Pa's Adventure, Part 2

"You want some coffee?" Dale asked me.

"Sure," I said, "I'm feelin mighty parched from tellin this here story. You know, coffee's good for story tellers and listeners."

"That's true," he concurred, "I, as a listener of this story, feel that coffee is improving my enjoyment of this yarn tenfold."

"Most true, most true. I would suggest that anyone listening, or possibly reading, a story of this nature would want to go get themselves a cup of coffee now. I'd even sit here and wait a tick while they did."

With that, Dale got up from the modified stool he'd been sittin on and went into the kitchen. While he was there, I took the opportunity to look around some more. I was seated on a floral patterned couch that had been covered in plastic. Next to me, on a small oak table, was an old fashioned oil lamp that had been converted to electric. All along the aged wooden walls were pictures from Dale's time in the circus; fliers for his act, adverts for places far flung, exotic places such as Altus, Oklahoma and Shreveport, Louisiana, and, on the mantle a portrait of young Dale with his parents standing in front of an aquarium, stuffed full of hope like a shark full of cocaine. The whole place was covered with a thin layer of dust and smelled like a library that had coffee brewing.

"Here's the coffee," Dale announced. He was carrying two thin china cups painted with roses on a silver tray with an angel motif inlaid.

"Thank ya kindly," I told him. Even when you're having coffee with a half man/half lobster that's sold meth to kids and killed people with his pernicious poots, it's important to remember your manners. "So, where was I?"

"Your dad had just fallen into a lake of stew in the middle of the earth," he told me.

"Right," I launched into the story again. "So there was pa, floating in a great lake of beef stew. He couldn't see no shore line or nothin out there, and he was so tired out from his fall and voiding himself of all that sand (if you know what I mean), that he just wanted to lay there and maybe eat a bit. Luckily for him, stew is dense and it takes no effort to float on top of it.

"There was pa, laying in the stew, lookin around him. He was in some sort of giant cave that was lit up, from where, he couldn't tell. The ceiling of the cave was so far above him he couldn't see it. He only knew it was there because he had recently passed through it. The light in the cave would wax and wane with what he thought was a copying of night and day, but without his watch, he couldn't tell how regular it was.

"He'd been layin there, occasionally rolling over to eat some stew, for three of those cycles when he spotted something on the horizon. At first, it looked like just another pea floating at the edge of his vision, but it became steadily larger as he watched it. It grew from a pea to a carrot, then to a potato, then to the size of a chunk of beef. Soon, it was larger than any of the food chunks floating around him and it began to resemble a small sailboat.

"When it got within hailing distance, pa yelled out, 'Hey! Over here!'. He waved his arms a bit until he saw the ship turn towards him. As it got closer, he saw that, instead of being a sail boat, it was a bathtub that had been rigged with a flag pole in the drain hole and a bed sheet tied to the pole acting as a sail. Steering this vessel was a small, black haired man wearing a black, three piece suit, the vest of which was white with red diamonds on it, and a black bowler hat.

"The man pulled the boat up alongside pa, dropped the sail, leaned over and shouted, 'What in tarnation are you doin in ma stew lake? You're befoulin it! Befoulin, I say!'

"Pa stayed calm, 'Well sir, if I'd had my choice, I'd not have fallen in your stew lake and befouled it, but, if you was to pull me into your fine vessel there, I'd be happy to stop befoulin it.'

"'Not before you tell me how you got here,' the man shouted.

"So that's just what pa did. He filled the small gentleman in on the whole story. When he finished, the man told pa, 'That's quite a story. I'd say that story alone is worthy of a trip into town, climb aboard. What's your name, stranger?'

"Pa told him, 'Evan, Evan O'Neil.'

"In turn, the small man introduced himself. 'Charles Noe,' he shook pa's hand. 'And I'm king of this here land.'

"Pa was duly impressed, especially seein as how it was only the third king of an underground land that pa had ever met, and he was pretty sure one of those had been lyin to him. He bowed, as he thought he out to, but Charles Noe was havin none of it. He told pa that he was king of the land by default, seein as how there was no one else there to share in the bounty. He was a king without people. That bein the case, he wouldn't have no one bowin or scrapin or callin him 'Sir'. Just plain ol' Charles. Or, if one was feelin fancy, Mr. Noe would do.

"As they sailed, pa asked all about the land, the cave, and especially about Charles Noe. The cave itself was beyond any measurement system Charles could devise, but, by his own admission, he wasn't much of a deviser. If it couldn't be measured with a length of string or less than twenty paces, it was unmeasurable to Charles Noe. The light, he told pa, ran on regular 12 hour cycles, though he, too, could never figure out where it came from. His theory was that the mountain in the center of the cave, clear as it was, went all the way to the surface of the earth and acted as a sort of skylight, but that was never confirmed. Whatever it was, it kept the land clear and bright.

"After sailing for two more days, they reached the shore of the stew lake. Charles Noe escorted my father to a camp site, explainin to him that the whether was so fine, he never felt he needed to build a house. In fact, since he'd been there, he'd slept out every night. Not to say there were no buildings. There was barns around, all of 'em full of hay which never rotted and never caused hay fever. There was also a coupla jails around. 'Don't worry about those, though,' Charles told my dad, 'they're made out of tin. You can walk right out again as soon as you are in.'

"That got them talkin about how long Charles HAD been there. He said he couldn't rightly say. He'd tried keepin track once, but gave up around the 3,000,000 day mark. There'd been some days before that, and a whole lot of days after that. He spent it mostly explorin, whittlin and playin the harmonica. It was a pleasant existence, he told pa, just a little lonely sometimes. He'd had a coupla visitors in his time. The first one was the man who invented work.

"Charles told pa, 'We didn't get on too well. He was a bit of a jerk. I ended up havin to hang him.'

