(Episode 2, part 5)
Hello and welcome back to the story, folks! If you’ve just joined us for the first time, then get on down and read the earlier parts so you know what the heck is going on! For those who have been following the story so far, we left off with nasty Nick just finished trussing up sweet Janee with copper wiring and threatening to plug her into the electrical outlet. Let’s see what develops from this potentially shocking situation and pick up again at that point...
Stepping back to survey his handiwork, he rubbed his hands together in glee and said, “Now my sweet, you’ll see what happens when you refuse my reasonable offers!”
He picked up the two trailing ends of wire once more and was just about to plug them into the wall socket when he stopped, said, “Whoops!” put the wires back down, straightened up and said to himself, “No, no no!” giving a little chuckle, “Ha, ha, ha, mustn’t be too hasty... could be problems that way...” and then looked around the front hall in search of something. Spying the closet door on the opposite wall from where Janee was comfortable propped, he stepped over, opened it up and was immediately assailed by a powerful, rather foul odor.
“Ahhh...” nasty Nick breathed in deeply, “How I love your perfume, sweet Janee!” thus demonstrating how over all bad he really was. In the closet were three hangers, one which was empty, one holding a very large fur coat that appeared to made from a bear skin (“Hmmm,” mused Nick, “That reminds me of that lovely afternoon last summer when I put Janee in the cage with that delightfully angry black bear... I wonder whatever happened to it...”), and the third held, “Ah, just the thing!” Nick exclaimed as he pulled out the long rubberized, stained and crusty mackintosh, with a label reading Ernie’s Services sewn just below the left front lapel. He put this on over his own coat, then on the shelf above the hanger pole, next to a pretty pink bonnet, he saw a well battered, crust spattered, pink hard hat, which he reached up and took, saying to himself, “This looks promising, though it’s not really my color,” and he plonked it down on top of his black, oily-haired head.
There was a pair of large rubber boots on the floor which were a grungy match to the coat and hard hat, so he took those out as well. Carefully unzipping and taking off his own black boots, Nick pulled on the big rubber ones, stood straight, shrugged into the coat a bit, looked down at the boots, felt the hat on his head and declared, “Yes, this is just the fashionable thing for our little afternoon activity.” Looking across the hall to Janee, he smiled affectionately in anticipation. Reaching to close the closet door he saw, hanging from a hook on the back of the door, a pair of large, black rubber gloves that matched the coat and boots in design, material and crusty condition.
“Perfect! Just the thing I was looking for!” Nick cried in glee. He took them off the hook, tucked them under his arm, shut the door and strode back over to Janee. He reached down and picked up the plunger, wondering if he could perhaps put it to some kind of creative use within his plans for Janee, but just then the doorbell once again started ringing.
“No!” Nick shouted.
Ding dong...
“Not again!” Nick denied.
Ding dong...
“No fair!” Nick pouted.
Ding dong...
“Aw nuts,” Nick finally shelled out, and stomped over to the door, collected his composure, cleared his throat, pulled open the door and sweetly asked, “Yes, may I help y...?” and once again stopped in mid-sentence as he found himself facing a policeman, a fireman, an army commando and a nurse.
“Umm... uhh, hello, officer!” Nick stammered out, “What can I do for you all?” weakly smiling and hoping that perhaps they were selling tickets to the local charity balls.
“Trick or Treat!” came the same chorus as last time.
“What?” responded Nick, once more taken by surprise.
“Trick or Treat!” as the prerequisite bags were held up expectantly.
“Oh.. oh yes, heh-heh,” Nick recovered. He transferred the plunger to his left hand, still holding the rubber gloves under that arm, put his hand into his coat pocket, screwed his face up in surprise and pulled out a pair of large, crust covered goggles. He looked down at the pocket and recalled that he was wearing the rubberized overcoat, stuck the goggles back into the pocket with a thoughtful nod, reached into his own coat pocket and pulled out the box of foil packets. He held this out to the children and admonished, “Take only one apiece, Uncle Nick wants to have some left over for himself,” leering suggestively.
The four costumed characters each obediently reached into the box and pulled out a single packet (“What are these?” the nurse whispered to the fireman, who whispered in return, “I know what they are. My brother gets these. They are some kind of super balloon and they hold a LOT of water!”), and after each had had their turn they all chorused “Thank you, Mister!”
The policeman spoke up to Nick, “Hey mister, that’s a funny costume, but who are you supposed to be ... and what stinks?” scrunching up his nose.
Nick replaced the almost depleted box back into his coat pocket, took the plunger out from under his arm, raised it above his head in a regal pose and, with intense fervor, declared, “I am the Terror of the Town, the Purgative of Pleasantries, the Villain of Villains, the Embodiment of Evil and Terror, I am Nasty Nick Nak and I will ram this magic wand up your little behinds if you don’t scram pronto!” and he glared menacingly down at the four children. They stood still for a pleasurable second, then all broke into raucous laughter, “Ha ha ha!”
“You’re funny!”
“That’s silly!”
“Crazy!”
“Ha ha, thanks Mister!” and they turned and went on their way, as Nick lowered his arm and looked rather deflated.
“Kids nowadays,” he lamented, “No respect...” and he closed the door.
(end part 5)
Poor Nick... he gets no respect. Perhaps that’s why he acts out his little fantasies with Janee. But poor Janee, all trussed up and nowhere to go. Will Nick finally get to plug her in? Will the smell of his newly acquired outfit knock her out? (I doubt it... remember, it’s her outfit to begin with.) Has Nick found a new villainous device in the plunger? Will a real hero every come to the door? If Nick finally does plug her in, will Janee be able to pay the next electric bill?
Find out tomorrow when we present part 6 in the conclusion of this Electrifying Tale from the small town with big drama, Withering Flats.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-15-09
Showing posts with label tongue-in-cheek. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tongue-in-cheek. Show all posts
Friday, May 15, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Withering Flats, Episode Two, part 4
(Episode Two, part 4)
Hello again from the ever interesting world of Withering Flats! We are continuing our installments of Episode Two and tonight we pick up right when nasty Nick Nak had sweet Janee Trubloo tied up in copper wires and was about to plug her into the electrical socket when the doorbell rang. Nik answered onoy to find himself confronted by a host of Super Heroes. Let’s find out what happened next...
He swung the door open, politely saying, “What can I do for ...” then suddenly was struck dumb in seeing right there in front of him, Superman, Batman, Iron Man, the Wolverine, Harry Potter and a Cheerleader!
“Gulp,” Nick nervously swallowed and, in his most innocent voice, asked, “Well, hello there. Whatever brings you all to ...um, visit this evening?” hoping that it was some kind of mistaken address situation.
“Trick or Treat!” they chorused, as they all raised their arms up to show the bags that they carried.
‘Huh? What’s that again?” responded Nick, in some trepidatious confusion.
“Trick or Treat!” and they all offered up their bags a bit more insistently.
Nick stood in motionless befuddlement a moment longer as the gears of his thought processes disengaged, remeshed in a realigned differential configuration, ground, chuttered and clattered a bit and finally produced enough mechanically organic electrical energy up the convoluted wiring of his evil mind, to finally light the ultra-violet bulb in his idea attic, shedding dark illumination on the realization that it was Halloween and these were kids out begging for loot. (“My kind of deal,” his subconscious entity acknowledged, and then followed with, “No wonder they all look so much shorter than I imagined them to be.”)
“Oh,” his conscious mind finally vocalized, then, “Oh! Okay, you sneaky little brats, I know your game,” once more reverting to character, rocking on his heels and putting his hands in his jacket pockets, “Well, you’re out of luck here, because I don’t...” then he stopped as his hands fondled the box in his pocket. His thoughts went through their manipulations again, his brows knit down then purled back up again, and he said, “Wait a minute ... here,” pulling the box out, “there’s one for each of you,” and as he held the box in one hand he pulled out individually wrapped foil packets from it with the other and dropped one in each proffered bag.
