said Tom Jones, throwing back his head and snapping his fingers in a display of support for his friend.
"And furthermore, I'm on a mission from God that is for your benediction and the benediction of every man, woman, and child in this great country of ours!"
"YEAH, BENEDICTION!" tooted Tom Jones, twirling around and ending with a breathy "cha CHA" and jazz hands.
Zbrtp watched this display with a look of slight contempt before waving them inside.
"But don't say I didn't warn you!" he called after them.
"Woah... look at this cat scat of a joint!" Jones yelled over the techno-polka music blaring through the loud speakers. Mounted high on the walls were paintings of famous leading Hollywood men, each painted in a baby bonnet and a set of fangs. Inside glass niches positioned along the walls were dancers wearing nothing but bear-claw slippers and fancy Victorian hats. And dangling above each table was a different medieval instrument of torture turned mood light.
But worst of all was the catastrophic aroma of cooked beets that assaulted Bo's ever-flared nostrils as he opened the massive, spiked doors.
Tom and Bo sat at a table beneath a giant flail emanating a rosy glow, illuminating a portrait of a grinning, toothy Clark Gable. A waiter appeared dressed in a foam beet costume, studded all over with cheery buttons and flair.
"Good evening dearies, my name is Anna Banana, I am going to be your beet scout tonight. Can I get you something to drink?"
As they journeyed across the vast, craggy New England Sahara, Bo's stomach began to growl.
"Tom, do you see anywhere we could stop to get a bite to eat?" he asked his companion.
"Please," said Tom holding his hand up modestly, "I feel we've grown very close, you and I. Almost like best buddies, except I've never given you a foot massage. I want you to call me by the name that my Welsh grandmother bestowed upon me the first time I beat her at Candyland-- Kangaroo Jim."
"Kangaroo Jim," began Bo again, too ravenous to object, "Do you see anywhere we could eat at? I'm starving."
"What about Igor's House of Beets and Eats?" He suggested, pointing to a kinky looking stone building on the horizon that Bo's glance had somehow passed over.
As they drew nearer, Bo's gut began to growl ever louder, both out of apprehension about entering an establishment that looked like a prison rigged up with torches at the entrance and neon pink barbed wire encircling the rooftop, and with his ever-mounting hunger.
"Yo yo yo!" said Tom Jones cheerily to the shirtless bouncer at the door, "we be hankrin' for some gruuuuub to ruuuub in the tuuuuub, know what I'm sayin' hawk-baby?"
The bouncer turned around and Bo realized with a start that the face Tom Jones had been speaking to was merely a tattoo on the back of the bouncer's bald head. Glancing down at the name tag pinned directly onto his bare chest, Bo noted that the man's name was Zbrtp.
"If you don't mind me asking," said Bo, a bit meekly, "Would you be in possession of any information regarding the name of this fine establishment... particularly the 'beats' part of it?"
"Look bubble boy," said Zbrtp in a gravely high-pitched Jamaican accent, "If you don't think you can handle what we got, you'd better just get. Got it?"
Bo nodded, a hundred nightmarish scenarios rushed through his brain and made his face begin to sweat.
"Think we might fluff our stuff in the ruff dufff tuff?" said Tom Jones.
"I'm not so sure." said the bouncer, staring wickedly at Bo. "He don't look like he's of age to be frolicking in a joint like this here. I don't think he'd last, know what I'm talking about, cowboy? I don't think he's got enough guts."
"Now listen here!" snapped Bo, stomping one rhinestoned suede platform moccasin in disgust, "I'll have you know that I was nearly killed earlier today!"
"YEAH, KILLED!" said Tom Jones, throwing back his head and snapping his fingers in a display of support for his friend.
"And furthermore, I'm on a mission from God that is for your benediction and the benediction of every man, woman, and child in this great country of ours!"
"YEAH, BENEDICTION!" tooted Tom Jones, twirling around and ending with a breathy "cha CHA" and jazz hands.
Zbrtp watched this display with a look of slight contempt before waving them inside.
"But don't say I didn't warn you!" he called after them.
*****
"Woah... look at this cat scat of a joint!" Jones yelled over the techno-polka music blaring through the loud speakers. Mounted high on the walls were paintings of famous leading Hollywood men, each painted in a baby bonnet and a set of fangs. Inside glass niches positioned along the walls were dancers wearing nothing but bear-claw slippers and fancy Victorian hats. And dangling above each table was a different medieval instrument of torture turned mood light.
But worst of all was the catastrophic aroma of cooked beets that assaulted Bo's ever-flared nostrils as he opened the massive, spiked doors.
Tom and Bo sat at a table beneath a giant flail emanating a rosy glow, illuminating a portrait of a grinning, toothy Clark Gable. A waiter appeared dressed in a foam beet costume, studded all over with cheery buttons and flair.
"Good evening dearies, my name is Anna Banana, I am going to be your beet scout tonight. Can I get you something to drink?"
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Pt. 23
paralyzed, and more than just a little queasy. He swallowed, hard, searching his mind for something - anything - appropriate in a situation like this.
Just as he was about to resort to bursting into desperate tears, all at once he heard a loud crack, and the old woman squeak as she jumped back and her gun clattered to the floor.
Bo looked up, stunned, as Tom Jones stood holding his Airsoft gun pointed at the woman, while she gripped her hand painfully. The crooner leaned down, picked up the revolver and said, "I don't like it when people shoot my friends. It's not sexy."
The boy scrambled to grab the jar and the note as fast as he could, and said, "Keep an eye on her, I'll check for a First Aid kit - then we're out of here."
"Like Vladimir?" Tom asked.
"We can bring Vladimir along, for all I care." Bo said before he left the room.
As he tore apart the linen closet looking for the kit, he could hear Tom casually chattering to the old woman, "You can't be a sexy person unless you have something sexy to offer. With me, it's my voice: the way that I sing, the way I express myself when I sing ..."
"Tom, I found it. Let's go. We're going to hole up somewhere until we can figure out what this note means."
Just as he was about to resort to bursting into desperate tears, all at once he heard a loud crack, and the old woman squeak as she jumped back and her gun clattered to the floor.
Bo looked up, stunned, as Tom Jones stood holding his Airsoft gun pointed at the woman, while she gripped her hand painfully. The crooner leaned down, picked up the revolver and said, "I don't like it when people shoot my friends. It's not sexy."
The boy scrambled to grab the jar and the note as fast as he could, and said, "Keep an eye on her, I'll check for a First Aid kit - then we're out of here."
"Like Vladimir?" Tom asked.
"We can bring Vladimir along, for all I care." Bo said before he left the room.
As he tore apart the linen closet looking for the kit, he could hear Tom casually chattering to the old woman, "You can't be a sexy person unless you have something sexy to offer. With me, it's my voice: the way that I sing, the way I express myself when I sing ..."
"Tom, I found it. Let's go. We're going to hole up somewhere until we can figure out what this note means."
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Part 22
MICKEY
in large purple letters.
"Well that's unusual." said Bo, puzzled, and a second later found himself sprawled out on the floor ten feet away, his face smarting where Tom Jones's foot had smashed into his jawbone.
Tom, meanwhile, was moving jerkily around the musty room, thrashing his arms about whilst belting, "Oh Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind! HEY MICKEY! HEY MICKEY!"
"Tom, I will have none of your tomfoolery at this dire moment in our plight! Not only are we holding an old woman hostage and must decode what logically appears to be an acronym, but I am also growing extremely hungry!"
"... what a pity, you don't understand" continued Tom who was now turning cartwheels.
Suddenly, Bo remembered the other jar he had neglected to retrieve from beneath the floorboards. He reached his great dugong of an arm into the cavity and pulled out his prize, this one bigger than the first. He clamped his octopus of a hand around the lid, but before he had a chance to exert any minor effort to detach the rusty topper, he heard a loud crack behind him and felt a burning sensation in his right earlobe. Gingerly touching his smarting wound, he quickly withdrew his hand when his fingers encountered no earlobe where one should have been.
"HOLY BEARS THAT MAKES ME SICK LIKE ARMAGEDDON ON A STICK!" he howled as he wheeled around to be faced full on by the old woman clutching a smoking revolver.
"You think you've got the right to break into my house," she said in a nasty thin voice, "but I think you've got it wrong."
And with that, she fired another shot that just whizzed past one of Tom Jones's twirling limbs.
"M'am," said Bo, clutching his bleeding ear while simultaneously tapping into the reservoir of courtesy he had been saturated with at the monastery, "the monks have sent us on a wild musical journey... a mission from God, you might call it. We must smite the forces of evil in order to collect musicians and assemble a creation with the power to save our musical destiny!"