"The second was this fancy pants science fiction writer names Verne who came down there. He'd been a bit too uppity for Charles' taste; actin like he was too good for the land. Charles asked Verne if he'd write about this land when he got back home, and the guy said he would, but when he got back, he ended up writin a bunch of drivel about dinosaurs and whatnot, not exactly the tourist lure Charles was hopin for.

"'But you don't need to worry,' Charles told pa, 'there ain't really dinosaurs down here.'

"Well, pa and Charles Noe ended up becomin good friends. Charles showed him all around that underground land. To the north was the stew lake, which dad was already familiar with. On the southern end of the cave was a second lake, filled with whiskey. On the shores of this lake lived packs of feral bulldogs. Charles walked right up to those bulldogs and wiggled his bottom at em, yellin, 'You want some of Charles Noe, you come get some of Charles Noe!'

"Them bulldogs took off at him like a barrel full of puppies shot from a cannon, growlin and barkin, but he didn't move an inch. They pounced on him at full speed, openin their maws wide to take the largest bite they could. Pa was convinced Mr. Noe was crazy and suicidal then, but he walked away unscathed.

"Dad stood there astonished and asked Charles, 'What kind of magic is that?'

"Noe just laughed, slapped my pa on the back and told him, 'It ain't no magic, Evan. Them bulldogs all have rubber teeth. They can't do no one no harm. You hungry?'

"They spent ten years wanderin that land, eatin handout grown on bushes, fruit straight from the farmers' trees and soft boiled eggs laid by the hens. When they got thirsty, they drank from the little streams of alcohol tricklin down the rocks and when they wanted to relax, they sat beneath the cigarette trees and smoked.

"One day, as they was sittin in their latest campsite, havin a drink and a smoke, talkin about how to populate this land of plenty, pa turned to Charles and said, 'I think I got it! You know who would love this place? Hobos.'

"'Hobos, huh?' confirmed Charles. 'I never thought of that. But how do we get them here?'

"They thought for a bit about that, the alcohol makin it tough. They had to think about things that hobos liked. Finally, they had it, trains! Hobos like trains.

"They was excited about that until Charles said, 'No, no, that ain't gonna work. There ain't no trains that come here.'

"Despondent, pa said, 'Yeah, you're right.' Then he fell asleep for a bit.

"Round about midnight, he woke up, 'We could build tracks!' he yelled to Charles in the night.

"'Ain't gonna work,' Mr. Noe told pa. 'There ain't no axes, saws or picks round here. But I still think it's a good idea. Let's sleep on it.'"

"You need a refill on that coffee?" Dale cut in.

I looked down to find that I did. "That'd be mighty kind of ya," I told him. "And when you get back, I'll tell ya all about the train to the center of the earth."

Pa's Adventure Part 1

"So, wait," began Dale McClawenstein. "You were raised by harbor seals?"

"Thass right," I told him.

He looked skeptical. "But I've met your parents. You've had me over for dinner with them and everything. How could they be around if they fell through the dock like you said?"

"Well, first of all," I corrected, "that woman you've had dinner with ain't my biological mom. My dad got hisself remarried a ways back. That's why I just called her Darlene at dinner."

He shrugged. "Huh, I thought you were calling her darling. Frankly, I thought it was a bit weird that you would call your mom darling, but I figured it wasn't any of my business. But what about your dad? Is he your biological father?"

I had to give him the sad truth. "Yeah, he's my real father, as much as it pains me to say it."

"How can that be? This story isn't making any sense. Are you making this up?" He sounded a bit more accusatory than I woulda liked, so I told him so.

"You sound a bit more accusatory than I would like," I told him. "I know I been know to make up a thing or two now and then, but this is all completely true. And it'd make a lot more sense if you'd just listen instead of tryin to jump the gun on everythin here."

Now that he was properly chastised, I could go on with my story. "You see, what I didn't mention is that my pa is one competitive son of a didgeridoo. He and my ma had been walkin along the boardwalk, as I said, and they happened by a side show. Now, this bein the off season, the sideshow was havin a hard time gettin themselves good talent. They couldn't find them no bearded lady, so they had to go with a mustacioed child. If you ask my dad, he'll swear up and down that it was just a midget and then he'll start screamin 'bout how he got ripped off and then his face will turn all red and that vein in his forhead, you know the one, will start pulsing with a cha-cha beat and he'll look like his face is about to explode. I 'spose I wouldn't ask him."

"Nah, I suppose not," Dale concurred.

"Now, after seein that mustacioed child, my dad was in the mood for seein somethin really amazin. It turn out that the sideshow owner had some talent of his own. He held the world's record for eating the most sand in one sittin. Well, my pa, never bein one to shy away from attemptin to break a world's record, challenged that man to a sand eating contest.

"An hour later, my pa walked out of that tent with a belly full of sand and a heart full of defeat. That man had beaten my old man by a full bag and a half of sand. When my dad gave in, that man just sat in his chair lookin like a beached whale and laughed and hooted and hollered until he was shootin a steady stream of grit out his mouth and ears. There was nothin pa could do but just fold over like a burlap sack and slink away.

"So then came the accident. The pier gave out and my parents went tumblin into the drink. Ma wasn't no strong swimmer, but she managed on her own, though that's a different story for a different time. Pa, on the other hand, had been a swimmin champ in college. All that sand was makin for some tough doggy paddlin, though and he was sinkin like a cargo ship full of blasphemy and hubris.

"I don't know what came over him in that deep, dark ocean, but he stopped fightin and started swimmin down. He never said what he was tryin to accomplish; whether it was a stroke of genius or madness, or whether he was just tryin to hurry the inevitable. Whatever it was, he swam straight down faster than he'd ever managed to swim sideways. Between his breast stroke, ll the sand he ate, and sheer, dumb O'Neil luck, he built up so much speed that when he reached the sea bed, he kept right on goin.

