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?"

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."

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

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