"Don't give me that crapola," spat the woman, "What, you think I'm the only person in the world who hasn't seen The Blues Brothers? You wanna start some drama? 'Cus you don't want no drama. I see right through you, punk. You're a piggy and a swine, I'll crack your spine and blow your mind!"
Tom continued singing and jumping, contorting his face into grotesque expressions, knocking over furniture and kicking out windows with his flailing limbs. "Every time you move you let a little more show!" he belted.
The woman advanced fifteen baby steps closer so that her nose was pressed against Bo's forehead. She inhaled deeply and then inserted her tongue into his eyeball.
Bo felt
Friday, April 29, 2011
Pt. 21
Bo sighed deeply as he stood in front of his childhood home, arms akimbo, legs ... not akimbo. The boy knew it wouldn't be easy to get the jars, especially now that the house was no longer owned by his family. He wasn't even completely certain the jars were still there, but there was a chance and he had to try.
The original plan had been to bring Captain and Tennille along, but during an ill-advised, last-minute fit of square dancing, Tom boxed the gnat when he should have allemande left, causing Tennille to go flying into the next room, slamming right into the bowl of the commode, the seat of which had unfortunately been left up. It goes without saying exactly how angry this had made Captain, as well as how lucky both Bo and Tom were to escape with Rick Allen's missing arm (which they found in Captain's suitcase - he'd been using it to hold his large collection of novelty watches), let alone their lives.
After about 10 minutes of procrastinating, while Tom hummed Smells Like Teen Spirit to himself, Bo finally knocked at the front door. An elderly woman opened the door and stood there, mouth agape, looking back and forth between the boy, who was dressed in linen pants and an embroidered linen tunic, and Tom Jones, who was now cheerfully singing My Humps under his breath.
"Hello," the boy began. "My name is Bo and this is Tom Jones..."
Tom nodded and continued singing, "I mix your milk with my cocoa puff, milky, milky cocoa ... Mix your milk with my cocoa puff, milky, milky riiiiiiight."
The woman responded by dropping to the floor in a heap. Bo closed his eyes slowly and drew in another deep breath.
-----
"There's no need for alarm," Tom reassured the woman, who was now securely tied to one of her dining chairs. "I love listening to new stuff, at home in LA I always have the radio on to hear what is happening."
"Tom, I don't think her biggest concern is what you were just singing. Although I'm sure it's no comfort." Bo said, as he finished carefully tying the bandanna over her mouth. A slow, high pitched squeak began to emanate from the deeply tanned singer.
"Tom, don't cry. I'm sure she loved your song. Right before she lost consciousness and cracked her head on her entryway." Tom Jones grinned widely at this and regarded the old woman, who was now mumbling quietly, pleadingly, through the bandanna, something that sounded a lot like, "Take whatever you want, just go, just go..."
"It's true," Tom Jones replied. "this life we're living, it's a tough row to hoe ... why just the other -"
"Tom!" Bo interrupted him, "we don't have time for this, help me pull up the floorboards in my old bedroom, so we can get out of this poor woman's house."
They both entered his childhood bedroom, where Bo pushed back the area rug, and pried up the floorboard where he remembered stashing his jars several years earlier. In the place where the two jars should have been was a note. "Flying fruitcakes in a pogo stick parade!" Bo exclaimed before putting his head in his hands.
"Now that sounds like a fantastic time!" Tom gushed. "When do we get to do that?"
It took the boy a full minute before he could lift his head and reach out for the note. It read:
The original plan had been to bring Captain and Tennille along, but during an ill-advised, last-minute fit of square dancing, Tom boxed the gnat when he should have allemande left, causing Tennille to go flying into the next room, slamming right into the bowl of the commode, the seat of which had unfortunately been left up. It goes without saying exactly how angry this had made Captain, as well as how lucky both Bo and Tom were to escape with Rick Allen's missing arm (which they found in Captain's suitcase - he'd been using it to hold his large collection of novelty watches), let alone their lives.
After about 10 minutes of procrastinating, while Tom hummed Smells Like Teen Spirit to himself, Bo finally knocked at the front door. An elderly woman opened the door and stood there, mouth agape, looking back and forth between the boy, who was dressed in linen pants and an embroidered linen tunic, and Tom Jones, who was now cheerfully singing My Humps under his breath.
"Hello," the boy began. "My name is Bo and this is Tom Jones..."
Tom nodded and continued singing, "I mix your milk with my cocoa puff, milky, milky cocoa ... Mix your milk with my cocoa puff, milky, milky riiiiiiight."
The woman responded by dropping to the floor in a heap. Bo closed his eyes slowly and drew in another deep breath.
-----
"There's no need for alarm," Tom reassured the woman, who was now securely tied to one of her dining chairs. "I love listening to new stuff, at home in LA I always have the radio on to hear what is happening."
"Tom, I don't think her biggest concern is what you were just singing. Although I'm sure it's no comfort." Bo said, as he finished carefully tying the bandanna over her mouth. A slow, high pitched squeak began to emanate from the deeply tanned singer.
"Tom, don't cry. I'm sure she loved your song. Right before she lost consciousness and cracked her head on her entryway." Tom Jones grinned widely at this and regarded the old woman, who was now mumbling quietly, pleadingly, through the bandanna, something that sounded a lot like, "Take whatever you want, just go, just go..."
"It's true," Tom Jones replied. "this life we're living, it's a tough row to hoe ... why just the other -"
"Tom!" Bo interrupted him, "we don't have time for this, help me pull up the floorboards in my old bedroom, so we can get out of this poor woman's house."
They both entered his childhood bedroom, where Bo pushed back the area rug, and pried up the floorboard where he remembered stashing his jars several years earlier. In the place where the two jars should have been was a note. "Flying fruitcakes in a pogo stick parade!" Bo exclaimed before putting his head in his hands.
"Now that sounds like a fantastic time!" Tom gushed. "When do we get to do that?"
It took the boy a full minute before he could lift his head and reach out for the note. It read:
Monday, April 25, 2011
Pt. 20
much like any other in the life of our young hero. He was sitting in his bedroom, which deserves some measure of description. For weeks, Bo would spend twelve or more hours a day, meticulously hot-gluing bright, rainbow-coloured sequins to every inch of his floor, walls and ceiling. It had taken well over three months of steadfast dedication for him to complete his unsettling and frankly, audacious, project.
Bo had also a certain affinity for budgies, and kept well over three dozen in his room. Due to a grievous miscalculation of cage size, the vast majority of these birds were free to roam the young boy's room as they saw fit. As such, these birds had taken shelter in whatever nook they could find. Jacket pockets, half eaten jars of dill pickles; anything large enough for a bird to live, and do its duty in. There was never a concern for health and safety, because health and safety officials dared not enter in order to assess the situation. Out of sight, out of mind was certainly a phrase Bo kept close to his heart. This is without even mentioning the jars of belly-button lint and fingernails that Bo collected. If asked, Bo would assure you with great conviction that he never knew when he may need to call upon their power. What power they held was anybody's guess, by this point in our story it is well known that some of his, tendencies, are best left without query.
In an earth-shaking moment of convenient plot development, Bo remembered his father defying the unspoken agreement of "Don't ask, don't tell" when considering his son's habits and hobbies. Bo was deep in the process of cataloguing his clippings by virtue of size, chronology and, when applicable, taste, when his father wearily entered the disturbing living quarters. "Son," the man said with a sigh, "What are you doing with those nail clippings? They're not going to make you rich or save your life." Bo shifted his concentrated gaze to meet his father's with an infinitely slow motion. When their eyes finally met, the boy locked onto his father's and stared motionlessly and without sound for a full seven minutes. His father dared not break eye contact, for fear of some absurd and improbable consequence. The man simply had no way of knowing that very fallout was already happening. This was such an awkward moment that a small inhabited planet, several hundred lightyears away from the one Bo sat on, burst in to flames and destroyed all life on it. Intelligent life would later re-inhabit the planet and dedicate centuries of research to explaining the abrupt end of life it experienced millions of years before.
After precisely seven unblinking minutes, Bo screamed at the top of his lungs "CEEEEAAAAASSAAAAAAAAARRRRRR" until his face turned a shade of blue that a hardware store would be elated to find a paint code for. His father walked out of the room without saying a word, and the two never spoke of the incident again.
As the neglected gears in Bo's brain struggled to connect the meaning of this dream sequence, he drifted slowly back into consciousness. Coupled with the strain of interpreting a dream, Bo's mind encountered a stark inability to comprehend his new surroundings and the people around him, nor the striking feeling of having wet himself.