"When he realized what he'd done, he tried to arrest his movement by doin the backstroke, but he was already travellin to fast to stop right away. His main concern at this time was hittin the ball of magma at the earth's core. Either that or tunnelin straight through the Earth to China. Sure, he'd picked up some Chinese during his merchant marine days, and he felt confident that he could get home, but China is just so muggy in the summer, and he was too darn full to put up with too much humidity.

"Grabbin backwards with both hands, pa managed to slow himself to somewhat reasonable speeds just before he dropped into the cave. He fell and fell. He says he didn't know how long he was fallin, coulda been weeks or months. I told him he stole that from Alice in Wonderland and he told me if I wasn't careful, he'd show me Alice on the Back of His Hand. I didn't think it was too witty, but I got the point enough to be quiet and hear out the story.

"My pa tumbled ass over elbows through the cold night under the earth, sleepin occasionally, voiding hisself of sand when he could. After some time, his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he could see land somewhere below him. A lot of people would spend time frettin about what was gonna happen when the land got closer, but not my pa. He just kicked his feet up, relaxed and decided to let come whatever would.

"That was prolly a good decision because, as the land resolved itself, he saw he was over a lake he estimates to be as big as New York. My pa ain't never bee to New York, so I don't know how he would know, but that's what he says. Though I never been able to pin him down on whether he means New York city or state. Well, when he saw he was gonna land in that lake and prolly be all right, my pa stared the greatest high dive known to history. I don't remember the whole thing, but it involved over a hundred flips, just as many twists, a coupla gainers, a nice superman in the middle, the Alamaba loop-de-loop (which can only be accomplished if your dive last more that 15 minues) and a Jim Crackin Alligator (which has only ever been done by two people; Jim Crackin and my dad, and requires three full shaving kits, a bowl of prepared mustard and a live weasel).

"When he come to the bottom of his dive, pa entered that water perfectly straight up and down. He spread his arms and legs out like a fan unfolding, turned towards the surface and broke through with enough momentum to complete a second Jim Crackin Alligator, which wore the weasel right out, I tell ya.

"Finally done with all his fancy acrobatic stuff, pa just leaned back on the surface of the lake and rubbed the viscous liquid outta his eyes."

Dale cut in, "Viscous? Did he fall in oil or something?"

"Nah," I responded, "my dad found himself floating on the surface of a lake of stew."

"You're kidding!"

"Wish I were," I drawled, "wish I were."

Wakin Up McClawenstein

Honestly, I don't know how I get myself in these situations. There I was, just tryin to be neighborly by helpin a guy carry a package, and I end up passed out. Right now, you may be askin yourself what kind of weird, diabolical situation I woke up in. What kind of trap had McClawenstein laid for me and how would I get out of it? Also, what should you have for lunch? That doesn't go along with the other questions very well, but it's still probably something you're asking yourself right about now. The answer is tuna salad. You should have a tuna salad sandwich for lunch. Maybe even a tuna melt. With fries. Or coleslaw. Whatever you do, though, don't have the meatball sandwich. It's Friday, after all, and you're gonna have to go back to work with sauce stains all over your tie or blouse, and then you'll be sleepy, not so much from the meatball sub, but because you're unable to eat a meatball sub without drinkin a vodka tonic. You've never been sure why this is. Your dad used to always say it was because your family had a mixed heritage. But after some research, you discovered that you were English/German, which has nothing to do with meatball subs OR vodka. So you began to expect it was just an excuse for your dad to knock back a little vodka at lunch, which was totally understandable because he had himself a tough job as taster down at the old vodka and meatball factory. You know the one, Grandma Genoavich's Old Time Vodka and Meatball Combo Meals. They ended up getting shut down, you know. It turns out some people, after two meals, forgot which part to microwave, and they'd chip their teeth on the frozen meatballs, then drink the hot vodka, causing all their teeth to explode and send fragments flying all through their houses and heads. But, despite working at the vodka and meatball factory as a taster, your dad would still wander down to Papi Luiginik's Fresh Meatball Subs and Vodka Tonic Place of Relaxation every day for lunch and dinner. Your mom, at her wit's end, tried to lure him home by making meatball subs and vodka tonics every day for lunch and dinner, but when he didn't show, she would announce, "Well, somebody's gotta eat all this!" And your poor, saint of a mother would hint about her vodka allergy and her vegetarianism and so you, in an attempt to please her, would try to eat and drink it all, just hoping she would smile at you and your dad would come home and you would be a happy family again. But it was not to be. Your poor dad keeled over at his tasting desk one day, face full of meatballs like tiny, sauce covered hamsters devouring his face. Your poor mother, heartbroken and lonely, would turn to pool boy Renaldo to ease her in her time of need. But Renaldo would soon be launched into space because of his secret life as an intergalactic spy. There, he would be bombarded by cosmic radiation and return home able to change his shape at will. He then discovered his parents murdered in their sleep and vow revenge, turning to life as a super hero, for which he would need to move to a large city and take on an innocuous job like reporter or photographer because superheroes, if they're not incredibly rich, always have to work for a newspaper. Finally suffering a break with reality, your mother would would vow to rid the world of vodka, meatball subs and space rays. She apparently planned to do this by bombarding the food and drink with the space rays and then devouring them all. When last you saw her, she weighed eight thousand pounds, was covered in liver spots and parts of her flesh crawled around on their own, looking like two puppies fighting in a sack made out of silly putty. Wait. Wait a minute. I think I've confused you with a person I made up just now. Sorry 'bout that. Still, you should have the tuna salad for lunch.

I spose you'll be wantin those other two questions answered now. Well, the nefarious trap I found myself in, or on, I should say, when I woke up was this: a couch. That's right, I woke up on a couch. It was orange and green plaid with some frilly stuff around the edges and a couple of stains that looked like eggs, but they could have been boogers. I sat up and looked around. It seemed like I was in a grandmother's living room. Everything was wood beads and frills. There was a record player, but no tv anywhere. Over in the corner, was a glass fronted hutch filled with tea sets made of delicate bone china, roses painted all over 'em. There were two oak end tables with brass lamps setting on 'em and, right in front of me, a glass bowl filled with spice drops and ribbon candy.