“There you go, kids, now beat it, I’m a busy man!” and waved them away “Thanks, mister!” they chorused one last time, as some of them looked into their bags, trying to discern exactly what it was that he had given them.
Then Superman spoke up and added, “That’s a great old fashioned costume you’re wearing,” referring to Nick’s slicked back jet black hair and pencil thin handlebar moustache, his long black coat, black string tie against the severely starched white shirt (worn to please his mother), the black trousers falling down around his high healed shiny black boots. “But what is that supposed to be,” pointing between Nick’s legs at the protruding toilet plunger still tightly held there.
“Um,” Nick looked down into the red rubber circle of the plunger’s business end as it seemed to be staring back up at him.
“Um...” he repeated, looking back up at the gathered group, once again in confused stasis. (Mental gears grind, etc.)
“Oh!” he announced, in sudden inspiration, focusing on the Harry Potter costumed child. He stuffed the half empty box back into his coat pocket, grabbed the plunger and brandished it above his head in a menacing way.
“This is my Magic Wand and I’ll use it to turn you all into sewer rats if you don’t scram!” he threatened menacingly.
The gathered children looked at him, then all broke into laughter exclaiming, “Ha-ha-ha!”
“You’re too funny, mister!”
“Cool!”
“That’s a good one!”
“Ha! Thanks again!” and they scurried off to the next house as quickly as their costumed legs would carry them.
Nick slammed the door in self-congratulatory triumph at having overcome this challenging setback, turned and strode back to where Janee was napping peacefully against the wall. He plucked out the rag with his left hand, the right hand still holding the once again forgotten plunger, and stuffed it in his back pocket. Janee stirred a bit, smacked her lips twice, smiled in her continued repose and began snoring in vibrant, open-mouthed earnest.
“I’ll make you sign the deed over,” Nick confidently announced to her, waving the plunger for emphasis, “and tell me that you’ll marry me!” he threw in for good measure, not really caring if she married him or not (or if she even heard him), but enamored with the idea of making her tell him, against her will, that she would. He put down the plunger next to Janee, went and grabbed the spool of copper wire that he had stashed behind the door, then continued trussing the solidly sleeping form of her upper body until she was quite well cocooned.
Stepping back to survey his handiwork, he rubbed his hands together in glee and said, “Now my sweet, you’ll see what happens when you refuse my reasonable offers!”
(end of part 4)
Well! Will Nick make good on his threat to plug Janee in? Will she wake up before he does? Will she wake up when he does? Is there some way to stop this evil scheme? Do we have to wait until tomorrow?
Yes, that’s all for tonight, and we will indeed pick up again tomorrow as the further adventures of those wonderful folks from Withering Flats return!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-13-09
Hello again from the ever interesting world of Withering Flats! We are continuing our installments of Episode Two and tonight we pick up right when nasty Nick Nak had sweet Janee Trubloo tied up in copper wires and was about to plug her into the electrical socket when the doorbell rang. Nik answered onoy to find himself confronted by a host of Super Heroes. Let’s find out what happened next...
He swung the door open, politely saying, “What can I do for ...” then suddenly was struck dumb in seeing right there in front of him, Superman, Batman, Iron Man, the Wolverine, Harry Potter and a Cheerleader!
“Gulp,” Nick nervously swallowed and, in his most innocent voice, asked, “Well, hello there. Whatever brings you all to ...um, visit this evening?” hoping that it was some kind of mistaken address situation.
“Trick or Treat!” they chorused, as they all raised their arms up to show the bags that they carried.
‘Huh? What’s that again?” responded Nick, in some trepidatious confusion.
“Trick or Treat!” and they all offered up their bags a bit more insistently.
Nick stood in motionless befuddlement a moment longer as the gears of his thought processes disengaged, remeshed in a realigned differential configuration, ground, chuttered and clattered a bit and finally produced enough mechanically organic electrical energy up the convoluted wiring of his evil mind, to finally light the ultra-violet bulb in his idea attic, shedding dark illumination on the realization that it was Halloween and these were kids out begging for loot. (“My kind of deal,” his subconscious entity acknowledged, and then followed with, “No wonder they all look so much shorter than I imagined them to be.”)
“Oh,” his conscious mind finally vocalized, then, “Oh! Okay, you sneaky little brats, I know your game,” once more reverting to character, rocking on his heels and putting his hands in his jacket pockets, “Well, you’re out of luck here, because I don’t...” then he stopped as his hands fondled the box in his pocket. His thoughts went through their manipulations again, his brows knit down then purled back up again, and he said, “Wait a minute ... here,” pulling the box out, “there’s one for each of you,” and as he held the box in one hand he pulled out individually wrapped foil packets from it with the other and dropped one in each proffered bag.
“There you go, kids, now beat it, I’m a busy man!” and waved them away “Thanks, mister!” they chorused one last time, as some of them looked into their bags, trying to discern exactly what it was that he had given them.
Then Superman spoke up and added, “That’s a great old fashioned costume you’re wearing,” referring to Nick’s slicked back jet black hair and pencil thin handlebar moustache, his long black coat, black string tie against the severely starched white shirt (worn to please his mother), the black trousers falling down around his high healed shiny black boots. “But what is that supposed to be,” pointing between Nick’s legs at the protruding toilet plunger still tightly held there.
“Um,” Nick looked down into the red rubber circle of the plunger’s business end as it seemed to be staring back up at him.
“Um...” he repeated, looking back up at the gathered group, once again in confused stasis. (Mental gears grind, etc.)
“Oh!” he announced, in sudden inspiration, focusing on the Harry Potter costumed child. He stuffed the half empty box back into his coat pocket, grabbed the plunger and brandished it above his head in a menacing way.
“This is my Magic Wand and I’ll use it to turn you all into sewer rats if you don’t scram!” he threatened menacingly.
The gathered children looked at him, then all broke into laughter exclaiming, “Ha-ha-ha!”
“You’re too funny, mister!”
“Cool!”
“That’s a good one!”
“Ha! Thanks again!” and they scurried off to the next house as quickly as their costumed legs would carry them.
Nick slammed the door in self-congratulatory triumph at having overcome this challenging setback, turned and strode back to where Janee was napping peacefully against the wall. He plucked out the rag with his left hand, the right hand still holding the once again forgotten plunger, and stuffed it in his back pocket. Janee stirred a bit, smacked her lips twice, smiled in her continued repose and began snoring in vibrant, open-mouthed earnest.
“I’ll make you sign the deed over,” Nick confidently announced to her, waving the plunger for emphasis, “and tell me that you’ll marry me!” he threw in for good measure, not really caring if she married him or not (or if she even heard him), but enamored with the idea of making her tell him, against her will, that she would. He put down the plunger next to Janee, went and grabbed the spool of copper wire that he had stashed behind the door, then continued trussing the solidly sleeping form of her upper body until she was quite well cocooned.
Stepping back to survey his handiwork, he rubbed his hands together in glee and said, “Now my sweet, you’ll see what happens when you refuse my reasonable offers!”
(end of part 4)
Well! Will Nick make good on his threat to plug Janee in? Will she wake up before he does? Will she wake up when he does? Is there some way to stop this evil scheme? Do we have to wait until tomorrow?
Yes, that’s all for tonight, and we will indeed pick up again tomorrow as the further adventures of those wonderful folks from Withering Flats return!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-13-09
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Withering Flats, Episode Two, part 3
(Episode Two, part 3)
Hello again, folks! Well, we’re back at Withering Flats ready to find out what nasty Nick wants with sweet Janee’s Father’s Tulip Ranch. He seemed very intent on finding that deed and Janee was rather taken aback by it. Let’s pick up the action right there and see where it flies us...