"I...I..." stammered the plump young doughboy, "I think I know what we need to do next. Did we get the arm? We need to make a pitstop."
Tom's eyes lit up to see his friend awake. "Where to, big little guy?"
"We have to go to my parents' house. There are two jars that we're going to need. One jar will allow us to assemble the rock star, and the other will protect us from evil that I cannot foresee."
Tom Jones' eyes rolled into the back of his head in pure delight. "Then let's go, we haven't a moment to lose! We've got to go before they break down the door!"
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Pt. 19
could not manage to bring his writhing limbs under his command and squirmed in his drooly mud puddle like a beached whale trying to breakdance.
"Come on, me lad!" cried Captain, kicking Bo in the gut with the fake wooden leg that he wore when he was feeling dangerous. "On your loafers buckaroo! Tennille is anxiously awaiting us in yonder taxi and we must be speedy in our return lest she begin wolfing the wickets- if you know what I mean, old boy." He winked at Tom Jones who nodded knowingly and then said, "I don't think he heard you, Captain."
Bo had begun to scream, "ZAPADOOOOO" and was attempting to remove his own clothes.
"Ah. Well then up we must go, fat boy" said Captain as he hoisted Bo into the air with one finger, rippling with muscles he had developed as a keyboardist.
The trio hiked to a yellow taxi stalling at the curb.
"Shotgun!" hollered Tom Jones.
"Where?!" yelped Captain, swiveling around in search of a potential sniper, only to see Tom Jones climbing into the passenger seat.
"Do that to me one more time, and I swear I'll..." threatened Captain as he thrust Bo's twitching body into the back seat.
"Besides, I'm afraid you'll find that that seat has already been taken," he added.
"What the- " exclaimed Tom Jones, leaping back in shock and horror at the snarling rodent that had nearly collided with his silver leather clad bum.
"Perhaps you need to renew your acquaintanceship with Tennille," said Captain, sliding in next to a now unconscious Bo.
"I'll tell you, I've been with some hairy critters in my day," said Tom Jones, climbing in on the opposite side of Bo, "but I have found that at least forty percent of the time I can tell the difference between a lady and a marmot. The last time I saw Tennille, you wanted to flaunt her and we went to dinner, so I was pretty sure that she’s a lady."
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Captain began to explain.
"Jonesy mate, that there is no marmot. That there is a one hundred percent pure bred Avogadro Muskrat. You see, they’ve always been a thing of mine, muskrats, ever since I was a wee lad. As you can imagine, it’s pretty unusual to harbor feelings for, well, a rodent-“
“Oh no, it’s not unusual at all,” cut in Tom Jones, reaching around Bo’s soggy spherical stomach to pat his friend’s knee reassuringly.
“As I was saying, I got myself a lassie- Tennille- in hopes that ringin’ ‘round a lady’s rosy might alter my un…conventional feelings for ferocious furry females. Alas, it was not to be. I was all but overcome with a need to surround myself with muskrats. From my muskrat hide bath mat, to my furry muskrat underdrawers, to my expansive collection of muskrat nature documentaries, I was attempting to fulfill my desire for the sensual creatures. Of course, it was only after I got this that Human-Tennille began to suspect my innocent interest had taken a turn for the unusual.”
Captain unbuttoned his navy blue shirt to reveal a tattoo of an enormous muskrat holding a tiny toga-clad Captain in its arms. The tattoo began just under his chin and ended somewhere below his waist.
“Why, that isn’t unusual!” said Tom Jones cheerily, and unbuttoned his shirt to reveal an equally massive tattoo of himself being cradled by a grinning opossum that appeared to have mange.
“I do so appreciate your empathy,” said Captain, buttoning his shirt and hoping that Tom Jones would do the same. “Either way, one morning I woke up and found the beautiful creature that you nearly sat on, resting herself upon the foot of my bed with a note round her neck, dictating that out of her love for me, Tennille had mentally willed her body to resemble that of an angelic Avogadro Muskrat. She expressed her wish that this transformation would bring us closer together romantically. She also noted that the reason all of her clothes and possessions had disappeared was because she did not want our new lifestyle to be burdened by the past.”
“That’s a beautiful story,” said Tom Jones, choking back tears, “Oh, tell it to me one more time! Oh baby, tell it to me once again!”
As Captain drew in a raspy breath in preparation to relate his tale (or tail) one more time, we will take a moment to catch up with the slumbering Bo.
In his state of deep psychological unrest, Bo had had a vision. A vision from his childhood that was as vivid as the day that it happened. It was a day
"Come on, me lad!" cried Captain, kicking Bo in the gut with the fake wooden leg that he wore when he was feeling dangerous. "On your loafers buckaroo! Tennille is anxiously awaiting us in yonder taxi and we must be speedy in our return lest she begin wolfing the wickets- if you know what I mean, old boy." He winked at Tom Jones who nodded knowingly and then said, "I don't think he heard you, Captain."
Bo had begun to scream, "ZAPADOOOOO" and was attempting to remove his own clothes.
"Ah. Well then up we must go, fat boy" said Captain as he hoisted Bo into the air with one finger, rippling with muscles he had developed as a keyboardist.
The trio hiked to a yellow taxi stalling at the curb.
"Shotgun!" hollered Tom Jones.
"Where?!" yelped Captain, swiveling around in search of a potential sniper, only to see Tom Jones climbing into the passenger seat.
"Do that to me one more time, and I swear I'll..." threatened Captain as he thrust Bo's twitching body into the back seat.
"Besides, I'm afraid you'll find that that seat has already been taken," he added.
"What the- " exclaimed Tom Jones, leaping back in shock and horror at the snarling rodent that had nearly collided with his silver leather clad bum.
"Perhaps you need to renew your acquaintanceship with Tennille," said Captain, sliding in next to a now unconscious Bo.
"I'll tell you, I've been with some hairy critters in my day," said Tom Jones, climbing in on the opposite side of Bo, "but I have found that at least forty percent of the time I can tell the difference between a lady and a marmot. The last time I saw Tennille, you wanted to flaunt her and we went to dinner, so I was pretty sure that she’s a lady."
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Captain began to explain.
"Jonesy mate, that there is no marmot. That there is a one hundred percent pure bred Avogadro Muskrat. You see, they’ve always been a thing of mine, muskrats, ever since I was a wee lad. As you can imagine, it’s pretty unusual to harbor feelings for, well, a rodent-“
“Oh no, it’s not unusual at all,” cut in Tom Jones, reaching around Bo’s soggy spherical stomach to pat his friend’s knee reassuringly.
“As I was saying, I got myself a lassie- Tennille- in hopes that ringin’ ‘round a lady’s rosy might alter my un…conventional feelings for ferocious furry females. Alas, it was not to be. I was all but overcome with a need to surround myself with muskrats. From my muskrat hide bath mat, to my furry muskrat underdrawers, to my expansive collection of muskrat nature documentaries, I was attempting to fulfill my desire for the sensual creatures. Of course, it was only after I got this that Human-Tennille began to suspect my innocent interest had taken a turn for the unusual.”
Captain unbuttoned his navy blue shirt to reveal a tattoo of an enormous muskrat holding a tiny toga-clad Captain in its arms. The tattoo began just under his chin and ended somewhere below his waist.
“Why, that isn’t unusual!” said Tom Jones cheerily, and unbuttoned his shirt to reveal an equally massive tattoo of himself being cradled by a grinning opossum that appeared to have mange.
“I do so appreciate your empathy,” said Captain, buttoning his shirt and hoping that Tom Jones would do the same. “Either way, one morning I woke up and found the beautiful creature that you nearly sat on, resting herself upon the foot of my bed with a note round her neck, dictating that out of her love for me, Tennille had mentally willed her body to resemble that of an angelic Avogadro Muskrat. She expressed her wish that this transformation would bring us closer together romantically. She also noted that the reason all of her clothes and possessions had disappeared was because she did not want our new lifestyle to be burdened by the past.”
“That’s a beautiful story,” said Tom Jones, choking back tears, “Oh, tell it to me one more time! Oh baby, tell it to me once again!”
As Captain drew in a raspy breath in preparation to relate his tale (or tail) one more time, we will take a moment to catch up with the slumbering Bo.
In his state of deep psychological unrest, Bo had had a vision. A vision from his childhood that was as vivid as the day that it happened. It was a day
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Pt. 18
Two small slits of eyes held a steady gaze at Bo, as his limbs weakened and the axe² grew heavier in his grasp. Lennon's eyes widened slightly. A thick coating of sweat came over Bo, and the axe² slid out of his hands.
"Did you really think that would get you anywhere?" Lennon asked warmly, the faint enigmatic smile remaining.