Then I heard his voice behind me. "Well, look who decided to wake up," chimed Dale. "Good morning sleepy-head."

I looked behind me and there he was, wearing a pink, frilly apron and carrying a tray with what smelled like coffee and looked like fresh cookies. I was utterly lost. This was either a very clever trap or everything had gone topsy-turvy on me.

"You look confused," he said as he sat on a bench, "let me clear things up. Coffee?"

"Yes, please," I murmured. Never turn down a free cup of coffee.

"Would you be willing to tell me what you know?" he asked as he poured.

So I did. I told him I knew about his accident as a kid and how that led to a life of crime, culminating in his being the regional meth distributor for Clan Platypus. I told him about his deadly gas and his network of operatives in the 99 cent stores.

He gasped, "Oh my god, the slugs..."

"That's right," I declared, triumphant, "the slugs! They're working for us now."

"Oh no," he melted in his chair, "I'd forgotten all about the slugs. Oh, this is going to haunt me forever now."

"What do you mean?" I was still suspicious.

"Oh, dear. Oh," he began to fidget. "You...I...you got it mostly right, I have to admit. I'm not proud of it, but there was a very dark time in my life and I'm still dealing with the consequences, it seems. But, you see, Pat," he looked me in the eyes, "I'm retired."

"Retired?"

"Yeah," he went on, "I paid my debt to the Clan, and I've retired. They have a very nice 401(k) plan and it's really set me up for life."

"Wait, what?" I was confused.

"That's how it works with the Clan," he explained, "you pay your debt and they funnel half that money into a 401(k) for you. When you've paid everything off, they turn the investment account over to you. They're very efficient that way."

"Really?!" I was taken aback a bit.

"Really," he said flatly.

"How long ago was this?"

He put a claw to his face, "Let's see...about three years now, I guess."

"But, wait, what about the slugs?"

"Oh Pat," he laughed, "slugs are slow. I sent that group out about, oh, I guess it'd be eight years ago now. I had so many things going on at the time, I guess I plum forgot about them. I hope they're not too mad at me."

I was at a loss for words. for probably the first time in my life, I had nothing to say. So I sat, drank my coffee and listened to McClawenstein explain that he was in Super Villain therapy now, in a group he goes to once a week. It helps him deal with his "issues", whatever that means, and he's working on getting "closure" on his evil deeds. I felt like I was on Oprah or something. Any moment, I expected Tom Cruise to come running out and jump on the furniture. Then he started to cry.

"You don't know what it's like, Pat," he sobbed, "living life as a freak. I never fit in! I was never man and never crustacean. Always living halfway between the two. Wanting the comfort of the sea and yet trying to live a normal life on land. You could never understand that kind of pain. I needed something to dull it. I know, meth was a bad idea. A really, really, bad idea. But what else could I do."

"Well, I dunno about that," I said, scratchin the back of my head, "I may be able to relate a little. I mean, I didn't exactly have a normal childhood, either."

"Unless your half man, half sea creature, I don't think your weird childhood is in the same leagues as mine," he seemed like he was gettin a bit angry.

"Well sir," I explained, "I ain't never told no one but Douggy this, so I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself. I was raised by harbor seals."

He stopped crying entirely. "What?"

In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. "Yeah, I was raised by harbor seals. My real parent was down on the boardwalk late at night, out for an evenin stroll, I guess. They didn't see the sign tellin 'em the boardwalk was closed for repairs and I guess they was payin too much attention to the moon or each other or whatnot, and they just musta not seen the giant hole. So they fell in and drowned, but I was rescued by a harbor seal named Ackucucuck. That's seal language, you see. Well, Ackucucuck had just lost her baby to a shark and was a bit broken up about it. She saw my fall as a gift from the great seal in the sky. she took me on her back to seal island where she taught me all about fishing and layin on rocks. Later, I had to learn the seal wrestlin techniques. By then, though, I kinda suspected somethin was wrong. I mean, seals ain't got no thumbs, and I didn't have a protective layer of blubber to keep me warm.

"Then one day, this science boats came along and spotted me. They gibbered somethin at me in their human language, but I could only respond in seal. I guess they decided to tag me and study me with the hope of bringin me slowly back into human society. They'd visit about once a month and bring me stuff like clothes and shoes and whatnot.

"After that, word started to get around about the 'seal boy', as they called me, and more and more boats started comin. The good thing was, it scared off all the sharks, but the bad news was it scared off all the fish, too. The seal elders had a meeting and decided that I had to go with these strange creatures that looked like me so that the hunting would return.

"It was a sad day when I left my adoptive mother Ackucucuck behind. I think about here from time to time, still. Once a year, I go out to the coast and go fishin the old fashioned way, just to keep my skills up in case this whole 'human' thing doesn't work out."

Well, I guess my secret's out now.

Me and Dale Learn New Things

I got this neighbor named Dale. Me and Dale been neighbors neigh on six years now, but we never talked that much. I been busy doin my thing, and I assume he's been busy doin his thing, too. Of course, he could very well have been sittin over at his house, lookin at my place, his chin tremblin like a newborn Chihuahua puppy, just wantin a little human contact, but too shy to say anything to me. Could be carvin up old ladies, too, for all I know. The long and short of it is, Dale and I ain't done much talkin until today when we happened to meet each other at the mailbox. He was strugglin with a giant package that looked like someone was shippin him fresh elephants, and I offered to help.

We was takin a break on the road when we got to talkin. I inquired about the package, tryin not to sound too nosy, and he told me it was somethin for his job. He said he got a package like that two or three times a week. When I asked him why he was tryin to carry it all on his own, he told me he had some helper up until about two weeks ago, but they left to pursue other opportunities. I told him that was too bad. Then we was quiet for awhile.

