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:

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

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

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.

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, "

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  

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

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.

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

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

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Pt. 6

Although Brother Platinum's elderly face was all but indistinguishable from a prune, his luscious 'fro had retained much of it's luster from days gone by, and it was the first thing that Bo's eyes were drawn to in the small, framed photograph he held in his sweaty, trembling hands.

It appeared to have been taken at a Christmas party sometime in the late seventies. In front of the youthful Father Platinum sat an equally young Barry Gibb, clad in white go go boots and an oversized, fringed leather jacket. As the jacket came down past his knees, it was impossible to see what- if anything- was beneath it. His head was thrown back with laughter, his effulgent white teeth bouncing light off of the disco ball that hung on the ceiling above his head. Behind him, Brother Platinum, clad in a paisley silk bathrobe, appeared to be braiding Barry's hair into thousands of tiny corn rows.

Bo found this scene strangely touching and was in a way envious of the two men's freedom of dress. Bo had always possessed an eye for fashion and was, upon his arrival at the monastery, almost more devastated by the fact that his new wardrobe lacked both creativity and variation than he was by his father's passing. Of course, he was only a toddler when he had been brought to the Scabbey Abbey, so his juvenile cries of "where might I find a robe fashioned with a pair of smart cap sleeves?" were always laughed off by the monks.
Captivated as he was by the peculiar photograph, Bo had almost not noticed what was written on the inside of the linen cloth.
"Young Bo," it said, in Brother Platinum's conservative penmanship, "I give you this, a blissful memory of the past frozen in time, so that you might be able to discover

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Pt. 5

sighed and gave Bo a good, long stare.  It didn't take long before the young boy caved and finally admitted that he'd been fishing at the forbidden pond.


Brother Platinum took Bo by the hand and said, "It's time."  They took four steps to the left.


"When I was a young boy, I used to fish in that pond," he continued, "and I would find many wondrous things.  But ever since I became a man, I haven't been able to find anything. I pass the fishing pole to you.  I'm sure the pond has more to give, and eventually we will know why.  Take this, but don't open it until you're alone in your room tonight.  It will help you in your quest to find more treasures in the pond."  Brother Platinum handed him a small item wrapped in linen, as he took his first wheezing breath since he started telling his story, then sat right down on the floor where he'd stood and refused to say another word.  Bo left him once he started quietly humming to himself.


As Bo went back to the pond to retrieve his fishing pole, he wondered what could possibly be inside of the tightly wrapped linen, but he did as he'd been instructed and waited until he was alone in his room at night.  The rest of the day seemed to drag on interminably, but the time finally came - Bo sat on his bed and by the light of one candle, unwrapped the parcel.  He was stunned by what he saw.

Pt. 4

Bo was blind-sided. In his haste to show the wonder to the first person willing to give him the time of day, Bo had wholly forgotten to develop a convincing lie as to the origins of his precious visage of Barry Gibbs. His heart raced. His forehead worked valiantly to out-precipitate the Amazon rainforest. His delicately plucked eyebrows struggled under the weight of the amassing sweat. He may have even peed a little.

"Bo!" snapped Brother Platinum, jarring the young Monk back to reality, "I asked where you discovered this breathtaking vestige." Bo fumbled for words; he was not generally one for lying, as he was taught young that one should only lie to the opposite sex or to avoid physical harassment. He considered the excessively ironic stoning he would suffer if he told the truth about this stone, and filed this lie under the latter of acceptable circumstances. "Well you see," he muttered hesitantly "I was in the fields, dutifully taking inventory and cataloguing our supply of cow patties. I lifted up pie H-42/399 and found it resting innocently underneath." Bo was pleased with his concoction. Brother Platinum fostered a look that did not seem to share the young Monk's enthusiasm,

Friday, April 1, 2011

Pt. 3

n image of Jesus' face. Bo stared at what appeared to be an ordinary pond rock, slimy and damp from the time spent nestled in a bed of water plants, and sure enough, it was the face of Jesus, plain as day, that smiled back at him.
"Great galloping gorillas!" he muttered, pleased with his spontaneous alliteration. He all but forgot his fishing pole, as he raced to show Father Platinum his find.
"Sweet Jesus!" exclaimed the monk when Bo handed him the artifact. "My dear child! If my eyes don't deceive me... you've found a common stone emblazoned with the handsome features of Barry Gibb!"
"Actually, brother," said Bo, a little sheepishly, "I was thinking it looked something like Jesus."
"Oh no, dear boy!" Boomed the brother, his eyes twinkling from behind his lemon-yellow sunglasses, "'tis Barry to be sure! Of course, our lord and savior does bear a striking resemblance to this dazzling deity of disco, but no, I would recognize ol' Barry from atop a flying camel at a distance of fifty yards. My dear, dear little ferret, this is quite a magnificent specimen! Wherever did you acquire it?"