"I must defeat you," Bo said, his voice quivering as his limbs felt ever weaker with every passing moment.
"Sure. For the sake of rock 'n roll." The smile was gone, replaced by disgust. "What did it get them last time?"
Tom Jones pulled his head out of his shirt. "Bo!" he bellowed. "Now's not the time for chit-chat. Do his head in!"
"You" Lennon's voice was palpable with contempt. "I've seen your kind before. Get behind me."
Tom Jones shrugged. Took a dozen steps behind Lennon and hummed quietly to himself, bobbing his head here and there.
Bo's body felt as if the world were pushing down on him. He struggled to speak. "I seek the arm of Rick Allen."
"If you want the truth, you must look within."
Bo felt as if his spine had suddenly been twisted in half.His feet flew out from under him, and he hit the dirt in a violent flop. Sharp stabbing pain emanated from the small of his back and convulsed his entire frame. He howled in agony.
Bo stared into the small slits of John Lennon's eyes, which now communicated great concern.
"I'm sorry this had to happen. There's not much time however. You now have to ask yourself who the real evil is. Who really stands to gain from my death?"
Another stab of anguish hit Bo. As his large trunk writhed in the dirt, Lennon knelt slightly down. Then there were three small cracking sounds. Three little red holes appeared in the chest of Lennon.
Lennon fell to his knees as the man rushed out from behind the two fallen figures. He was a blur to Bo at first, all that was really visible was a moustache, sunglasses, and a Captain's hat.
The man kicked Lennon in the face, sending him onto his back in the dirt and the leaves. He then lifted Lennon's head by the hair, and pried a pistol in between his teeth.
"John," the man's voice was oddly calm. "John, I want to sing you a song before I put you down. Look at me, John" Lennon's eyes remained with Bo. "Look at me!" the man thundered with rage. Lennon's eyes reluctantly turned to the man's.
"When a body meets a body coming through the rye," the man sang. Lennon's eyes briefly turned again to Bo, as another muffled crack was heard. Lennon's eyes went dead, and blood flowed from his mouth.
The man stood, holstered his pistol on the hip of his leisure suit. He inhaled deeply, swiveled his head on his neck, and exhaled with a soft, satisfied moan.
Bo wailed again as his spine shot wave after wave of pain throughout his body. The man paid no attention. Only after several moments of gloating over his kill did he notice Tom Jones, still obliviously humming.
"Ahoy, Tommy. Look alive!"
Jones looked over his shoulder, a smile of happy recognition appeared. "Captain!"
Jones ran to the captain, and the two embraced.
"Captain! How is Tennile?"
"She's great Tommy. She's my lady love."
Bo's wails turned to a piercing shriek.
The captain gestured at Bo. "Why's this turkey bellyachin'?" He didn't wait for an answer. The captain took a few steps toward Bo, and tapped him twice on the top of his head with his shoe.
He knelt down and turned his head at a malevolent angle. "Hey, beef tallow." Bo kicked and flailed a couple feet away as his tears and saliva formed a pool of mud under his face.
"Hey, tubby--why so glum?"
"He's looking for Rick Wakeman's finger." Tom Jones answered
"Wakeman, huh?" the Captain said, rubbing his chin. "Could be a doozy. Could be a doozy."
Bo still
"Did you really think that would get you anywhere?" Lennon asked warmly, the faint enigmatic smile remaining.
"I must defeat you," Bo said, his voice quivering as his limbs felt ever weaker with every passing moment.
"Sure. For the sake of rock 'n roll." The smile was gone, replaced by disgust. "What did it get them last time?"
Tom Jones pulled his head out of his shirt. "Bo!" he bellowed. "Now's not the time for chit-chat. Do his head in!"
"You" Lennon's voice was palpable with contempt. "I've seen your kind before. Get behind me."
Tom Jones shrugged. Took a dozen steps behind Lennon and hummed quietly to himself, bobbing his head here and there.
Bo's body felt as if the world were pushing down on him. He struggled to speak. "I seek the arm of Rick Allen."
"If you want the truth, you must look within."
Bo felt as if his spine had suddenly been twisted in half.His feet flew out from under him, and he hit the dirt in a violent flop. Sharp stabbing pain emanated from the small of his back and convulsed his entire frame. He howled in agony.
Bo stared into the small slits of John Lennon's eyes, which now communicated great concern.
"I'm sorry this had to happen. There's not much time however. You now have to ask yourself who the real evil is. Who really stands to gain from my death?"
Another stab of anguish hit Bo. As his large trunk writhed in the dirt, Lennon knelt slightly down. Then there were three small cracking sounds. Three little red holes appeared in the chest of Lennon.
Lennon fell to his knees as the man rushed out from behind the two fallen figures. He was a blur to Bo at first, all that was really visible was a moustache, sunglasses, and a Captain's hat.
The man kicked Lennon in the face, sending him onto his back in the dirt and the leaves. He then lifted Lennon's head by the hair, and pried a pistol in between his teeth.
"John," the man's voice was oddly calm. "John, I want to sing you a song before I put you down. Look at me, John" Lennon's eyes remained with Bo. "Look at me!" the man thundered with rage. Lennon's eyes reluctantly turned to the man's.
"When a body meets a body coming through the rye," the man sang. Lennon's eyes briefly turned again to Bo, as another muffled crack was heard. Lennon's eyes went dead, and blood flowed from his mouth.
The man stood, holstered his pistol on the hip of his leisure suit. He inhaled deeply, swiveled his head on his neck, and exhaled with a soft, satisfied moan.
Bo wailed again as his spine shot wave after wave of pain throughout his body. The man paid no attention. Only after several moments of gloating over his kill did he notice Tom Jones, still obliviously humming.
"Ahoy, Tommy. Look alive!"
Jones looked over his shoulder, a smile of happy recognition appeared. "Captain!"
Jones ran to the captain, and the two embraced.
"Captain! How is Tennile?"
"She's great Tommy. She's my lady love."
Bo's wails turned to a piercing shriek.
The captain gestured at Bo. "Why's this turkey bellyachin'?" He didn't wait for an answer. The captain took a few steps toward Bo, and tapped him twice on the top of his head with his shoe.
He knelt down and turned his head at a malevolent angle. "Hey, beef tallow." Bo kicked and flailed a couple feet away as his tears and saliva formed a pool of mud under his face.
"Hey, tubby--why so glum?"
"He's looking for Rick Wakeman's finger." Tom Jones answered
"Wakeman, huh?" the Captain said, rubbing his chin. "Could be a doozy. Could be a doozy."
Bo still
Monday, April 18, 2011
Pt. 17
"This is never going to work," Bo muttered, "even if he is here." The young monk and Tom Jones were crouched within a bush in Central Park near The Pond, on the instruction of the not-dead Freddie Mercury to find the un-dead corpse of John Lennon. "For one thing," Bo continued as he shifted his weight and adjusted his gold lame' tunic, "I thought John Lennon had been cremated. For another, if he is in fact, un-dead, I don't relish the thought of being the one to kill him for a second time over a missing arm with a dirty guitar. Frankly, I'd rather be fishing."
Tom chuckled, "I have had some pretty wild nights! I think the media keeps a very close eye on what people are up to these days. I was out with George Clooney a few nights ago and we had a great time."
The boy sighed. "Tom Jones, that's not even a little true. That night you're referring to was spent with me, playing gin rummy at an Applebee's and that wasn't George Clooney. It was a hat stand you kept dealing into the game."
"He won, you know," Tom reminded him. "I know," said Bo.
Tom was about to launch into another anecdote, when the sharp crack of a twig breaking rang out behind them. They both leapt to their feet, startled. Or rather, Tom leapt to his feet; Bo rose as quickly as his bulky frame would allow. Standing before them in the darkness in all his peaceful, loving glory was none other than the reanimated, smiling corpse of John Lennon. Upon seeing him, Tom Jones turned right back around, and pulled the back of his shirt over his head.
The boy lifted the axe² high over his head, intending to lop John Lennon's head off with it, without question or discussion - before he lost his nerve. He'd been told to defeat him, and he'd taken that directive literally.
"Possession isn't nine-tenths of the law. It's nine-tenths of the problem," the un-living legend said.
Tom chuckled, "I have had some pretty wild nights! I think the media keeps a very close eye on what people are up to these days. I was out with George Clooney a few nights ago and we had a great time."
The boy sighed. "Tom Jones, that's not even a little true. That night you're referring to was spent with me, playing gin rummy at an Applebee's and that wasn't George Clooney. It was a hat stand you kept dealing into the game."
"He won, you know," Tom reminded him. "I know," said Bo.
