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Date:    Sun, Aug 11, 1996 7:43 PM EDT

From:   FifiOToole

Subj:    CHAPTER VI

To:        SecraTerri, Bottlenekk, Edmundkaz

 

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Wanda, unable to find a suitable table from which to watch the Little David Wilkins Show and still partake of a hearty helping of pancakes, had hauled a folding wicker chair to the head of the stairs that led into the basement of the Traiyertown Tabernacle.

And there she stood.

(Yeah, you read that right. She was STANDING on the chair. Look -- we established early on that the chick is NOSY, okay? Wanda snoops through other people's houses when she pet-sits, remember? She doesn't like to MISS anything, so she stood on the chair in order to see above the crowd, so work with me here.)

Anyway -- there she stood, a picture of pulchritude in her Walter Brennan tee shirt, Calvin Klein button-fly cut-offs, and cowboy boots, her heavy-laden Dooney Burke slung over one sagging shoulder, precariously perched with her platter of pancakes, meticulously masticating every morsel, when she heard the ecstatic exclamations of our other four friends:

"AMELIA!" Peking cried.

"Wanda!" Huge Tony gasped.

"SIS?" Courtney Bombeck squealed.

"DADDY?" Caspar Mouse shouted.

At the sound of someone gasping her name, Wanda stopped masticating and temporarily put her flapjack fetish aside. "Whoa!" she thought, wiggling excitedly and immediately assuming her best come hither facial expression.

"HugeTony......oooh BAYbee.....at LAST!" she anticipated as she scanned the Traiyertown Tabernacle all-purpose party room for a tall, sexy, self-absorbed looking dude who could pass for Shirley MacClaine's baby bro.

But instead of staring into a pair of Warren Beatty bedroom eyes, Wanda found herself under the intense scrutiny of three other pair of eyes -- belonging, of course, to Frank Lee, Courtney and the supposititious Scout, all of whom were staring intently and calling out to her in various and sundry forms of address.

"Oh GREAT," Wanda muttered. "On top of everything else, now I'm having a damned identity crisis. Not to mention some seriously alarming apprehension about all this alliteration. Who ARE those goofy people, anyway? And wonder why Little David Wilkins is trying to smother the short guy?"

Indeed, just to the left of the intently staring trio, Caspar, who had obviously shouted "DADDY?" with his eyes riveted not on Wanda but on HugeTony, had fallen to his knees, thrown his caped arms around the dwarf, and launched into an Eddie Fisher impersonation -- belting out a touching rendition of "Oh My Papa" to an audience of bemused but nevertheless attentive Bingo and Pancake Supper patrons.

Frank Lee, who'd been ministering to a semi-conscious Courtney, had eyes only for Wanda though. As he drank in the beauty of his aviatrix Amelia, he momentarily forgot which end of a cup goes up and proceeded to drown the beautiful Ms. Bombeck in an icy red sea of Slurpee.

"Wanda?" he asked incredulously as he turned to HugeTony. "You mean my dreamchick AMELIA is this WANDA you wanted me to find?"

"Mmfspglnf," replied HugeTony in a vain attempt to extract himself from Caspar's shower curtain/cape and misplaced affections.

"You owe me fifty bucks," stated the down-on-his-luck detective flatly, still standing over Courtney with a now empty go-cup.

"AIYEEE," screeched Courtney as she leaped to her feet, reached under her dress, ripped off her half slip and wrapped it around her head........which was definitely the perfect ploy to make Peking stop peeking at Wanda and give Miz Bombeck his undivided attention.

"My HAAA-AIR!" she wailed pitifully. A seepy black substance was beginning to make large blotches on her slip and ooze down the sides of her neck as Frank Lee and Wanda looked on in morbid fascination.

"You big buffoon," hissed Courtney. "You just poured Cherry Slurpee all OVER my shoe-polish blue-black hair and now all the COLOR is coming out quicker than you can say KIWI," she said between clenched teeth. "I am SO embarrassed I could just DYE!"

Naturally, Frank Lee was a bit taken aback by the verbal assault, but he'd enrolled in a Federally-accredited course on unfurling during his incarceration at Anderson and passed with flying colors -- so with a mere flick of his wrist, he unswaddled HugeTony from Caspar's cape, sending the midget spinning and sputtering through the crowd. Then, quicker than you can say "Sam Spade," the deft-handed detective twisted the big red slurpee-proof cape around Courtney's slip-covered head, turban style, tying a double square knot over her furrowed brow.

"Damn, ma'am," he said apologetically.

"JESUS H. CHRIST on a pogo stick!" intoned HugeTony loudly, free at last but still spinning.

And with that, all hell broke loose:

Caspar ceased his emulation of Eddie Fisher and reverted to a previous persona the moment he heard HugeTony call out in vain for a saviour. Knowing that the odds of finding Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick in a Jewish Tabernacle were slim to zilch -- and sensing a chance to redeem himself for his recently uncool and blubbery behavior -- Cool Hand Caspar grabbed his banjo and began to play and sing that all-time Christian favorite:

"I don't care if it rains or freezes

Long as I got my plastic Jesus

Sittin' on the dashboard of my car.........."

And then entire Traiyertown Tabernacle began to tremble violently. A misguided Cub Scout saw his chance to be a hero and whacked a button on the wall that said "Push In Case of Emergency," which caused the Tabernacle's 5-Bell Fire Alarm to sound which in turn, signaled the sprinkler system to precipitate profusely.