I was rootin around in my head for somethin to say, but all I could find was ridiculous stuff about robots wrestlin bears, and I didn't think he'd be interested. Meanwhile, he asked me, "Did you get new glasses or somethin, Pat?"

Every time I'd seen Dale, I'd been wearin the same old glasses. I been told by my nephew that they're old fashioned, bein horn-rimmed, tortoise shell rims on a long chain around my neck, and they may be ugly because they're held together by a combination of duct tape, JB Weld and sheer determination, but they sure worked to keep stuff out of my eyes while I was sanding. I didn't really need glasses, you see, but safety glasses is expensive and I picked these up down at the Goodwill for fifty cents. With the money I had left over, I bought myself a cup of coffee and a Tuesday newspaper. This was on a Thursday, I recall, and I wanted to relive the excitement that I felt before finding out that I, once again, did not win the powerball. I guess the moral of the story is, even if they're very distinct, sometimes people just won't notice you're wearin glasses. I do the same thing, sometimes. I went four whole years without noticin my sister was married and had a baby. Honestly, I don't even know what order the two came in. I tried doin the math on it once, but math ain't my strong suit and, by my calculations, the baby was born 3 1/2 months before my sister was born, but it was certainly born into wedlock. Like I says, I ain't too good at math. Either that or my family has a much more interestin history than I give 'em credit for.

I bring all this up with Dale and we start talkin about how easy it is to miss stuff, even on people you see regularly. It's right about this time I start to notice that Dale ain't got no thumbs. So I ask him, "Did you always have no thumbs, there Dale?"

"I used to have thumbs," he said, "when I was younger. There was an accident."

"Is that the same accident that made you all red?" I was tryin to be tactful, but I don't think I was successful at it.

"Yeah," he responded, "can we talk about somethin else?"

I felt bad for the guy. "Sure, Dale, whatever you say. What line of work are you in?"

"Distribution," he said bluntly.

"That's great," I told him, "what is it you distribute?"

"Can we change the subject?" he asked. He was gettin pretty dodgy and I was runnin out of things to talk about.

So I asked him, "If a robot wrestled a bear, who would you put your money on?"

"Pin or tap-out?"

"I dunno, does it make a difference?"

"It sure does," he said, "bears have large bottoms, so they're very hard to pin, but robots are notoriously good at submission moves. So, if it were a tap-out situation, my money would be on the robot, but if it were a pin situation, my money would be on the bear."

"Huh," I humphed, "I never knew those things. Where'd you learn all that?"

"You see a lot of weird stuff in the carnival, man."

All rested now, we carried the package the rest of the way to his house. As he opened the door, I caught a glimpse of a couple of black light posters hangin on his wall. I started to piece things together.

"Dale," I told him, "we been neighbors six years now, and I don't even know your last name."

"McClawenstein," he said, "Dale McClawenstein." Then he held out a hand to shake and I saw that it was actually a lobster claw. Now, one time, I had a rhino in my livin room for a whole month before I noticed, but I ain't never felt as unobservant as this.

As I shook his hand, he asked me, "You know, Pat, now that you mention it, I've never learned your last name, either."

"O'Neil," I told him, "Pat O'Neil."

"Wait..." he looked wary, "You're THE Pat O'Neil?"

"Well, I wouldn't say 'The' Pat O'Neil. Just google it, and you'll see that I'm really just one of many Pat O'Neils worldwide. It's a pretty popular name. Well, good talkin to ya, Dale, I gotta get going."

"Wait," he gently grabbed my arm with his claw, "we both know what's goin on here. I think we need to talk."

"Well, that's mighty neighborly of ya," I told him, wondering how on earth I was gonna get out of this, "but I got some weldin to do at home and some light paintin, plus, I got that friend I gotta call to ask about the bear/robot fight tonight. He's gettin it on pay-per-view, you should come by..."

He didn't release his claw. He did release a whompin butt bomb, though, and I felt very, very sleepy. Then I blacked out.

A trip to the fair

It's been a pretty uneventful coupla weeks down at the ol' Body Shop, Refurbished Car Emporium and Donut Eatery. The squimonk've just been lallygaggin around tryin to get the giant slugs to tell them where McClawenstein is. The slugs themselves have been too preoccupied with their new thumbs to say anything. Plus, they was all addled on the drugs when they last saw the guy. All they've really said so far is that he was in a room somewhere with a guy wearin a shirt. There was also a black-light Pink Floyd poster there and another poster with a unicorn on it. Needless to say, that was less than helpful.

So, for the past coupla weeks, we pretty much just been sittin around. Me, I been watchin what happens when a bunch of slugs get thumbs. Turns out, what happens is a lot of thumb wrestlin. Them boys was novices two weeks ago that I coulda beat with one thumb tied behind my back. In fact, I did that on the first day. Here's a little know Pat O'Neil fact: I've got incredibly stretchy and flexible thumbs. The local newspaper once likened my thumbs to a Stretch Armstrong doll, only, and I'm quoting them here, "vomitously disturbing."

Back when I was a boy, there were a couple times having a thumb that could stretch and bend like Silly Putty came in handy. I remember going to the junior rodeo when I was eight. It was a big opportunity for us 4-H kids to get together, talk about animal husbandry, see the latest in denim overall fashions, and sell the young animals we'd been raising with love and care for a year to a nice, loving slaughterhouse. We'd set aside enough to reinvest our money in next years big-eyed, delicious lamb, and then we'd blow the rest on giant pickles, funnel cakes and tilt-a-whirl rides. Most rodeos would end for us when they threw us out after we refused to mop up our sweet, briny vomit. But this rodeo was a little different.