“Not the Tulip Ranch!” she cried out, then queried, “Why ever would you want that worthless place?”
Nick gave her a puzzled look, asked, “Worthless?”
“Of course,” Janee replied. “The tulips don’t grow any more since the accident that killed poor Daddy. Didn’t you know that?”
Nick evidently did not know that, for he stood there and repeated, “Worthless?” looking at the now less enticing page of dirty paper in his hand.
“It was in all the papers around here,” Janee rambled on, “about how poor old Daddy was digging a well to get fresh water for the tulips because he was tired of having to truck it in, you know, with the lake being so far away and all, so he just thought he’d dig himself a well and fix that old tulip ranch up right nice,” she kept on as Nick was shaking his head in disbelief, frowning at the deed in his hand, “...so there he was just digging away and he had himself a hole about twenty feet deep when alluva sudden, there was this rumbling and shaking and I was just over by the shed and I could hear it and it scared the dog right bad ‘cause I saw him run and hide under the porch, which I didn’t think was a good idea seein’ as how that’s where the skunks had dug themselves a burrow...” Janee had a head of steam like a run-away semi- trailer truck down a mountain road, “...he was runnin’ hard and we ain’t seen head nor tail of that dog since, but we’re not feelin’ too bad about that on account of the smell, y’know, so anyway that’s when I heard this loud whooshing sound and looked to see this big, smelly tower of wet black stuff just gushing out of Daddy’s well stinkin’ up the yard and no sign of Daddy and I was wonderin’ where he might have got to and we never did find him, of course, which I thought was strange seein’ as that was the same time that the dog had run off smellin’ pretty bad himself, but I didn’t think of that until later on the next Tuesday, or maybe it was Wednesday, but anyway...”
Nick pursed his lips, stroked his chin, knitted his brows then suddenly looked at Janee again as she said, “...so even though it’s all spoiled and oily and worthless now that the tulips won’t grow, I won’t sell the ranch ‘cause of the memories of Daddy and how he used to love the place so much, at least when he wasn’t cussin’ at it and complainin’ about all the stinkin’ manure and the stinkin’ flowers and how they was drivin’ him to a early grave and all...”
“Did you say you won’t sell the ranch even though it’s worthless?” Nick butted in, knowing he’d never be able to speak otherwise.
“What’s that?” Janee came out of her monologue.
“You said you won’t sell me the ranch even though it’s worthless?” Nick asked, hopefully.
“Well, after what Daddy went through and it being the only thing of his I got and the fact that we never did find him, no I won’t sell it because it’s like havin’ Daddy still around when I go there, but of course the smell is different, not that Daddy smelled much better y’know, but at least I was used to it..” she continued until, smiling in renewed glee, Nick casually stuffed the rag back into Janee’s jabbering mouth.
“Mmm mnnng nmmm nnn...” she continued for a few moments until the jawing action segued into her chewing on it again and her eyes closed contentedly.
“Wonderful!” Nick chortled and rubbed his hands together, “Now I can force you to sell it to me, just like I planned!”
With his evil scheme back and ready to be put to action (”He’s not a bad boy,” his mother said of him, “it’s just that he has some social issues.”), Nick grabbed the ends of the heavy copper wire trailing down from the now lightly snoring Janee, and was just about to plug them into the wall socket when the doorbell rang.
“What?” Nick cried.
Ding-dong...
“Drat!” Nick scowled.
Ding-dong...
“Curses!” Nick cursed.
Ding-dong...
“Oh, ...oh ...oh phoeey!” Nick blubbered, then dropped the wires and told Janee, “I’ll be right back. Don’t start without me,” then waddled to the door, still reflexively holding the forgotten plunger tightly between his knees, waggling back and forth.
(“Maybe it’s Mother,” Janee yawned into the rag.)
Nick stopped in front of the door, composed himself, licking his hand and slicking back his jet black (dyed) hair, twirled his moustache, put on his best pearly gray smile (he’s so bad his teeth show it), and swung it open, politely saying, “What can I do for ...” then suddenly was struck dumb in seeing right there in front of him, Superman, Batman, Iron Man, the Wolverine, Harry Potter and a Cheerleader.
(end of part 3)
Oh my goodness! Have these brave Super Heroes arrived in time? (I think it is in their contracts that they do, their agents wouldn’t want them to look bad for the folks at home by being tardy.) Will Nick’s plans for Janee be handily foiled by this impressive group of Do-Gooders? Does Nick have a trick up his jet-black sleeve to treat these characters to? Will Janee stay awake to see what happens?
Tune in again tomorrow for the next exciting installment of adventure, drama and romance from Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-12-09
Hello again, folks! Well, we’re back at Withering Flats ready to find out what nasty Nick wants with sweet Janee’s Father’s Tulip Ranch. He seemed very intent on finding that deed and Janee was rather taken aback by it. Let’s pick up the action right there and see where it flies us...
“Not the Tulip Ranch!” she cried out, then queried, “Why ever would you want that worthless place?”
Nick gave her a puzzled look, asked, “Worthless?”
“Of course,” Janee replied. “The tulips don’t grow any more since the accident that killed poor Daddy. Didn’t you know that?”
Nick evidently did not know that, for he stood there and repeated, “Worthless?” looking at the now less enticing page of dirty paper in his hand.
“It was in all the papers around here,” Janee rambled on, “about how poor old Daddy was digging a well to get fresh water for the tulips because he was tired of having to truck it in, you know, with the lake being so far away and all, so he just thought he’d dig himself a well and fix that old tulip ranch up right nice,” she kept on as Nick was shaking his head in disbelief, frowning at the deed in his hand, “...so there he was just digging away and he had himself a hole about twenty feet deep when alluva sudden, there was this rumbling and shaking and I was just over by the shed and I could hear it and it scared the dog right bad ‘cause I saw him run and hide under the porch, which I didn’t think was a good idea seein’ as how that’s where the skunks had dug themselves a burrow...” Janee had a head of steam like a run-away semi- trailer truck down a mountain road, “...he was runnin’ hard and we ain’t seen head nor tail of that dog since, but we’re not feelin’ too bad about that on account of the smell, y’know, so anyway that’s when I heard this loud whooshing sound and looked to see this big, smelly tower of wet black stuff just gushing out of Daddy’s well stinkin’ up the yard and no sign of Daddy and I was wonderin’ where he might have got to and we never did find him, of course, which I thought was strange seein’ as that was the same time that the dog had run off smellin’ pretty bad himself, but I didn’t think of that until later on the next Tuesday, or maybe it was Wednesday, but anyway...”
Nick pursed his lips, stroked his chin, knitted his brows then suddenly looked at Janee again as she said, “...so even though it’s all spoiled and oily and worthless now that the tulips won’t grow, I won’t sell the ranch ‘cause of the memories of Daddy and how he used to love the place so much, at least when he wasn’t cussin’ at it and complainin’ about all the stinkin’ manure and the stinkin’ flowers and how they was drivin’ him to a early grave and all...”
“Did you say you won’t sell the ranch even though it’s worthless?” Nick butted in, knowing he’d never be able to speak otherwise.
“What’s that?” Janee came out of her monologue.
“You said you won’t sell me the ranch even though it’s worthless?” Nick asked, hopefully.
“Well, after what Daddy went through and it being the only thing of his I got and the fact that we never did find him, no I won’t sell it because it’s like havin’ Daddy still around when I go there, but of course the smell is different, not that Daddy smelled much better y’know, but at least I was used to it..” she continued until, smiling in renewed glee, Nick casually stuffed the rag back into Janee’s jabbering mouth.
“Mmm mnnng nmmm nnn...” she continued for a few moments until the jawing action segued into her chewing on it again and her eyes closed contentedly.
“Wonderful!” Nick chortled and rubbed his hands together, “Now I can force you to sell it to me, just like I planned!”