Tom was about to launch into another anecdote, when the sharp crack of a twig breaking rang out behind them. They both leapt to their feet, startled. Or rather, Tom leapt to his feet; Bo rose as quickly as his bulky frame would allow. Standing before them in the darkness in all his peaceful, loving glory was none other than the reanimated, smiling corpse of John Lennon. Upon seeing him, Tom Jones turned right back around, and pulled the back of his shirt over his head.
The boy lifted the axe² high over his head, intending to lop John Lennon's head off with it, without question or discussion - before he lost his nerve. He'd been told to defeat him, and he'd taken that directive literally.
"Possession isn't nine-tenths of the law. It's nine-tenths of the problem," the un-living legend said.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Pt. 16
Freddy Mercury's gaze drifted slowly back to the portly young monk, a tangible look of irritation lingering on the dead rock star's immaculately chiselled face, which disappeared quickly once he laid his eyes upon the axe² curled up in Bo's generous fleshy rolls, gripping it awkwardly with hands so greasy that a pan of bacon would be jealous.
"My boy," voiced Mercury with a tone of severity rivalled only by the hit performance of 'Who Wants to Live Forever' in a previous life. "If you truly are willing to make the journey to the treasure you seek, you have not made a mistake in bringing that hard-rocking beast of a weapon you've got there." Bo wondered, if not hoped, that Freddy Mercury was making the move on him that he dreamed of for so many years as a younger monk, but quickly traced the star's shimmering eyes towards the axe in the grip of his sweaty, struggling fingers. Our hero's poignant confusion knows no end. With a hearty sigh, he pushed his turmoil aside and decided to advance the absurd plot line.
"What do you mean? I can't even play a guitar."
"Yes, my dear boy, you can. It is ingrained deep within your heart, in much the same way all that cholesterol is. Have you considered seeing a doctor? You don't look well."
Bo crumpled his face up and with great focus, put his right pinkie finger in his left ear and dug around for a moment. Satisfied with the results, he continued "I'm fine; I'm just hungry. Does this fabulously decorated cave have a deep fryer, perchance? Nevermind, look at your waistline, you must be subsisting off moss. What do you mean it's ingrained? What will I need this for? I figured Brother Platinum was just resolving his tendencies as a hoarder, and had no better use for it."
No sooner did the words fumble clumsily out of the monk's mouth, when out of thin air, Platinum materialized in front of the indescribably [but I'm really making the effort] unfortunate-looking monk, slapped him square across the face, and disappeared as quickly as he came without a single word. It can't be proven, but to this day Tom Jones, Freddy Mercury and Severus share a silent, mutual agreement that they witnessed a fine mist of grease released from Bo's face as he fell victim to abuse under preposterous circumstances. Bo frowned as he wondered why about one third of his life seemed unnecessarily cruel and ludicrous to him.
"Deary," Freddy voiced with perfect pitch, "Great danger awaits you before you may find what you require. Far away in the repugnant, hellish wastelands of Abbey Road, you'll find a very powerful enemy protecting what you seek. He reigns over this horrid nightmare with infinite despicable loathsomeness. You will know you are close when your senses are assaulted by the debilitating scent of patchouli, poorly grown marijuana and death. The enemy you seek is the reanimated corpse of John Lennon. The glare from his lifeless, spectacle'd eye sockets can melt your brain so fast, that you can't even Imagine. Defeat him, and the fabled arm of Rick Allen will be yours. You will also be free to choose the fate of his hoards of zombie hippies."
Bo's sweaty eyeballs had a thick glaze over them, not because he was imagining a tantalizing, deep fried donut with the very same glaze, but he was having a hard time picking up what Mercury was throwing down. "But...how can I kill that which is already dead?"
The vibrant singer smirked. "That, as they say, is the rub." The monk raised an unconvinced eyebrow. "Do they really say that? Who is they?"
"My boy, your axe² holds the power. When the time is right, you will be able to unleash it and destroy hippy evil once and for all."
Monday, April 11, 2011
Pt. 15
I see a little silhouetto of a man, Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango? Thunderbolt of lightening, very, very frightening me. Galileo! (Tom Jones: Galileo!) Galileo! (Tom Jones: Johannes Kepler!) Galileo Figaro, magnificoooooooooo.”
No sooner had the words blundered forth in Bo’s maturing-yet-not-quite-able-to-handle-falsetto-voice, than Cob put his arms around Bo and Tom Jones, and whisked them into his home.
“Let me take those gorgeous trench coats for you!” he said. “Wherever did you find denim in such a striking shade of beige? And matching jumpsuits? I must have Inga, my personal tailor and huntswoman, fashion some for me!”
“Now,” he continued, ushering the denim-clad duo into a homey living room, complete with bumble bee patterned wallpaper. “From what you have told me thus far, I feel safe in assuming that you are neither lost wizards nor Avon ladies, both of which turn up at my door several disturbing times a week. So saying, I feel not only comfortable with, but obligated to dispose of this dumpy façade so as to conduct the business at hand in a more, shall we say, harmonious manner.”
Bo and Tom Jones watched in dumbfounded awe as the matronly mountain man removed his plaid flannel attire to reveal a skin tight romper made of hot pink fur. As he peeled away his scruffy beard, Bo and Tom Jones were star struck not only with their host’s total facial transformation, but by the enormous, sparkling ethereal teeth that were hiding behind the faux chin-covering.
“F-F-Freddie… M-M-Mercury?” Gasped Bo, his face turning a shade that was somewhere between ash grey and the color of the immortal Queen vocalist’s romper.
“I thought you were dead so I bought a chinchilla and named him Beans because I like Beans and then I ate him and it was lovely but I was still so so so sad and I watched my entire collection of Winnie the Pooh VHSs and then I smelled cake so I went across the street and found a man making cake and his name was Watson and I said “Hello Watson. I ate my Chinchilla named Beans” and he said “well, how about that?” and then I punched him in the stomach and said that Freddie Mercury had died and he should at least show a little grief and then he started crying and said that I reminded him of his mother and I said "That's better."” Said Tom Jones, who obviously could not put into words the combined sorrow he had felt at the legend’s passing and his amazement to find him alive and well in the mountains of West Virginia.
“Shut up,” said Bo. And the three sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment, before Freddie Mercury began to speak.
"Well, it has been quite a wild few decades I must say. But dearies, the afterlife just isn't all that it's cracked up to be. The atmosphere is simply lifeless."
At this, Bo gave a polite chuckle while Tom Jones spew forth an all-out guffaw.
"So," Freddie continued, "I gave the almighty a personal performance of "Don't Stop me Now" and was told that I might return to the "real world" as long as I kept a low profile. So I floated back down to earth in a diamond encrusted gondola drawn by six golden emus and here I am!"
"Well pickle my pig!" said Bo.
"GRRRAAAAAMHHHHH!" yelled Tom Jones, who had just noticed the bees on the wallpaper and thought they were alive.
"As for your quest," continued Freddy, getting up to put a kettle on to boil and don a pair of bunny slippers that matched his romper, "I understand you are looking for the magnificent missing arm of Rick Allen. Of course I know it's whereabouts, you wouldn't be here if I didn't, but I'm afraid that information is between myself and my feline companion, Severus."
"Fine then!" snapped Tom Jones. "If that's the way you want to play it, we'll just ask the Pussycat!"
Bo lifted his beige denim hiking booted feet to make room for Tom Jones who was crawling on the ground crying, "Pussycat, pussycat, I love you. Yes I do! Now come out here and tell uncle Tommy where Rick Allen's arm is."
"Well, Mr. Mercury," began Bo, "you see, it really is of the utmost importance that you share with us your knowledge about the arm. It's crucial actually, as we cannot go on without it."
"I'm afraid I can't help you," said Freddie, handing Bo a cup of piping hot rose hip tea. "Well, I can't without asking for something in return, that is."
"We have very little to give," said Bo.
"Pussycat, pussycat, I've got flowers and lots of hours to spend with you talking about missing arms. Now where's my pussy-"
"Shut up!" cried Bo and Freddie Mercury in unison.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Pt. 14
...Michael Jackson! How did you get it? Wait, I don't want to know," the young boy finished before the old man even had the chance to try to explain. "Put it away, please ... it's making me queasy."
Ebenezer tied the bag tightly closed, and put it carefully into Bo's bag. Then he cleared his throat and said, "I have some good news and bad news for you, young man, and they are one in the same. The next step in your journey will take you into the Appalachian Mountains, deep into the heart of West Virginia. There you will meet a man known to the locals as 'Cob Bobby' - he will tell you where to go next to find Rick Allen's arm. On top of reciting what's on that paper to him, you will need to bring Cob chewing tobacco and a Pashmina. Any color."