I'd been feeding my sheep her final bottle that morning and she mistook my thumb for the nipple, sucking it to a length of about two feet before wising up to the fact that there was no milk forthcoming. My parents were pretty poor at the time, so we didn't have a car. All we had was a drawing of a car. My pa used to sit behind that drawing for hours and make "vroom-vroom" noises. He drank a lot, my dad. He once got a DUI in that car, but that's a different story for a different time. Since we only had a drawing of a car, I had to hitch a ride to the fair grounds if I was gonna sell my sheep.

I stood on the side of that road for two hours with my distended thumb tryin to get a ride. Every time a car would drive by, I would flail my thumb wildly, surely lookin like an epileptic spaghetti maker. Not shockingly, no one stopped. Well, that is, until that one guy stopped. He pulled up in a dusty blue International pickup; the old kind with the bubbled hood that looks like the engine sneezed. He leaned out his window, cheek bulging with tobacco, spit casually on the ground and asked me, "Where you headed, son?"

"I'm headed for the fairgrounds, sir, to sell my sheep," I told him in my child-like way.

"Well, I'm headed there too," he told me, "so you might as well hop on in. You can put your sheep in the back."

After I'd settled in, he took off down the road and we got to chattin. "What's yer name, son?"

"Patrick," I said, "Patrick O'Neil, sir."

"Well Pat," he drawled, "my name's Will, Will Frankfurt. But you can call me Sam."

To this day, that still doesn't make any sense to me, but I was young, so I told him, "Yessir."

During the half hour ride to the fairgrounds, we spoke about all sortsa stuff. He told me he used to be a farmer around here, but he left that for a life of excitement and adventure. He was on his way to see his last rodeo before going on the biggest adventure of them all; he was goin to the moon. He was plannin on launchin his rocket, which he'd stored under the fairground, just as soon as us 4-H kids were done with our fair.

"I imagine it could get mighty lonely in space, mister," I theorized.

He nodded slowly, "Well, that may be true, Pat, that may be true. You wanna come with me?"

"I would," I explained, "but I got a big math test next week, and if I skip it, my mom's gonna kill me."

"That's too bad, you may have learned somethin more than math up there. Maybe when you get older."

We were both satisfied with this.

When we got to the fairgrounds, Sam wandered off and I took my sheep to get it registered for the auction. I got up to the counter where a bored old lady with her glasses on a pearl string told me, "Sheep auction's at 2. You're number's 37 and OH MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR THUMBS!?!"

I tried to play it off with a little humor, floppin 'em over and sayin, "Ayyyyyyy" in what I now realize was a grotesque parody of a beloved hero; Arthur Fonzerelli, the Fonz. I think she threw up a little in her mouth, either that or she picked that moment to work on her bullfrog impression. Regardless, I was hustled away quickly and given unlimited ride and game tickets so I would not come back to the auction tent, "until absolutely necessary."

There's nothing like bein eight years old at a fair with a pocket full of tickets. The midway was a garish, flashing paradise smelling like fried food and corn farmers. Wandering around, I ran into Douggy and we made big plans for my unlimited tickets. We rode a couple rides, had ourselves a good old fashioned corn-dog-fried-in-funnel-cake-batter eating contest, then an old fashioned who-can-throw-up-the-farthest contest and finally, when the spinning, flashing, powdered sugar coated day was over, we found ourselves at the top of the Ferris wheel just as a kid fell out of his seat.

Everyone was running around panicked. There were screams from the ground, from the Ferris wheel and especially from the kid. He was hanging on by one hand and that was slipping fast.

I turned to Douggy. "Pull my thumbs," I told him.

"This is no time for fart jokes," he explained with a wisdom most eight year olds don't show.

"Just do it!" And he did. He pulled and pulled until my thumbs were long enough to reach the boy. I flung my rubbery digits down to him. "Grab on!" I yelled. He didn't want to at first. It's not easy to pull away in revulsion when you're hanging onto a Ferris wheel by one hand, but he managed. The act, though, caused his had to slip off entirely. In his wild flailing, he did catch my thumb, which extended like taffy on a hot day, lowering him safely to the ground.

Everyone gathered around and cheered as the Ferris wheel was brought around to let everyone off. They all patted me on the back and offered to buy me corn dogs, an offer I had to refuse. The rest of the day was magical. I was a minor celebrity. People would walk by and give me a thumbs up. My sheep sold for the highest price ever recorded at the 4-H. Later, I found out Sam had bought it. I s'pose it gets cold in space, too, so he may need it for the wool.

I left the fair that day feelin 10 feet tall. I didn't even realize until I was half way home that my thumbs had gotten entangled in the Ferris wheel axle. They got it all fixed and, after a week, my thumbs were back to their normal length.

I guess the long and short of the story is that I dominated those slugs at thumb wrestling. They're gettin better, though. I hope the squimonk find McClawenstein soon so that we can distract the slugs and I can remain champion.

Slug Thumbs

There's really only one person I would turn to when a giant slug asked me to give it and its brood thumbs. I know, your first response is going to be Crazy Charley down at Crazy Charley's Thumb House and Various Prosthetic Limbs Discount Emporium, but what you have forgotten, my friend, is that Crazy Charlie was actually crazy and was trying to build a new Tower of Babel out of thumbs and plastic legs in back of the emporium. You must have seen it on the news. Anyway, I followed that story pretty closely and he ended up havin to go to court for buildin without a permit. He sunk all his money into that court case and went bankrupt. He moved away after that. I heard a couple stories about where he might be; either he's in a mental institution in Tuskegee or he's a famous avaunt guard artist in New York. No matter which of those is true, I can't really see me gettin a way to get the keys to the now run down and creepy CCTHVPLDE building so I can get in there and get myself some thumbs. So I definitely thought about gettin them thumbs from Charlie, but it just wasn't gonna work, so I went for the next best thing, I pulled out the old cellular phone and called up Charles Lindbergh.

The phone rang three times and then he answered in his usual way, "This is most certainly NOT Charles Lindbergh. Who's calling please?" He liked to keep his identity secret, you see.