With his evil scheme back and ready to be put to action (”He’s not a bad boy,” his mother said of him, “it’s just that he has some social issues.”), Nick grabbed the ends of the heavy copper wire trailing down from the now lightly snoring Janee, and was just about to plug them into the wall socket when the doorbell rang.
“What?” Nick cried.
Ding-dong...
“Drat!” Nick scowled.
Ding-dong...
“Curses!” Nick cursed.
Ding-dong...
“Oh, ...oh ...oh phoeey!” Nick blubbered, then dropped the wires and told Janee, “I’ll be right back. Don’t start without me,” then waddled to the door, still reflexively holding the forgotten plunger tightly between his knees, waggling back and forth.
(“Maybe it’s Mother,” Janee yawned into the rag.)
Nick stopped in front of the door, composed himself, licking his hand and slicking back his jet black (dyed) hair, twirled his moustache, put on his best pearly gray smile (he’s so bad his teeth show it), and swung it open, politely saying, “What can I do for ...” then suddenly was struck dumb in seeing right there in front of him, Superman, Batman, Iron Man, the Wolverine, Harry Potter and a Cheerleader.
(end of part 3)
Oh my goodness! Have these brave Super Heroes arrived in time? (I think it is in their contracts that they do, their agents wouldn’t want them to look bad for the folks at home by being tardy.) Will Nick’s plans for Janee be handily foiled by this impressive group of Do-Gooders? Does Nick have a trick up his jet-black sleeve to treat these characters to? Will Janee stay awake to see what happens?
Tune in again tomorrow for the next exciting installment of adventure, drama and romance from Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-12-09
Monday, May 11, 2009
Withering Flats, Episode Two, part 2
(Episode Two, Part 2)
We left off last night with Nick rummaging in Janee’s purse after wrapping her in copper wire and stuffing a rag in her mouth. He had just found a significant piece of paper and was flaunting it in front of Janee’s face. Let’s tune in and catch the suspense from there...
He grabbed the purse off of her wrist, reached into it, pulled out a piece of paper and exclaimed, “Aha! I have it at last!” brandishing it in front of Janee’s face
Her quizzical frown caused him to look at what he held and mirrored her frown as he realized he held the invitation to a bridal shower to take place later that week.
“Drat!” he muttered, as he shoved it into his back pocket and again reached in to Janee’s grab bag purse. He found another piece of paper, pulled it out triumphantly and said, “HERE it is!” again waving it in Janee’s face. She shrugged at him with a blank stare, causing him to look closer at this item, which turned out to be a receipt from Ernie’s May Day Floral Supplies and Sludge Haulers for the removal of 130 gallons of “Liquid Waste” from a septic retention tank. Grimacing with frustration, Nick stuffed this into his shirt pocket and once again thrust his hand into the purse, rummaging around until her found some more papers, which he pulled out and exclaimed, “Finally!” but growled in anger as he saw it wasn’t what he was looking for, then paused in thoughtful musing as he saw that it was a copy of ‘Soap Opera Crossword Puzzles,’ raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips and thoughtfully tucked it in his other back pocket from the Shower invite. He reached in one more time and came out with yet another sheet of paper which turned out to be a preprinted-autographed picture of purple-haired Rosco MacGoulash (Oodles and Oodles served) which he reverently folded and stuck in the inside pocket of his black coat.
“This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought,” muttered nasty Nick, and he opened the purse up wide to look into its voluminous depths.
“Sheesh!” he complained, “What is it with women and their purses? What is all this stuff for?” as he started to haul out various contents, placing them in his pockets (a Television Program Directory, a half eaten apple, several bottles of ‘Color Perfect’ nail polish and typing correction fluid, a tin of Garlic Roses Breath Mints and a screwdriver), under one arm (volume seven of the Encyclopedia Lusitania), then the other (a deflated inflatable ‘Man-around-the-House’ for the girl who has everything else) and finally between his legs (a short necked toilet plunger... it really is a big purse). He finally noticed a grungy piece of paper sticking out from an outside pocket, and, as carefully as his encumbered arms could allow him, he extricated it, unfolded it , perused it, scrunched his face up in confusion, rubbed some dried mud off it, had a sudden insight, turned it top to bottom and perused it once more. He then raised his arms and jumped up and down in lock-legged triumph (dropping everything except the toilet plunger, which he still held between his knees) and cried, “Eureka! I’ve found it at long last!”
Janee, mulling over her own issues as Nick was occupied with the contents of her purse (“I wonder if Clem will show up tonight, this place is a mess and I haven’t raked my hair yet,” shaking out her seaweed locks), was startled as Nick jumped up and shouted. He grinned evilly and held out the soiled yet still legible piece of paper. She looked at it with mild curiosity, then looked at Nick and shrugged. Nick frowned, said, “Don’t you recognize this?” and waved it around for emphasis.
Janee, bobbed and weaved her head as best she could, trying to study the unsteady paper. Nick stopped moving it around, grabbed top and bottom to straighten it out and held it up close to her face as she still stood wrapped and propped against the brightly stylish cinder block wall. She looked closely and then shook her head as she once more regarded her tormentor.
“Oh really,” Nick exclaimed in exasperation, turning it around so he could look at it again, “it’s really quite easy to see...” and he stopped as he studied the paper, frowned, then sheepishly turned it right-side up again and once more offered it to Janee, stating in triumph, “It’s the deed to your father’s Tulip Ranch!” and, as he once again turned it around to study his prize, he sneeringly added, “And, it comes complete with tip-toe rights!”
“Oh no!” thought Janee, still chewing on the rag in her mouth as if it were cud, “Not the Tulip Ranch!”
“Mmm-nnh!” articulated Janee out loud through the rag, as she stopped her rhythmic chomping, “Nnn mmm Nng-nngm Rnnnhn!”
“What’s that?” asked Nick, looking up from the dirty deed, and then, seeing her wide-eyed, plugged mouth stare, apologized, “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to be rude,” and he reached over to pluck out the rag.
“Not the Tulip Ranch!” she cried out...
(end of part 2)
Oh dear! Janee seems to be quite taken aback by Nick’s desire for her father’s ranch. Will he force it from her? Will she suffer at his whim? Will he stuff the dirty, oily rag back in her mouth? Will she survive it if he does? Will the rag survive it?
Tune in again tomorrow for the next exciting installment of adventure, drama and romance from Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-11-09
We left off last night with Nick rummaging in Janee’s purse after wrapping her in copper wire and stuffing a rag in her mouth. He had just found a significant piece of paper and was flaunting it in front of Janee’s face. Let’s tune in and catch the suspense from there...
He grabbed the purse off of her wrist, reached into it, pulled out a piece of paper and exclaimed, “Aha! I have it at last!” brandishing it in front of Janee’s face
Her quizzical frown caused him to look at what he held and mirrored her frown as he realized he held the invitation to a bridal shower to take place later that week.
“Drat!” he muttered, as he shoved it into his back pocket and again reached in to Janee’s grab bag purse. He found another piece of paper, pulled it out triumphantly and said, “HERE it is!” again waving it in Janee’s face. She shrugged at him with a blank stare, causing him to look closer at this item, which turned out to be a receipt from Ernie’s May Day Floral Supplies and Sludge Haulers for the removal of 130 gallons of “Liquid Waste” from a septic retention tank. Grimacing with frustration, Nick stuffed this into his shirt pocket and once again thrust his hand into the purse, rummaging around until her found some more papers, which he pulled out and exclaimed, “Finally!” but growled in anger as he saw it wasn’t what he was looking for, then paused in thoughtful musing as he saw that it was a copy of ‘Soap Opera Crossword Puzzles,’ raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips and thoughtfully tucked it in his other back pocket from the Shower invite. He reached in one more time and came out with yet another sheet of paper which turned out to be a preprinted-autographed picture of purple-haired Rosco MacGoulash (Oodles and Oodles served) which he reverently folded and stuck in the inside pocket of his black coat.