Bo sat, his mouth agape, just blinking for a full thirty seconds before he said, "Any color?"
"That's what I said." the man answered. "If you'll excuse me, I've a business to attend to. But one last thing - I'd tone down the wardrobe while you're in West Virginia." With that, Ebenezer disappeared into an even back-er back room, so Bo collected his things and went out into the street to find Tom who'd managed to convince a stranger to stand on a corner and sing, of all songs, "Trickle Trickle" with him. It might have been a good rendition, had either of them actually known all the words.
The young monk finally managed to drag Tom Jones away with the promise of letting him pay for the shopping trip they'd need to get a Pashmina (any color) for Cob Bobby and to get both of them properly outfitted so as not to stand out in the hills of West Virginia.
After a fairly uneventful train trip, two decidedly uncomfortable bus connections, and one frankly terrifying taxi ride, Bo and Tom reached the point in their excursion where they had to continue on foot. They hiked for nearly four hours before they reached the small shack belonging to the man known as Cob Bobby, Bo struggling to haul his hefty frame up the steep hillside and Tom, cheerful as ever, chirping away about everything and nothing.
The boy reached inside his bag for the items he needed to give his contact - the chewing tobacco, the Pashmina - as well as the paper with the words he'd have to recite. He looked the words over one last time, took a deep breath and knocked on Cob's door three times. After about 30 seconds, the door swung open hard, and there Cob Bobby stood - all 5'6'' of him. He had short, wavy brown hair that stood out in all directions and light blue eyes that practically blazed under bushy eyebrows. He was as thin as a rail and hadn't showered properly in at least three weeks.
He stood in his doorway looking back and forth between the young boy clutching a piece of paper with his mouth open, and the older gentleman grinning like fool. "Well?!" Cob shouted, stomping his foot.
Bo blinked and said, "
Ebenezer tied the bag tightly closed, and put it carefully into Bo's bag. Then he cleared his throat and said, "I have some good news and bad news for you, young man, and they are one in the same. The next step in your journey will take you into the Appalachian Mountains, deep into the heart of West Virginia. There you will meet a man known to the locals as 'Cob Bobby' - he will tell you where to go next to find Rick Allen's arm. On top of reciting what's on that paper to him, you will need to bring Cob chewing tobacco and a Pashmina. Any color."
Bo sat, his mouth agape, just blinking for a full thirty seconds before he said, "Any color?"
"That's what I said." the man answered. "If you'll excuse me, I've a business to attend to. But one last thing - I'd tone down the wardrobe while you're in West Virginia." With that, Ebenezer disappeared into an even back-er back room, so Bo collected his things and went out into the street to find Tom who'd managed to convince a stranger to stand on a corner and sing, of all songs, "Trickle Trickle" with him. It might have been a good rendition, had either of them actually known all the words.
The young monk finally managed to drag Tom Jones away with the promise of letting him pay for the shopping trip they'd need to get a Pashmina (any color) for Cob Bobby and to get both of them properly outfitted so as not to stand out in the hills of West Virginia.
After a fairly uneventful train trip, two decidedly uncomfortable bus connections, and one frankly terrifying taxi ride, Bo and Tom reached the point in their excursion where they had to continue on foot. They hiked for nearly four hours before they reached the small shack belonging to the man known as Cob Bobby, Bo struggling to haul his hefty frame up the steep hillside and Tom, cheerful as ever, chirping away about everything and nothing.
The boy reached inside his bag for the items he needed to give his contact - the chewing tobacco, the Pashmina - as well as the paper with the words he'd have to recite. He looked the words over one last time, took a deep breath and knocked on Cob's door three times. After about 30 seconds, the door swung open hard, and there Cob Bobby stood - all 5'6'' of him. He had short, wavy brown hair that stood out in all directions and light blue eyes that practically blazed under bushy eyebrows. He was as thin as a rail and hadn't showered properly in at least three weeks.
He stood in his doorway looking back and forth between the young boy clutching a piece of paper with his mouth open, and the older gentleman grinning like fool. "Well?!" Cob shouted, stomping his foot.
Bo blinked and said, "
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Pt. 13
..find Rick Allen's arm." Bo's eyes grew almost wider than his tummy, which is to say they grew very wide indeed. Ebenezer continued, "You see, my ample friend, our hybrid requires the most powerful arm rock and roll has ever known." The old man turned his back to the tubby, pizza-faced monk to rifle through a particular stack of ratty old papers with an air of hurried determination. An unfortunate by-product from this was a startling revelation to Bo that the old man was not wearing anything under his well-worn leather chaps. Bo immediately knew this was a sight he wouldn't soon forget.
With a satisfied mumble, LaBoeuf turned back to the bulging young monk and gave him a broad, if not a little unsettling, smile. "I've found it. The whereabouts of Rick Allen's missing arm is shrouded in mystery, but this should help you on your way. There's a man living in the cave on the top of a tall mountain who will be able to help you find the arm, but he will not give you the time of day unless you repeat the words written on the paper I've given you."
Bo let out an indescribable noise; a mixture of obvious hunger, frustration, and an almost, but not quite, negligible measure of confused sexual excitement. Bo was a fleshy, troubled little monk. It's best not to think about any correlation it may have to his zest for hoagies. Speaking of which, Bo suddenly quizzed the old man, "Say, before I go, do you have any cheesy hoagies? I sure could use a good meal before my trip up a mountain. A corn dog, perhaps?" Bo considered this for a second before adding, "Better make it three."
Ebenezer frowned at the sweaty little doughball. "I'm afraid I haven't got anything like that, I've been warned by my doctor that the next greasy or otherwise unhealthy thing I ingest will stop my heart. Would you perhaps like a nice zucchini instead?" Bo let out a sigh so deep that most subwoofers would be jealous. "Well, you know that I'd really-" Ebenezer gasped. "How could I have talked about this so long without remembering! I have one of the pieces of our hybrid rock and roll God! Take this with you." The peculiarly, and arguably inappropriately, dressed old man handed Bo a small satin bag lined thick with rhinestones. Inside it lay an incredibly...unique (horrifying)...nose. Bo let out a surprised yelp. "This must be the nose of
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Pt. 12
the rotting wooden floorboards were replaced with lime green shag carpeting and the peeling brown and green striped wallpaper had vanished. Instead, the walls were paneled with floor to ceiling mirrors and the ceiling was adorned with a massive fresco of four plump, naked, cherubs partaking in some type of Pagan ceremony involving wine and a lot of rose petals. Bo was only slightly disturbed that the cherubs faces were painted to resemble Jon Bon Jovi, Mick Jagger, Steven Tyler, and Gene Simmons.
"That's quite an unusual scene up there," said Bo, trying to make small talk.
"It is not unusual!" snapped Tom Jones, the brashness in his smooth, soulful voice making Bo jump slightly. "It happens every day!" he continued, "no matter what that plump little mouth of yours says, you will find it happens all the time. So just shut up before you offend me again."
"Are you crying?" Asked Ebenezer, who was busily switching on lava lamps so as to give the trio some light to work by.
Tom Jones, who had apparently suffered some deep psychological trauma brought on by Bo's narrow minded comments shrieked, "It is not unusual to see me cry! Oh, I wanna die!"
And with that, he bolted from the funky room, nearly tearing the glow in the dark curtain of beads from the door frame.
"Do you think he'll be OK?" asked Ebenezer.
"Yes, but I do think it's a bit unusual that someone as euphonious as him can have no style or grace and be such a loser."
"It is NOT unusual" came a distant cry in the front room.
"Yes, well, enough about this Jones cat," said Ebenezer, taking a seat on a taxidermy tiger that was sitting nearby. "Let's get down to business."
Bo gingerly removed the tooth and cornrow from his satchel and handed them to Ebenezer.
The old man's turquoise eyes became very round and shiny and almost seemed to reflect the stunningly gold lame shirt he wearing, unbuttoned down to his crusty navel. This made him look halfway possessed.
"Boy, where did you find these gems, these relics of rock, these gewgaws of groove?"
Bo related his bizarre tale to Ebenezer. When he got to the part about the Christmas party photograph, all the hair on Ebenezer's chest- or torso, I should say- stood up on end, making him look like a senile porcupine.
"Bo, what I am about to share with you is knowledge that could very easily put your life at risk, but as you are young and not particularly attractive, I don't feel any trepidation in telling you."
"Telling me what, Ebenezer LaBoeuf?" said Bo, who was beginning to sweat again.