"Mr...uh...Smith?" I thought I'd play along. "This here's Pat O'Neil and I got a request for you."

"Mr. Smith?!" He sounded scared. "Who's this Mr. Smith? I don't know no Mr. Smith!"

I guess I played along too well. "You're Mr. Smith, Mr. Definitely-Not-Charles-Lindbergh."

"Wait, back up a second. Who are you calling Mr. Smith and who are you calling Mr. Definitely-Not-Charles-Lindbergh? Is this a conference call? Did you put me on a conference call without telling me? Wrong number! Prank Caller! Prank Caller!" And then he hung up.

I turned to Alistair. "What was that?"

"Yeah," he said slowly, "that happens all the time. Just call him back. When he says 'who's calling', just answer the question."

So I did as instructed. He picked up again after three rings. Who consistently picks up after three rings, I ask you. I was always under the impression that two rings was the universally correct number of rings to allow before pickin up the phone. By the time you're on the third ring, you're pretty sure they ain't gonna pick up. Either that, or they been cuttin up some onions in the kitchen and your call made them slip and nick their thumb, not too bad, though. So they been spendin the first two rings runnin around yellin, "I'm comin, I'm comin, hold your horses!" while they wash their hand off and try to root though the junk drawer for a band aid. Then they grab the phone with one hand while they're openin the band-aid with their other hand and their teeth. That's why, when someone answers on the third ring, they almost always sound out of breath and like they have somethin in their mouth. But Lindbergh sounded like he'd just been sittin there listenin to the phone ring three times before pickin it up. Talk about a whacko.

But answer he did, "This is most certainly NOT Charles Lindbergh. Who's calling please?"

I was ready this time. "Pat O'Neil," I stated perfunctorily.

"Ahhh, Pat. It seems like ages since I've heard from you. How long has it been?"

"About 4 seconds, sir."

"Is that all? It seems longer than that."

"Yeah," I wasn't as prepared for this as I would have liked to be, "time sure flies."

"It sure does, son," he seemed ebullient, "it sure does."

"Yep," I concurred.

"Yes," he concurred.

Then there was an uncomfortable silence. I didn't know if I should continue the chit chat or if I should just jump right in to what I was asking him for. Luckily, he solved it for me.

"What can I do you for, there, Pat?" he asked.

"Well, sir," I stammered, "I'm standing here with some giant slugs who can lead us to McClawenstein."

"That's great news!" he belted out.

"Yes, it sure is," I agreed. "But they're requesting we do something for them first."

"Oh yeah?" he asked. "And what would that be."

"Well, you see sir, they want thumbs."

"Thumbs, huh?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yes, sir," I explained, "they would like someone to give them thumbs."

"Well, that's easy," he explained, "just take them down to Crazy Charley's."

"Yeah, I thought of that, but they're out of business."

"Right!" he bellowed, "The Babel thing, if I'm not mistaken."

"That's correct, sir," I affirmed.

"That's a shame. I loved that place. What was that slogan they had? It was very clever..."

I remembered it well, "You can get an arm and a leg without spending an arm and a leg."

"That's it!" he confirmed. "Well, I guess I could rig something up for them. Do they want hands, too? Arms? Laser cannons?"

I covered the phone with my hand and addressed the slugs. "Would you like hands or arms to go with those thumbs?"

"No, thank you," they responded, "just the thumbs will be fine."

I returned to the phone, "No hands or arms, sir, just the thumbs."

"What about the laser cannons? Did you ask them that?"

I sighed and rolled my eyes a bit, "Hold on." Then I covered the phone again. "He wants me to ask if you want laser cannons."

"No..." the slug trailed off. "What kind of laser cannon?"

I asked this to Charles. He told me, "Pointer."

"Pointer?"

"Well, yeah, you don't think I'd give a total stranger my death ray laser cannon, do you? We can start them off with the pointer laser and then, as they show more responsibility, we can work them up."

When I made this offer to the slugs, they consulted for a bit. "No, thank you," they finally answered, "just the thumbs will be sufficient."

I relayed this to Charles. He agreed to see what he could do. We had to clear out of the 99 Cent store because they were closin. Sheriff Tom got the law to back off a bit by tellin them I was drunk and he'd given me a stern talkin to and I'd promised never to visit the 99 Cent store again, which was just fine by me. He made sure all the cops cleared out before Douggy and I loaded them slugs up on the back of the tow truck and took them back to the shop. They hung out for a few days in the body shop, during which time we found out their slime made a fantastic car polish. We started bottlin it and got ourselves a couple sales, which all went into a find for the slugs. We didn't know what the fund would be for, but we figured we should have some money set aside, you know, just in case.

About a week later, a box arrived at the shop. Jared was the first to see it, so he brought it in and opened it up, thinking it was cleaning supplies or something. Instead, there were several belts stitched together into a harness. On the back of the harness was a battery pack and a solar panel and on the sides were two perfectly formed little robotic thumbs. These thumbs were connected to baseball caps that shot out wires like a an explosion at Radio Shack. I took it into the body shop to show the slugs and they got very excited about it. Douggy and I spent the next 10 minutes strapping the thumb harnesses on and adjusting everything. When we were done, we stood back and looked at our handiwork. There stood 5 slugs wrapped around with leather belts, giant solar panels on their backs and wired baseball caps on their heads. On their sides, their robotic thumbs were wigglin away like worms on a hook while they presumably adjusted to the brainwaves of their wearers. Finally, they stopped flopping and whirling around. And I swear, the slugs smiled. I don't know how I recognized it as such, but it was definitely a smile.

"So," I asked, "what do you think." And, of course, they gave me a thumbs up.

Finally, a conclusion to the slug story!