“This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought,” muttered nasty Nick, and he opened the purse up wide to look into its voluminous depths.
“Sheesh!” he complained, “What is it with women and their purses? What is all this stuff for?” as he started to haul out various contents, placing them in his pockets (a Television Program Directory, a half eaten apple, several bottles of ‘Color Perfect’ nail polish and typing correction fluid, a tin of Garlic Roses Breath Mints and a screwdriver), under one arm (volume seven of the Encyclopedia Lusitania), then the other (a deflated inflatable ‘Man-around-the-House’ for the girl who has everything else) and finally between his legs (a short necked toilet plunger... it really is a big purse). He finally noticed a grungy piece of paper sticking out from an outside pocket, and, as carefully as his encumbered arms could allow him, he extricated it, unfolded it , perused it, scrunched his face up in confusion, rubbed some dried mud off it, had a sudden insight, turned it top to bottom and perused it once more. He then raised his arms and jumped up and down in lock-legged triumph (dropping everything except the toilet plunger, which he still held between his knees) and cried, “Eureka! I’ve found it at long last!”
Janee, mulling over her own issues as Nick was occupied with the contents of her purse (“I wonder if Clem will show up tonight, this place is a mess and I haven’t raked my hair yet,” shaking out her seaweed locks), was startled as Nick jumped up and shouted. He grinned evilly and held out the soiled yet still legible piece of paper. She looked at it with mild curiosity, then looked at Nick and shrugged. Nick frowned, said, “Don’t you recognize this?” and waved it around for emphasis.
Janee, bobbed and weaved her head as best she could, trying to study the unsteady paper. Nick stopped moving it around, grabbed top and bottom to straighten it out and held it up close to her face as she still stood wrapped and propped against the brightly stylish cinder block wall. She looked closely and then shook her head as she once more regarded her tormentor.
“Oh really,” Nick exclaimed in exasperation, turning it around so he could look at it again, “it’s really quite easy to see...” and he stopped as he studied the paper, frowned, then sheepishly turned it right-side up again and once more offered it to Janee, stating in triumph, “It’s the deed to your father’s Tulip Ranch!” and, as he once again turned it around to study his prize, he sneeringly added, “And, it comes complete with tip-toe rights!”
“Oh no!” thought Janee, still chewing on the rag in her mouth as if it were cud, “Not the Tulip Ranch!”
“Mmm-nnh!” articulated Janee out loud through the rag, as she stopped her rhythmic chomping, “Nnn mmm Nng-nngm Rnnnhn!”
“What’s that?” asked Nick, looking up from the dirty deed, and then, seeing her wide-eyed, plugged mouth stare, apologized, “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to be rude,” and he reached over to pluck out the rag.
“Not the Tulip Ranch!” she cried out...
(end of part 2)
Oh dear! Janee seems to be quite taken aback by Nick’s desire for her father’s ranch. Will he force it from her? Will she suffer at his whim? Will he stuff the dirty, oily rag back in her mouth? Will she survive it if he does? Will the rag survive it?
Tune in again tomorrow for the next exciting installment of adventure, drama and romance from Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-11-09
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Withering Flats, Episode Two, part 1
Withering Flats
Episode Two
Yes, Folks, it’s time once again to pull up a chair and gather ‘round the virtual radio screen because we’re off to take a trip to the Heartland of Truth, Justice and the Tongue-in-Cheek Way, out where men are men, women are women and the cows come home for supper (they wouldn’t want to miss the show) in Withering Flats, USA.
Last time we were introduced to our All-American Boy Hero and self-made man (just like his mother is still raising him to be), Clem Clump, and to his best (8 out of 10 on the Hussel Magazine scale) girl and light of his life, Sweet Janee Trubloo, and to Clem’s arch-rival and evil foil, the ever-unpleasant and despicably heartless, Nasty Nick Nak. We left off with Clem telling the punch line to a joke that Nick did not understand and Janee had thought so funny that she laughed uncontrollably as she fell into a pit of hungry alligators.
So let’s head back to the simple pleasures and travails of yestertimes in Withering Flats and see what is happening back then right now...
A dark, late October night wraps its chilly fingers around the corners of the small town society as sweet Janee is just getting back home after a hard day at Jack Rackem’s Chiropractic Bar and Grille Emporium where she is employed as secretary and bouncer. She is carrying her stylish new alligator skin purse (and wearing matching shoes, hat, gloves and coat) and is looking tired after a rough day at the office.
“All I wanna do,” she is thinking to herself, “is take a hot mudbath, slip into my canvas nightie, curl up in front of the gas grill with a glass of port and read the latest issue of Soap Opera Indigestion.” She fumbles for her keys in her oversized purse, stops and digs deeper, pulling out various items and placing them in her pockets, under her arm and between her legs in search of the errant keychain. Out comes lipstick, compact, hairbrush, a pipe wrench (all of which go in various pockets of her coat), a leather truncheon (gripped awkwardly between her legs), a well thumbed copy of Farm Animal Monthly (stuck under the arm not holding the purse), an opened, large, economy sized brand name box of Hector Horse’s one-size fits all ‘Lubricated and Individually Wrapped for the Prevention of Disease Only’ foil packets (which she stuck in her mouth), a fat, half smoked cigar (“Aha,” she garbled excitedly to herself, “I thought I still had a bit of this left,” as she stuck it behind her ear) and, finally, a large, yellow plastic, squeaking rubber ducky that had a chain attached to it which held her keys. With her feet spread, knees locked together to hold her truncheon, arms tight to her body to hold magazine and purse respectively, she fumbled at the door lock until she was able to insert (choosing from several dozen) the correct key into the lock and pushed open the door. She waddled forward into the front hall of her warehouse bungalow, stuck her butt out to catch the door and swing it shut and was ready to drop everything in a sigh of relief when a voice suddenly cried out from behind the door, “Baby, I love it when you do that!”
With a croak of surprise through the box clamped between her teeth, Janee dropped everything (but the box, with her purse now dangling from the strap looped over her wrist) in panic, spun around and was confronted with the evil leer of that no-good despoiler of virtue, that slick and sly corrupter of innocence, that foul-mouthed cad (Mr. Bad Breath of 1937), Nasty Nick Nak himself. He quickly looped a ready coil of copper wire over and around her, pulled it tight to pin her arms to her sides, then looped it around over and over, many more times, trussing her up into immobility. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an oily rag that he raised to her face to stuff into her mouth. He paused in confusion as he noticed the box that was already occupying that space, frowned, shrugged, took the box out with his other hand and smoothly stuffed the rag in its place. He read the label on the box, raised his eyebrows in further surprise, smiled and put the box in his coat pocket for later attentions. He turned back to Janee, who was occupied in chewing on the rag and making pleased, “Mmm-mmmm,” sounds, twirled his well waxed moustache in anticipatory glee, grabbed and shuffled her back a few steps against the bright magenta painted brick wall, then grabbed the purse off of her wrist, reached into it, pulled out a piece of paper and exclaimed, “Aha! I have it at last!” brandishing it in front of Janee’s face.
Oh dear! Whatever does nasty Nick have? What does he want to do with it? What will happen to poor Janee?
Be sure to tune in again tomorrow night for the next installment of episode two of Withering Flats!
(end of part 1)
Episode Two
Yes, Folks, it’s time once again to pull up a chair and gather ‘round the virtual radio screen because we’re off to take a trip to the Heartland of Truth, Justice and the Tongue-in-Cheek Way, out where men are men, women are women and the cows come home for supper (they wouldn’t want to miss the show) in Withering Flats, USA.