Wanda, sensing the worst was yet to come, balanced her plate of pancakes on her left hand and began digging frantically through her Dooney Burke with her right. She was rooting around for her Voodoo Charm Stick in hopes of casting a spell on the Bell and Sprinkler, but the universe is a weird place and frequently unkind. Just as she felt her fingers close on the magic stick, her folding chair folded, rendering her helplessly trapped between heavily dolloped pancakes and a Samsonite seat cushion.

Paper plates toppled off tables.

All-beef Kosher sausage patties impaled upon sporks sailed through the air.

The chandeliers shook, threatening to jump right out of their ceiling sockets, and tiny tapered bulbs blinked on and off like dancing fairy fireflies at the opening ceremonies of the Summer Olympics.

There was more turmoil in the Traiyertown Tabernacle that night than during rush hour traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike.........

.......more madness and titillation than on a mid-summer's eve cruisin' down The Sea Tac Strip.........

 

........and above all the bustle was heard:

 

"......comes in colors pink and pleasant

Glows in the dark cuz it's iridescent.........."

 

 

It was total chaos.

It was confusion to the Nth degree.

It was cornier than Kansas in August,

 

and dammed near sacrilegious, to boot.

 

The chaotic and corny confusion would not last long, however, because just then, a scrawny woman in a hairnet and a menopausal widow with a fistful of Dabolinkx -- both of whom had lobbied laboriously for larger roles in this story -- made beelines across the soaking-wet smoke-filled basement and TOOK CHARGE.

As Hairnet herded people up and began to head them out through the EXIT ONLYs, the good Widow Pausal grabbed Wanda by the chair and dragged her and her heavy-laden shoulder bag across the rising tide of sprinkler and syrup over to where the other three main characters and HugeTony had given up all pretense of maintaining any dignity.

"Oy Vey," said the widow, reproachfully, all but shouting over the cacophonous babble in the background. "Will you two schvitzing shiksas get it together with these goys already? You are wreaking havoc, horror, destruction -- and possibly even mold and mildew -- on the entirety of Traiyertown with all this Tom Foolery!"

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v

 

MEANWHILE, in an alternate reality (and different time zone), way down south in the land of crawdads, Thomas Foolery Brokenjaw was sitting in quiet desperation at Camp Trenchfoot, a long-abandoned CIA training base on the outskirts of Confluence, Loozianna.

(According to the Premier Resorts Edition of a 1987 U.S. Road Atlas, Confluence, Loozianna is about an inch and a half northeast of Twinbed Township, Loozianna -- which ain't far at all from Baton Rouge as the Cajun crow flies.)

He had been there for 5 and a half chapters, and was beginning to feel the agony

of defeet.

It wasn't that Camp Trenchfoot's accomodations were all that bad......they were, but Tom was was well-schooled in miyitary discipyine, after all. He could handle not having shower clogs, a shower curtain, a hot tub, or compyimentary mints on his pillow. He didn't even have any probyem mixing plain old tap water in his Kool Aid after the first few days of flatulence and dysentary. He DID sorely miss the female companionship of the Slightly News nightly groupies (in other words, his ballz were turning blue) but he felt he was coming to grips with that.

Well then whut, you may well ask, was making the guy so quietly desperate? It was the simple yet depyorable fact that he hadn't seen the inside of a hair sayon or a Yord and Taiyor outyet since the twenty-third of June that was causing him to sink lower and lower into the terrible mire of gyoom and cyinical depression. For Camp Trenchfoot -- like all top and/or bottom-notch CIA facilities -- had surveiyance equipment in every corner and cranny. Each time Tom passed a telemonitor he thought his heart would surely break, for he beheld his own image going rapidly down the tubes.

And besides, there wasn't anything to DO! Well......almost nothing. There WAS an old console HI FI with some dusty records -- one of which was "Hogans Heroes Sing Songs of WWII" -- and there was also a weed-infested miniature golf course with a cute little kudzu-covered windmill at the 13th hole.

But alas and alack -- there was no Network teyivision, no Cable or Sateyyite teyivision, no radio.......not even a newspaper! (The CIA goons guarding him subscribed to the Loo-uh-vulle, Kentucky Curious Journal which was delivered each morning by Cajun carrier-crow, but they selfishly refused to share it.)

Tom had become so desperate in fact, that he would have considered trading his Rolex and Kelly Green La Coste golf socks for a copy of Sidney Sheldon's latest best seller. He even broached the subject with one of his guards, only to learn that CIA Regulation #2795R prohibited any Trashy Summer Novels on the premises. Poor, poor Tom.......oh woe was he! There was but one bit of reading material at his disposal -- a cookbook entitled

 

"Fatunation: Recipes for The Ravenous."

 

Luckily however, with the purchase of a 25 lb. can of Swift's Premium Lard, 10 lbs. of Miss Goldy's Chicken Gizzards or Livers, and an additional grocery order of $237 or more -- tax not included -- the Confluence Winn-Dixie would deliver.

"My ownyee recourse," thought Tom, " is to make a yist and check it twice."

 

 

 

 

 

.............stay tuned for Chapter VII.....

 

 

 

.............to be developed and contructed by........

 

I dunno.

 

 

 

Sec just did one.

 

 

 

 

Edmund? Are you still a guerilla?

 

Have you the dogged determination,

 

creative chutzpah,

 

and sheer guerilla gumption

 

to go where no man or woman has gone before

 

and write, boldly write?

 

Or should I pass this to Bottle?

 

{{{{{{{{{{{Sec, Bottle, Kaz}}}}}}}}}}}

-Feef


Chapter Seven!

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