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:

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!"

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

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

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.

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."

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.