Last time we were introduced to our All-American Boy Hero and self-made man (just like his mother is still raising him to be), Clem Clump, and to his best (8 out of 10 on the Hussel Magazine scale) girl and light of his life, Sweet Janee Trubloo, and to Clem’s arch-rival and evil foil, the ever-unpleasant and despicably heartless, Nasty Nick Nak. We left off with Clem telling the punch line to a joke that Nick did not understand and Janee had thought so funny that she laughed uncontrollably as she fell into a pit of hungry alligators.
So let’s head back to the simple pleasures and travails of yestertimes in Withering Flats and see what is happening back then right now...
A dark, late October night wraps its chilly fingers around the corners of the small town society as sweet Janee is just getting back home after a hard day at Jack Rackem’s Chiropractic Bar and Grille Emporium where she is employed as secretary and bouncer. She is carrying her stylish new alligator skin purse (and wearing matching shoes, hat, gloves and coat) and is looking tired after a rough day at the office.
“All I wanna do,” she is thinking to herself, “is take a hot mudbath, slip into my canvas nightie, curl up in front of the gas grill with a glass of port and read the latest issue of Soap Opera Indigestion.” She fumbles for her keys in her oversized purse, stops and digs deeper, pulling out various items and placing them in her pockets, under her arm and between her legs in search of the errant keychain. Out comes lipstick, compact, hairbrush, a pipe wrench (all of which go in various pockets of her coat), a leather truncheon (gripped awkwardly between her legs), a well thumbed copy of Farm Animal Monthly (stuck under the arm not holding the purse), an opened, large, economy sized brand name box of Hector Horse’s one-size fits all ‘Lubricated and Individually Wrapped for the Prevention of Disease Only’ foil packets (which she stuck in her mouth), a fat, half smoked cigar (“Aha,” she garbled excitedly to herself, “I thought I still had a bit of this left,” as she stuck it behind her ear) and, finally, a large, yellow plastic, squeaking rubber ducky that had a chain attached to it which held her keys. With her feet spread, knees locked together to hold her truncheon, arms tight to her body to hold magazine and purse respectively, she fumbled at the door lock until she was able to insert (choosing from several dozen) the correct key into the lock and pushed open the door. She waddled forward into the front hall of her warehouse bungalow, stuck her butt out to catch the door and swing it shut and was ready to drop everything in a sigh of relief when a voice suddenly cried out from behind the door, “Baby, I love it when you do that!”
With a croak of surprise through the box clamped between her teeth, Janee dropped everything (but the box, with her purse now dangling from the strap looped over her wrist) in panic, spun around and was confronted with the evil leer of that no-good despoiler of virtue, that slick and sly corrupter of innocence, that foul-mouthed cad (Mr. Bad Breath of 1937), Nasty Nick Nak himself. He quickly looped a ready coil of copper wire over and around her, pulled it tight to pin her arms to her sides, then looped it around over and over, many more times, trussing her up into immobility. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an oily rag that he raised to her face to stuff into her mouth. He paused in confusion as he noticed the box that was already occupying that space, frowned, shrugged, took the box out with his other hand and smoothly stuffed the rag in its place. He read the label on the box, raised his eyebrows in further surprise, smiled and put the box in his coat pocket for later attentions. He turned back to Janee, who was occupied in chewing on the rag and making pleased, “Mmm-mmmm,” sounds, twirled his well waxed moustache in anticipatory glee, grabbed and shuffled her back a few steps against the bright magenta painted brick wall, then grabbed the purse off of her wrist, reached into it, pulled out a piece of paper and exclaimed, “Aha! I have it at last!” brandishing it in front of Janee’s face.
Oh dear! Whatever does nasty Nick have? What does he want to do with it? What will happen to poor Janee?
Be sure to tune in again tomorrow night for the next installment of episode two of Withering Flats!
(end of part 1)
Friday, May 1, 2009
A Poetry Day Late and A Poem, Short
Okay, okay... I know what you’ll say:
I didn’t come through on Poetry Day.
Apologies, regrets, atonement, amends
My self recriminatory angst forefends…
I guess I’ll ameliorate this loss somehow
And offer a poem… so, how ‘bout right now?
Wrought Write Read
How much Writ
Can a Right Write Write
If a Wrought Write
Wrote Right Writ?
Wrap that around confusion’s find
Then plant it in your fertile mind,
And wonder if you were mislead
And wrote right write was left instead.
So with that read of wrought write fun
This Poetry Day is write right done!
Wrote right write wrought by Michael Steven Platt 5-1-09
I didn’t come through on Poetry Day.
Apologies, regrets, atonement, amends
My self recriminatory angst forefends…
I guess I’ll ameliorate this loss somehow
And offer a poem… so, how ‘bout right now?
Wrought Write Read
How much Writ
Can a Right Write Write
If a Wrought Write
Wrote Right Writ?
Wrap that around confusion’s find
Then plant it in your fertile mind,
And wonder if you were mislead
And wrote right write was left instead.
So with that read of wrought write fun
This Poetry Day is write right done!
Wrote right write wrought by Michael Steven Platt 5-1-09
Monday, April 20, 2009
Withering Flats, part 2, conclusion
Yes, Folks, it’s time again for Withering Flats, the small town in the Heartland of Decency and Family Values. Tonight we conclude the episode we started last night, when our hero and red- blooded boy, Clem, went all over town looking for his steady girl and heartthrob, sweet Janee Trubloo, who was last seen in the company of the villainous bad boy of town, nasty Nick Nak. Clem had just come from Mr. Woodinpate’s saw mill and had decided to go see Sheriff Blyndors. Let’s pick up the action from there...
Walking back into town, Clem was at a loss as to where to try next. He thought, that since Mr. Woodinpate had mentioned him, to try Sheriff Blyndors and ask if he had seen Janee or Nick. He was beginning to get worried that his searching would get him to the subjects of his concern too late!
He started running so that by the time he came up Main Street and stopped in front of the Sheriff’s Office, he was out of breath. The Sheriff was sitting out in front, in the shade under the awning, seated with his chair tipped back whittling on a stick. When Clem ran up out of breath he dropped the stick, jumped out of his chair and demanded, “What’s wrong? What’s going on? Is there trouble? Is there a fire? Has there been an accident? Are those danged hippies coming around again?”
Clem caught his breath and said, “No sir, I’m just looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak, and it’s really important!”
“Eh? What’s that you say?” Sheriff Blyndors blustered, “The hippies aren’t back in town? Well they better not be or I’ll knock 'em around and lock 'em up again. Can’t have people who disagree with our way of life running around loose! You never know what kind of crazy ideas they will put in people’s heads!”
With that he pushed his big Western hat back a bit, bent over, picked up his stick and sat back down. He pointed his Bowie Knife at Clem and warned, “Don’t you go getting me all riled up, boy, you know I’ve got to keep the peace here,” and went back to his careful strokes against the wood.
“I’m sorry Sheriff Blyndors, but I really need to find Janee and Nick,” stammered Clem.
“Now Clem, you’re basically a good boy and have never given me much trouble. Although,” he mused, “you did go off to that Yooneeversity in the big city and you know I don’t cotton to the crazy ideas they put into young folk’s heads. All that eddy-kashun ain’t good for a body. People get too much of that kind of thing and they start wanting to change things and it just ain’t natural.”
“I know, Sheriff,” agreed Clem, having heard this same things many times over the years, “but have you seen Janee and Nick?”
“Say, Clem, why can’t you be more like that nice Nick Nak and do as you’re told?” Sheriff Blyndors asked. “Nick was by here a while ago and he gave me a friendly wave. Quite a nice boy. He knows his place and is someone to make a parent proud.”
“You saw Nick?” Clem exclaimed incredulously, “did you see Janee?”
‘Oh yeah, he had her by the hair dragging her down the street. He said he was taking her over to the old saw mill where Limmbug’s Alligator Farm is now. Yessir, that is a boy that knows how to treat a woman,” as he continued whittling.