Well after me and Douggy got ourselves some honest pants from the dollar store across the street and a little coffee to refill our bladders, you know, just in case we needed to escape again, we was ready to settle down and hear the rest of this slug's story. I'm sure as heck glad we had that coffee, because these slugs, in addition to bein bags full of slime, also turned out to be bags of hot air. By the time it was over, I was ready to pee myself again if that's what it took to get him to stop talkin. I figure you may be tired of hearin them drone on about how hard their life livin on a giant lobster-man who sold meth for a bunch of ninjas was, so I thought I'd give you the short version. If you wanna hear the long version, I could prolly get them to record it or somethin and send it to ya, if you got about a hundred straight hours to dedicate to it, that is. The long and the short of it goes something like this: McClawenstein was broke and desperate so he had to expand his customer base. Me, I just turned to sellin shirts, and that worked out decently. This was the days before the internet did anything useful for anyone who did not go to MIT or Princeton or one of them other fancy schmancy schools that's buildin some sorta technical whirlygig that'll destroy all of mankind some day, so he didn't even think of makin shirts. Instead, he figured that, to get more people hooked on his stuff, he'd start mixin meth into the carnival food. He started by dustin the funnel cakes with it, since that didn't require no work. Then, he mixed it in with the cotton candy. After that, he performed his coup de grace and discovered a way to mix the meth in with the corn dog batter without it gettin all used up in the fryer. Course, no one knew they was eatin meth, all they knew is that carnival was the most excitin carnival they'd ever attended and they just had to go back.

McClawenstein started pullin in the money again. This time, he didn't blow it all on fancy livin. He blew it all on meth. He was apparently doin up to a pound of the stuff a day. The slugs say he was gettin more and more paranoid. Finally, one day, he snapped. He blamed the slugs for his condition and said they wasn't bein supportive of his needs. They'd just had enough and so they left. He was pretty broken up about losin all his friends in the world and tried to get them back. He checked himself into a recovery program and, after six months, walked out clean. But Clan Platypus wasn't about to let him go. They demanded their money and threatened him with death if he didn't obey. The pressure drove him back on the meth and began eating away at his brain. He started to blame all his problems on the slugs leaving, so he decided to punish them. Seein as how they was slugs, all this rigamorale had given them time to get almost to the door of his tent. They'd been discussin the issue for quite some time and had decided that they'd slam it on the way out. Sure, it may take them a couple months work, but their point would be made.

Before they reached the door, though, McClawenstein got his revenge. He tried to murder them by throwin salt on them, but, in his drug addled state, he forgot that he'd filled all his salt shakers with meth. I done somethin similar once when I put sugar in the salt shaker on accident. I wasn't sure how to handle it at first, but, before I could switch it, I found I sorta liked the taste of sweetened mashed potatoes. It took me about two months before I used up the whole shaker and, by then, it became so ingrained in me that salt was sweet that I started saltin my pancakes. Now, I'm all mixed up and I never know what I'm gonna get when I turn that shaker upside down. Last time, and I got no idea why this happened, it was flour. I guess, now that I've heard this story, I should be glad it wasn't meth. I ain't sure how meth would get in there, but funny things have been known to happen.

Blinded by drugs and murderous rage, McClawenstein dumped the whole shark onto the slugs. They started bubblin and boilin like your feet on the asphalt on a hot June day. They was smokin like that, too, but I'll bet they didn't smell nothin like bacon. McClawenstein laughed and laughed as they melted and spread out. But, unexpectedly, the puddles of goo they'd become just kept spreading...and spreading...and spreading. Soon, his tent had a giant slime carpet. This wasn't nothin like that big ol' slime carpet in the new Ikea catalog, either. First, it sure as heck wasn't Swedish. Second, it wasn't wrapped in a smooth, comforting, foot massaging space age material. And finally, it was slowly congealing into an army of giant slugs that were turning on their maker. As they moved, McClawenstein saw a mouth full of razor teeth concealed under their pseudopods. I just looked that word up, by the way. The meth had performed some sort of alchemy, turning the rug into an army druggy slugs.

Well, I don't know about you, but I panic when faced with an army of giant carnivorous slugs. That's the one thing me and McClawenstein have in common. Well, that and a traumatic childhood experience at the aquarium. I don't wanna talk about it right now, though. Let's just say me and that turtle still got issues to settle and his time will come soon enough. One of the things me and McClawenstein do not have in common is that I was never given the pager number for a member of Clan Platypus. If I had, it would make this whole find-the-clan-and-stop-them thing I been goin through a whole heck of a lot easier, I tell ya. McClawenstein used that pager number to call himself a ninja to come in and rescue him from the slugs.

When we got to this point, there was this whole big long description of helicopters and ninja fights and something to do with chains and I think there was somethin in there about a guy riding a dinosaur and then Jennifer Love Hewitt showed up and played poker or somethin like that. I gotta be honest, I sorta nodded of there, and I may have dreamed some of that up. The only things I'm certain about are the thing with Jennifer Love Hewitt and that the slugs got themselves wrangled, shipped off to Japan and trained. The Clan worked to find out the right amount of meth to give them in order to keep them docile but still aggressive enough to eat people. It took them many months, and a couple of arms, to get the formula just right. In the end, they became just stable enough for McClawenstein to use as laborers.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us to the raid. Apparently, when we busted in to the 99 store and started firin off donuts, the knockout gas countered the meth in the slugs' systems and gave them their thought back. They didn't want revenge on McClawenstein or anything, but they did tell us they'd help us stop this plague of meth in exchange for one thing.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Thumbs."

I didn't quite know what to make of that. "Thumbs?"

"Yeah," the big slug told me calmly, "opposable thumbs."

I couldn't help but ask, "Why do you want opposable thumbs?"

"We've been discussing it," he replied, "and we've decided what set humans apart from slugs are an ability to reason and opposable thumbs. We would like to be more human, and so we need thumbs."

"You...I....ummm..." I turned to Alistair, who just raised his eyebrows. "I guess I'll see what I can do...."