"I belong to a specialized group of people," began Ebenezer, "A club, you might say. We are the men and women who never quite made it in the rock scene. We possessed vulgar personalities, drank more rally juice than was perhaps good for us, and purposefully made our physical appearance as hellish as possible. We were the type of people who could only become successful in a rock band. And as we aged and lost all our money, teeth, and sex appeal, we began to realize that our Rock dreams could never roll. And so now we have joined forces and are creating a new being... the ideal rock instrumentalist/vocalist."
"I don't quite see where you are going with this," said Bo, whose rubber tube top was becoming very uncomfortable on account of all the sweat accumulating in it.
"Bo, we are shaping the new generation of Rock! We are bringing it back from the dead by piecing together a hybrid man from the body parts of the legends of rock! Don't you see? You are the link, the only youngster with the gift of attracting these precious pieces of the puzzle. We are all growing too old to hunt them down, but you, you my great big hippo of a boy, are the ONE."
Ebenezer dropped this last word with such force, Bo's fountain of perspiration ceased to flow, if only for an instant.
"Your next task," continued Ebenezer, "Is to
"That's quite an unusual scene up there," said Bo, trying to make small talk.
"It is not unusual!" snapped Tom Jones, the brashness in his smooth, soulful voice making Bo jump slightly. "It happens every day!" he continued, "no matter what that plump little mouth of yours says, you will find it happens all the time. So just shut up before you offend me again."
"Are you crying?" Asked Ebenezer, who was busily switching on lava lamps so as to give the trio some light to work by.
Tom Jones, who had apparently suffered some deep psychological trauma brought on by Bo's narrow minded comments shrieked, "It is not unusual to see me cry! Oh, I wanna die!"
And with that, he bolted from the funky room, nearly tearing the glow in the dark curtain of beads from the door frame.
"Do you think he'll be OK?" asked Ebenezer.
"Yes, but I do think it's a bit unusual that someone as euphonious as him can have no style or grace and be such a loser."
"It is NOT unusual" came a distant cry in the front room.
"Yes, well, enough about this Jones cat," said Ebenezer, taking a seat on a taxidermy tiger that was sitting nearby. "Let's get down to business."
Bo gingerly removed the tooth and cornrow from his satchel and handed them to Ebenezer.
The old man's turquoise eyes became very round and shiny and almost seemed to reflect the stunningly gold lame shirt he wearing, unbuttoned down to his crusty navel. This made him look halfway possessed.
"Boy, where did you find these gems, these relics of rock, these gewgaws of groove?"
Bo related his bizarre tale to Ebenezer. When he got to the part about the Christmas party photograph, all the hair on Ebenezer's chest- or torso, I should say- stood up on end, making him look like a senile porcupine.
"Bo, what I am about to share with you is knowledge that could very easily put your life at risk, but as you are young and not particularly attractive, I don't feel any trepidation in telling you."
"Telling me what, Ebenezer LaBoeuf?" said Bo, who was beginning to sweat again.
"I belong to a specialized group of people," began Ebenezer, "A club, you might say. We are the men and women who never quite made it in the rock scene. We possessed vulgar personalities, drank more rally juice than was perhaps good for us, and purposefully made our physical appearance as hellish as possible. We were the type of people who could only become successful in a rock band. And as we aged and lost all our money, teeth, and sex appeal, we began to realize that our Rock dreams could never roll. And so now we have joined forces and are creating a new being... the ideal rock instrumentalist/vocalist."
"I don't quite see where you are going with this," said Bo, whose rubber tube top was becoming very uncomfortable on account of all the sweat accumulating in it.
"Bo, we are shaping the new generation of Rock! We are bringing it back from the dead by piecing together a hybrid man from the body parts of the legends of rock! Don't you see? You are the link, the only youngster with the gift of attracting these precious pieces of the puzzle. We are all growing too old to hunt them down, but you, you my great big hippo of a boy, are the ONE."
Ebenezer dropped this last word with such force, Bo's fountain of perspiration ceased to flow, if only for an instant.
"Your next task," continued Ebenezer, "Is to
Pt. 11
...silver-plated cigarette case. "Listen, Tom," Bo said offering him a cigarette, "I can't give you the tooth, it has a destiny beyond both of us. Plus, we both know that gun you're holding shoots BBs. I'm a teenager, you think I've never seen an Airsoft gun before?" Tom sighed even more deeply, stared at the gun with a measure of contempt and blame before stowing it and taking a cigarette from the case.
"Now," Bo started as he lit Tom's cigarette, "tell me what you know about this tooth."
After thirty full minutes of babbling, it became clear to Bo that Tom knew absolutely nothing about the tooth, and was definitely quite insane. Fortunately, it wasn't a very long bus ride from Hoboken to the Bronx and by the time they arrived, Tom had forgotten all about the tooth and was begging Bo to stand on a corner and harmonize with him like some kind of two-man doo wop group. "Maybe later, Tom - I have a tooth to deliver." Bo reminded him before walking into the liquor store. Tom followed dutifully behind.
Both men blinked and waited for their eyes to adjust to the dim light inside of the store. Tom spoke first. "I like to drink to suit my location." Bo sighed, turned to Tom and pressed his finger to his lips before turning to the man behind the counter and inquiring, "Are you Ebenezer LaBoeuf?"
"I might be," the man said simply. Ebenezer stood six feet tall with a mane of shoulder length gray hair. He was reading a magazine and hadn't looked up from it once since they'd walked in. "Well I have an item that might be of interest to you, " Bo said as Ebenezer continued to read. "Midge sent me." he finished.
Ebenezer looked up without lifting his head. "That so?" he asked. Tom grinned widely and said, "He's got a tooth in his bag! I carry Wales inside me." Bo jerked his head toward Tom to give him the wtf eyebrow while Ebenezer closed his magazine and said, "Come to the back room, boys, we'll talk business.
The back room looked exactly like the front room, except
"Now," Bo started as he lit Tom's cigarette, "tell me what you know about this tooth."
After thirty full minutes of babbling, it became clear to Bo that Tom knew absolutely nothing about the tooth, and was definitely quite insane. Fortunately, it wasn't a very long bus ride from Hoboken to the Bronx and by the time they arrived, Tom had forgotten all about the tooth and was begging Bo to stand on a corner and harmonize with him like some kind of two-man doo wop group. "Maybe later, Tom - I have a tooth to deliver." Bo reminded him before walking into the liquor store. Tom followed dutifully behind.
Both men blinked and waited for their eyes to adjust to the dim light inside of the store. Tom spoke first. "I like to drink to suit my location." Bo sighed, turned to Tom and pressed his finger to his lips before turning to the man behind the counter and inquiring, "Are you Ebenezer LaBoeuf?"
"I might be," the man said simply. Ebenezer stood six feet tall with a mane of shoulder length gray hair. He was reading a magazine and hadn't looked up from it once since they'd walked in. "Well I have an item that might be of interest to you, " Bo said as Ebenezer continued to read. "Midge sent me." he finished.
Ebenezer looked up without lifting his head. "That so?" he asked. Tom grinned widely and said, "He's got a tooth in his bag! I carry Wales inside me." Bo jerked his head toward Tom to give him the wtf eyebrow while Ebenezer closed his magazine and said, "Come to the back room, boys, we'll talk business.
The back room looked exactly like the front room, except
Monday, April 4, 2011
Pt. 10
Bo would have frozen at this very moment, but that would be a misnomer. The corpulent sea of flesh he considered to be his body was, simply, so densely insulated that it would be more accurate to say he merely became somewhat more viscous. In any case, a deep fear gripped the young monk's fashion savvy, rhinestone-encrusted soul. His life struggled valiantly to flash before his eyes, but could only muster up a bizarre interpretive dance performed by a small group of anthropomorphic hoagies. This was a delightful, and altogether pleasing alternative to Bo. His stomach rumbled feebly. He wished for this maniac to leave him alone so he could get to work on the cheesy hoagie nestled away in his pocket.
"What's new, pussycat?" articulated the figure pressing the business end of a gun squarely at Bo's meaty, sweat-infused temple. The voice was certainly ominous, yet with a tangible hint of erotic soulfulness to it. "I hear you have something that I need. I recommend you hand it over, because that is a right snazzy outfit and it would be a shame to get bits of brain matter all over it."
Bo dwelled on this for a moment. He really did not want to give up his last delicious cheese hoagie to some creep packing heat. He thought further, and realized the mysterious gunman had an awfully familiar voice. His mind rushed, at roughly the pace his husky figure could afford in an all out-sprint.