Then, “You get along, boy, and stop causing trouble before I lock you up,” and with that he tilted his chair back, tilted his hat down and was quiet.
“Thanks, Sheriff!” Clem said, as he started off at a run.
“Slow down, boy!” barked the sheriff.
“Yes sir,” Clem responded obediently, easing to an anxious amble until he was around the corner, then set off running again, heading for the edge of town.
“I hope I’m not too late,” Clem worried to himself as he huffed and puffed up to the large, dilapidated shed that was the former saw mill and was now the office of the Limmbug Alligator Farm and Petting Zoo. There was a large sign outside the door stating that the feeding time shows were Tuesday and Saturday afternoon at 4pm and that there would be no between meal feedings (“So we keep ‘em hungry for you!”), and that trespassers would be prosecuted.
Ignoring the sign (he’s read it many of times when he came to watch the feedings) and bursting through the door he saw Nasty Nick standing by a long lever, similar to the one Mr. Woodinpate operated in the new saw mill, and sweet young Janee Trubloo (only a few years older than Clem) tied up and lying on the conveyor belt that remained from the old milling operation, although the saw itself was long gone. The far end of the belt stopped over the opening where the saw used to be that was now used to throw dead chickens and other delicacies down to the alligators in the pit below. It appeared that Janee had chewed through the gag, and she was peacefully snoring as Clem shouted, "Stop!”
Nick turned to face him, surprised anger gathering on his features while Janee snorted, grunted and woke with a start.
“Curses!” cried Nick.
“Huh?” blinked Janee.
“Stop!” repeated Clem.
“You’re too late, Clump chump! I’ve finally got her where I want her!” Nick scowled, his black suit and boots, as usual, were impeccably trim and neat, a black string tie dangling sharply against the stiffly starched white of his shirt. (“I wear the white shirt for my mother ‘cause I’m not ALL bad,” he explains to those who ask.)
“NO! Stop I say!” urged Clem, frantically.
Nick reached out, put his hands on the lever and sneered, “Tell me why, just for fun!” His beady eyes reflecting the black of his dark soul, his well waxed handlebar moustache equally black and shiny.
“Oh Nicky, you’re such a tool,” complained Janee. “Go ahead Clem, honey, tell him why,” and she looked at Clem with that sweet grin of hers that always touches him in a way he can’t control, making him blush and stammer.
“Uh... uh... uh... “ stammered Clem, blushing on cue, completely bedazzled by her radiant, gap-toothed smile.
“I thought so,”Nick snorted, and leaned into the lever, starting the belt and Janee toward the dark, open hole at the far end of the shack.
“Uh,” gave Clem one more time, “No... it’s umm, oh yeah!” he suddenly recalled his purpose as Janee and Nick watched him expectantly.
He dug into his pocket and fumbled with something as Nick raised his oily black eye-brows, reached beneath his black coat, whipped out a pistol, aimed it at Clem and took up a defensive posture.
“Here!” cried Clem, triumphantly, pulling his hand out of his pocket and brandishing a small piece of paper.
Nick looked relieved, Janee looked bored and Clem looked quite pleased with himself, continuing, “I finally remembered the punch line to that joke!”
“What!?” Nick and Janee exclaimed in unisoon. They froze for a second, looked at each other, looked back at Clem and then blurted out a harmonious, “Well what is it?”
“No one has told you yet, have they? I’m still in time aren’t I?” Clem asked them, a bit hesitantly.
“No, no one told us,” they harmonized, “Now tell us!”
“Whew,” huffed Clem, releasing his pent up breath, “I thought I’d be too late and you would have heard it from somebody else!” He looked greatly relieved, “Even though it’s only been a week,” and smiled from ear to ear.
“Tell us!”
Clem held up his piece of paper and triumphantly read, “No, it’s the OTHER way!”
There was a moment of silence as Clem looked rather smug, then Janee burst into hysterical laughter and Nick, looking rather puzzled, said, “I don’t get it.”
“You don’t get it, Nick?” exclaimed Clem, with a surprised look on his face.
“No, Clem, I’m sorry, I just don’t get it,” returned Nick as he replaced his revolver and walked over to where Clem was standing.
“Well, Nick, let me explain it,” began Clem as Sweet Janee Trubloo reached the end of the conveyor, tipped and plunged into the pit, still laughing hysterically.
And, as Clem talked with avidly grand gestures and Nick listened intently, neither one paying any heed to the loud splashing and thrashing noises coming from the shed, they wander away down the path back to town.
Well, folks, that’s all we have for this episode of Withering Flats, and we’ve been left in a real doozy of a spot. Will Clem be able to explain the joke to Nick? Will they be prosecuted for trespassing? Will they be prosecuted for feeding the alligators outside of the schedule? Will Janee be alright? Will she be prosecuted for trespassing or feeding the 'gators? Will the alligators be all right?
The answers to these and whatever questions you might think of will have to wait until the next exciting episode of Withering Flats, so until then this is your narrator saying so long for now!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-20-09
Walking back into town, Clem was at a loss as to where to try next. He thought, that since Mr. Woodinpate had mentioned him, to try Sheriff Blyndors and ask if he had seen Janee or Nick. He was beginning to get worried that his searching would get him to the subjects of his concern too late!
He started running so that by the time he came up Main Street and stopped in front of the Sheriff’s Office, he was out of breath. The Sheriff was sitting out in front, in the shade under the awning, seated with his chair tipped back whittling on a stick. When Clem ran up out of breath he dropped the stick, jumped out of his chair and demanded, “What’s wrong? What’s going on? Is there trouble? Is there a fire? Has there been an accident? Are those danged hippies coming around again?”
Clem caught his breath and said, “No sir, I’m just looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak, and it’s really important!”
“Eh? What’s that you say?” Sheriff Blyndors blustered, “The hippies aren’t back in town? Well they better not be or I’ll knock 'em around and lock 'em up again. Can’t have people who disagree with our way of life running around loose! You never know what kind of crazy ideas they will put in people’s heads!”
With that he pushed his big Western hat back a bit, bent over, picked up his stick and sat back down. He pointed his Bowie Knife at Clem and warned, “Don’t you go getting me all riled up, boy, you know I’ve got to keep the peace here,” and went back to his careful strokes against the wood.
“I’m sorry Sheriff Blyndors, but I really need to find Janee and Nick,” stammered Clem.
“Now Clem, you’re basically a good boy and have never given me much trouble. Although,” he mused, “you did go off to that Yooneeversity in the big city and you know I don’t cotton to the crazy ideas they put into young folk’s heads. All that eddy-kashun ain’t good for a body. People get too much of that kind of thing and they start wanting to change things and it just ain’t natural.”
“I know, Sheriff,” agreed Clem, having heard this same things many times over the years, “but have you seen Janee and Nick?”
“Say, Clem, why can’t you be more like that nice Nick Nak and do as you’re told?” Sheriff Blyndors asked. “Nick was by here a while ago and he gave me a friendly wave. Quite a nice boy. He knows his place and is someone to make a parent proud.”
“You saw Nick?” Clem exclaimed incredulously, “did you see Janee?”
‘Oh yeah, he had her by the hair dragging her down the street. He said he was taking her over to the old saw mill where Limmbug’s Alligator Farm is now. Yessir, that is a boy that knows how to treat a woman,” as he continued whittling.
Then, “You get along, boy, and stop causing trouble before I lock you up,” and with that he tilted his chair back, tilted his hat down and was quiet.
“Thanks, Sheriff!” Clem said, as he started off at a run.
“Slow down, boy!” barked the sheriff.
“Yes sir,” Clem responded obediently, easing to an anxious amble until he was around the corner, then set off running again, heading for the edge of town.
“I hope I’m not too late,” Clem worried to himself as he huffed and puffed up to the large, dilapidated shed that was the former saw mill and was now the office of the Limmbug Alligator Farm and Petting Zoo. There was a large sign outside the door stating that the feeding time shows were Tuesday and Saturday afternoon at 4pm and that there would be no between meal feedings (“So we keep ‘em hungry for you!”), and that trespassers would be prosecuted.
Ignoring the sign (he’s read it many of times when he came to watch the feedings) and bursting through the door he saw Nasty Nick standing by a long lever, similar to the one Mr. Woodinpate operated in the new saw mill, and sweet young Janee Trubloo (only a few years older than Clem) tied up and lying on the conveyor belt that remained from the old milling operation, although the saw itself was long gone. The far end of the belt stopped over the opening where the saw used to be that was now used to throw dead chickens and other delicacies down to the alligators in the pit below. It appeared that Janee had chewed through the gag, and she was peacefully snoring as Clem shouted, "Stop!”
Nick turned to face him, surprised anger gathering on his features while Janee snorted, grunted and woke with a start.
“Curses!” cried Nick.
“Huh?” blinked Janee.
“Stop!” repeated Clem.
“You’re too late, Clump chump! I’ve finally got her where I want her!” Nick scowled, his black suit and boots, as usual, were impeccably trim and neat, a black string tie dangling sharply against the stiffly starched white of his shirt. (“I wear the white shirt for my mother ‘cause I’m not ALL bad,” he explains to those who ask.)
“NO! Stop I say!” urged Clem, frantically.
Nick reached out, put his hands on the lever and sneered, “Tell me why, just for fun!” His beady eyes reflecting the black of his dark soul, his well waxed handlebar moustache equally black and shiny.
“Oh Nicky, you’re such a tool,” complained Janee. “Go ahead Clem, honey, tell him why,” and she looked at Clem with that sweet grin of hers that always touches him in a way he can’t control, making him blush and stammer.
“Uh... uh... uh... “ stammered Clem, blushing on cue, completely bedazzled by her radiant, gap-toothed smile.
“I thought so,”Nick snorted, and leaned into the lever, starting the belt and Janee toward the dark, open hole at the far end of the shack.
“Uh,” gave Clem one more time, “No... it’s umm, oh yeah!” he suddenly recalled his purpose as Janee and Nick watched him expectantly.
He dug into his pocket and fumbled with something as Nick raised his oily black eye-brows, reached beneath his black coat, whipped out a pistol, aimed it at Clem and took up a defensive posture.
“Here!” cried Clem, triumphantly, pulling his hand out of his pocket and brandishing a small piece of paper.
Nick looked relieved, Janee looked bored and Clem looked quite pleased with himself, continuing, “I finally remembered the punch line to that joke!”
“What!?” Nick and Janee exclaimed in unisoon. They froze for a second, looked at each other, looked back at Clem and then blurted out a harmonious, “Well what is it?”
“No one has told you yet, have they? I’m still in time aren’t I?” Clem asked them, a bit hesitantly.
“No, no one told us,” they harmonized, “Now tell us!”
“Whew,” huffed Clem, releasing his pent up breath, “I thought I’d be too late and you would have heard it from somebody else!” He looked greatly relieved, “Even though it’s only been a week,” and smiled from ear to ear.
“Tell us!”
Clem held up his piece of paper and triumphantly read, “No, it’s the OTHER way!”
There was a moment of silence as Clem looked rather smug, then Janee burst into hysterical laughter and Nick, looking rather puzzled, said, “I don’t get it.”
“You don’t get it, Nick?” exclaimed Clem, with a surprised look on his face.
“No, Clem, I’m sorry, I just don’t get it,” returned Nick as he replaced his revolver and walked over to where Clem was standing.
“Well, Nick, let me explain it,” began Clem as Sweet Janee Trubloo reached the end of the conveyor, tipped and plunged into the pit, still laughing hysterically.
And, as Clem talked with avidly grand gestures and Nick listened intently, neither one paying any heed to the loud splashing and thrashing noises coming from the shed, they wander away down the path back to town.
Well, folks, that’s all we have for this episode of Withering Flats, and we’ve been left in a real doozy of a spot. Will Clem be able to explain the joke to Nick? Will they be prosecuted for trespassing? Will they be prosecuted for feeding the alligators outside of the schedule? Will Janee be alright? Will she be prosecuted for trespassing or feeding the 'gators? Will the alligators be all right?
The answers to these and whatever questions you might think of will have to wait until the next exciting episode of Withering Flats, so until then this is your narrator saying so long for now!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-20-09
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Tube and My Thought, both in Poetry Caught
Oh no, not again! I’d thought to bypass this trial
And write a quick post in some prosaic type style,
But wouldn't you know my that conscience would say
That I'd better come through for this Poetry Day!
So that is the music, but what is the dance?
Thoughtful, adventure, humor, romance?
I guess I'll start writing and play it by ear
And see how it sounds when the subject is clear.
So polish your eyes and get set to go,
The Tube
I don’t know why I watch it,
So foolish pours its craze.
That goulish view of hypno-hue
From jabbered cyclop gaze;
A teasing taste of baited plot
It offers to my eye
And has me hooked on spoken lines
Before I wonder why.
And so I’m caught within its spell
Held fast by programmed lure,
Each minute brings new spewing forth
…can sanity endure?
It caters to its own designs,
All labeled ‘Public Taste’,
But the only flavor I can sense
Is the brew of time at waste.
Then, sprinkled in the featured shows,
Like thorns among the weeds,
Commercial wiles sincerely pledge
To fill my wants and needs;
Those syrup voiced announcers,
With their subtle badgering,
Glib forth their Product Names until
My ears begin to ring.
I’m being fed with poisoned sweets
That disintegrate free will,
And tuned to me it flays my mind
Enough! I’ve had my fill!
But no escape is easy found
From fiendish Tube’s strong hold,
To wrest my eyes from its deep warmth
I’ll keep the damn thing cold!
In the greater part of my belief, society needs some television relief,
Too much time is spent in thrall to the tube’s enticing siren call.
But each to their own, I will agree, and my view’s just what’s best for me.
And so this poem is offered fun, and with that my rhymes are once more done.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-16-09
And write a quick post in some prosaic type style,
But wouldn't you know my that conscience would say
That I'd better come through for this Poetry Day!
So that is the music, but what is the dance?
Thoughtful, adventure, humor, romance?
I guess I'll start writing and play it by ear
And see how it sounds when the subject is clear.
So polish your eyes and get set to go,
With our mindset to rhyme, it's on with the show!
The Tube
I don’t know why I watch it,
So foolish pours its craze.
That goulish view of hypno-hue
From jabbered cyclop gaze;
A teasing taste of baited plot
It offers to my eye
And has me hooked on spoken lines
Before I wonder why.
And so I’m caught within its spell
Held fast by programmed lure,
Each minute brings new spewing forth
…can sanity endure?
It caters to its own designs,
All labeled ‘Public Taste’,
But the only flavor I can sense
Is the brew of time at waste.
Then, sprinkled in the featured shows,
Like thorns among the weeds,
Commercial wiles sincerely pledge
To fill my wants and needs;
Those syrup voiced announcers,
With their subtle badgering,
Glib forth their Product Names until
My ears begin to ring.
I’m being fed with poisoned sweets
That disintegrate free will,
And tuned to me it flays my mind
Enough! I’ve had my fill!
But no escape is easy found
From fiendish Tube’s strong hold,
To wrest my eyes from its deep warmth
I’ll keep the damn thing cold!
In the greater part of my belief, society needs some television relief,
Too much time is spent in thrall to the tube’s enticing siren call.
But each to their own, I will agree, and my view’s just what’s best for me.
And so this poem is offered fun, and with that my rhymes are once more done.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-16-09
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