"Tom Jones?" Bo finally leaked, "Whatever do you want with my cheesy hoagie?" The figure, immediately disheartened, released the pressure of the gun from the monk's temple, and baffled at this response for a second. "What, I...No, kid, not the damn hoagie. Wait, where are you keeping a hoagie? Nope, never mind, son. I'm here for the tooth." Bo nodded wisely. "Ahhh. I really got you now, that makes a lot more sense. Well, you`re not getting the tooth either. I wish you`d not point that gun at me, though, because now I won`t be able to sleep at night."
Tom let out a long, drawn out sigh. Evidently he was not the world`s biggest fan of puns. "Kid, we can do this the Tommy J way, or the hard way. The hard way, let me remind you, involves an emergency trip to the laundromat for that outfit." Not terribly satisfied with either of those options, Bo used his portly frame to cloak his arm from view of the seductively chauvinist singer`s, and slowly reached for his
Pt. 9
the time had come to embark on the next leg of his journey.
Having gained nearly fifty pounds from extravagant hoagie consumption, the now portly Bo waddled quickly to catch the 5:00 bus. Midge had dressed him in some of Brother Platinum's hand-me-downs, but as Bo's swollen thighs had come to be too much of a challenge on the seams of the black sequined bell-bottoms and bottle green leather capris, Bo had asked to use Midge's sewing machine to fashion himself a pair of empire waist trousers, cut from the cloth of his monk's robes and bedazzled with some of the more flashy numbers in Midge's rhinestone collection. He found that they paired nicely with the rubber maternity tube top that Midge had been generous enough to bequeath him.
Once on board the bus, Bo began searching through the pockets of Midge's vintage rucksack in hopes of finding the cheese hoagie she had promised to enclose. His husky fingers grazed something tiny and smooth. Hoping it was perhaps a superfluous bit of diced onion, he extracted it from the pocket and held it up to the lurid yellow bus light to scrutinize. Not quite sure what to make of the minuscule commodity, his hand again delved into the velvet interior of the rucksack in hopes of securing some type of explanation, and sure enough, after a minute of searching, withdrew a note printed on Midge's monogrammed electric blue stationary.
"Bo," it read, "the bus you are on is not going to Philadelphia. The driver is an acquaintance of mine from back when I worked as a lumberjack in Kalamazoo. She is taking you to a liquor store in The Bronx where you will find a man named Ebenezer LaBoeuf who is very interested in what you are holding in your hand... the legendary vocalist Ray Davies' missing middle tooth. You must guard it with your life, as my words cannot fully bring to your senses the power that it possesses. Lest it fall into the wrong hands, there is no telling what dark evils will befall you and the future of rock and roll."
Bo, only slightly repulsed by the oral appendage that nestled between his great sausages of fingers, had barely taken enough time to replace the note and utter a muffled, "Holy Chippendale!" before he heard the candid "click click" of a firearm being cocked alarmingly close to his ear.
Having gained nearly fifty pounds from extravagant hoagie consumption, the now portly Bo waddled quickly to catch the 5:00 bus. Midge had dressed him in some of Brother Platinum's hand-me-downs, but as Bo's swollen thighs had come to be too much of a challenge on the seams of the black sequined bell-bottoms and bottle green leather capris, Bo had asked to use Midge's sewing machine to fashion himself a pair of empire waist trousers, cut from the cloth of his monk's robes and bedazzled with some of the more flashy numbers in Midge's rhinestone collection. He found that they paired nicely with the rubber maternity tube top that Midge had been generous enough to bequeath him.
Once on board the bus, Bo began searching through the pockets of Midge's vintage rucksack in hopes of finding the cheese hoagie she had promised to enclose. His husky fingers grazed something tiny and smooth. Hoping it was perhaps a superfluous bit of diced onion, he extracted it from the pocket and held it up to the lurid yellow bus light to scrutinize. Not quite sure what to make of the minuscule commodity, his hand again delved into the velvet interior of the rucksack in hopes of securing some type of explanation, and sure enough, after a minute of searching, withdrew a note printed on Midge's monogrammed electric blue stationary.
"Bo," it read, "the bus you are on is not going to Philadelphia. The driver is an acquaintance of mine from back when I worked as a lumberjack in Kalamazoo. She is taking you to a liquor store in The Bronx where you will find a man named Ebenezer LaBoeuf who is very interested in what you are holding in your hand... the legendary vocalist Ray Davies' missing middle tooth. You must guard it with your life, as my words cannot fully bring to your senses the power that it possesses. Lest it fall into the wrong hands, there is no telling what dark evils will befall you and the future of rock and roll."
Bo, only slightly repulsed by the oral appendage that nestled between his great sausages of fingers, had barely taken enough time to replace the note and utter a muffled, "Holy Chippendale!" before he heard the candid "click click" of a firearm being cocked alarmingly close to his ear.
Pt. 8
...Hoboken, where my mother lives. She'll give you provisions, and tell you where to get the best hoagies before you start the next leg of your quest. She'll also tell you what a hoagie is." Brother Platinum then turned abruptly, shot one pointed finger high in the air and left without another word.
Bo considered everything that had just transpired, how one moment he could be alone in his room and an instant later, Brother Platinum materialized out of thin air, red-faced and talking crazy about something called "a hoagie". How one day, he was telling him to continue fishing in the forbidden pond, and then next was sending him on quests to New Jersey with a dirty guitar and a braided lock of hair from an aged rock star.
"You know what?" Bo mused to himself, "this place is kookier than a short stack of drunk hookers."
The next day, Bo was on the first bus to New Jersey. Brother Platinum's mother, Midge, met him at the bus stop in Hoboken, two days later. He felt like a bag of garbage and smelt nearly as bad, but she still snatched him up in a tight embrace as though she'd known him for years. After getting showered, fed and catching a good night's sleep, Midge handed him some money and a backpack full of freshly cleaned clothing - along with some other items hidden in the pockets.
He was on his way to Philadelphia, because
Bo considered everything that had just transpired, how one moment he could be alone in his room and an instant later, Brother Platinum materialized out of thin air, red-faced and talking crazy about something called "a hoagie". How one day, he was telling him to continue fishing in the forbidden pond, and then next was sending him on quests to New Jersey with a dirty guitar and a braided lock of hair from an aged rock star.
"You know what?" Bo mused to himself, "this place is kookier than a short stack of drunk hookers."
The next day, Bo was on the first bus to New Jersey. Brother Platinum's mother, Midge, met him at the bus stop in Hoboken, two days later. He felt like a bag of garbage and smelt nearly as bad, but she still snatched him up in a tight embrace as though she'd known him for years. After getting showered, fed and catching a good night's sleep, Midge handed him some money and a backpack full of freshly cleaned clothing - along with some other items hidden in the pockets.
He was on his way to Philadelphia, because
Pt. 7
the mysterious and ambiguously diabolical secret that the whole of 70's contemporary rock holds. It is a magical lock of Barry Gibbs' corn row-ed hair. It will guide you on your journey." Bo regarded this plot-defining revelation with a perfectly void stare; Brother Platinum suspected for a moment that the young monk may have suffered from acute leucotomy.
Brother Platinum's face developed a colour that could only be described as "aggravated burgundy;" his intricately styled afro diffracted the glow faintly. It was really quite a sight to behold. If this weren't enough, the Brother frowned to further corroborate his frustration for Bo's absentmindedness but quickly got his priorities in order.
"Bo, I must explain something very important to you. Under the intricately sequined and fabulously bedazzled cloak of the smooth 70's rock scene, there exists an endlessly convoluted web of lies, sex, guile, drugs, sleaze, and roll."
Bo considered this for a long while. His mind wandered briefly to a grade school sweetheart, and he considered whether she may still be single, but quickly resumed his quiet contemplation that the implications of the Brother's heed held. Bo carefully crafted his response, and began slowly, "Jiminy Cricket! That sounds dangerously scandalous...but where is the rock?" A smug look flickered across his face as he considered what a blazing success his exclamations have been so far.
Consecutively, a refreshing wave of approval washed over Platinum's weathered, yet brilliantly maintained face. "Yes, my dear boy," he warmly reassured, "that is precisely the dilemma. We monks, for countless generations, have secretly tended to the sanctity of rock and roll." The Brother had obviously broken through, because the gaze afforded by Bo's pure captivation from this tale breathed what could be mistaken for a look of sentience in his eyes, a rare occasion to be sure. "Now, we monks truly believe you are the chosen one to follow the valiant path of saving rock and roll." Bo sighed heavily. "Young Bo, your journey must start immediately. It will be dangerous to go alone, take this," and reached for a tattered axe fashioned with a sound-hole and a set of grimy-looking guitar strings. "It's an axe². Your destiny rests at the end of a long and arduous paths of arbitrary evil. You must first head East towards
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