In my hands i held a torpidscraller, and read back to myself the first 14 entries made into its sheer obsidian exterior. miniscule variations in the refractive index of the glass encoded vast sums of synaptic data, and the means of playing it back was to place the device under your chin, hold it by tilting your head down, and then holding your hands as far out to the side as they could go. Admittedly, the inventor fo the torpidscraller, Faxigorias Maxigorium, was an annoying douche. He gook the secret of the torpidscraller’s synaptic recorder to his grave, and attempts at reverse engineering resulted in more than one scientist sitting on pears: a most heinous fate. Of course, in our time, pears are 9 feet high and their fangs are twice as long as in your day. Or wait, did you have the fangs in your pears yet?
Needless to say, the uncomfortable and embarassing stance i was in was concealed by a standard torpidscraller reading cloak, a sort of tent-like or tent substitute, that resembled a miniature circus bigtop, out of which your head was exposed down to just below the eyes. That way, you could watch the people not knowing you were doing anything embarassing looking. I was in the process of not doing anything embarrassing looking, cloaked in a vast circus poncho, and reliving the scraller’s last 14 entries. The ixtx, the time lute, the splunders, the companion and his fantastic fate suit. Interesting. They had arrived, this very day, in Toronto, as had we The year, 2009, the date, sept 9.
I nursed a bruise i had received when arriving in this time, arcing into the clock tower of old city hall. I had stood up right where i landed, at bay and queen, standing and setting up my tent, and waving with all my lamp-arms and screamfeet at passers by, in whom i deposited little eggs that woudl hatch out little crabs that would slowly turn their organs young again, but only once they had placed them inside themselves. I dont’ know why, it was fatal to the hosts, but it was considered polite where i come from to impregnate someone with eggs and crabs and things. We’re methodists, you see.
My travel companion lay unconcsious at my feet, moaning, rocking back and forth, and asking for wine. It was a deft camoflage.
“I’ve read their scralls, they’re here,” i craftily stated, in a clever and handy way.
“Take me to a hospital.”
“No, come on, you’re fine. Let’s get out of here, afterall, we do have some time travellers to catch,” i paused for effect, which i love doing, “and to KILL.” When i said the last word, i said it in all CAPS, you could tell because i was putting as many fingers in my mouth as i could fit, the old capslock hand jammer.
“Take me to the hospital,” my companion whined. “I’m serious. Take me to the hospital,” he moaned himself into what i can only call a vomitsleep. I guess because of all the vomit he made while suddenly sleeping. Just my luck, a time travel companion who digests food with somtach acid. How was i going to explain this to the Vapourators of Denebius 9, who required that everyone in the galaxy visit them and explain things to them once during their life time, though they never understood. Every year, people are chosen by lottery and sent there, but when they return, they refuse to speak of their experience. Legends tell of a world populated by men who dont’ digest anything by stomach acid. And also, legends speak of a bride that runs away after every wedding, but that’s unrelated. Legends do also speak of how the vapourators are unable to comprehend anything, despite numerous repetitions, and despite the most charming diagrams and animated cats and dogs that proffer explanations that are only MILDLY corrossive. We’ve come a long way in reduciong explanatory corrosion, in animated pets. Regardless, explaining things like “I arrived on your planet because you requested it” apparently takes most of the first year on Denebius 9… imagine explaining to them about stomach acid. It would literally take time, and it would literally be explaining something to someone made of vapour. You see my point?
Suffice it to say that, as he lay there, producing some of that amazing yellow acid from his single mouth, i reattached my hands, which i had been holding as distantly as possible on the ends of my various tentacles and nodes, and slipped into my tent. Fortunately, i had prepared a morph-suppository, which i deftly and craftily ingested anally, altering my form into a single anused human, of the 21st century. Imagine only one anus? And so small? How do they feed their infants without being able to get their entire head into one of their anuses?
Sending the tend into a domension where tents are kings and where we are their servants (because that’s where it prefers to go when i’m not using it, and i’m a stickler for tent protocol), i signaled to a taxatious cabribalb, (taxi cab for short), and excreted a request pellet instructing the man to take us to the hospital. Naturally, i was surprised when my request pellet came out all audio, and almost not a pellet at all.
“Let’s be at a hospital, old keeper of wheels”.
And off we strolled in the round-leg. There were numerous curious points about this round-leg that i had never observed before. For instance, an incrementalizer was observing its nightly ritual of incraesingly numerating itself. The red light of its digits shone bleakly in the rough interriored vehicle, telling us first $4.00, then $4.25 and so on. Numerate on, ye incrementalizer, I recited. Numerate on in deed, and in dream.
All at once we gradually moved to the hospital, arriving at the emergency entrance. Giving the drivemaster a few of his local cash papers, we emerged from the round-leg and galomped into the hospital. “Ladies and gentlemen of the hospital,” i sang, “we have a man in need of aid / we know that by the boss you’re paid / and ministrations medical-style / would help us out immensical style.”
In this strange 21st century, applause must merely be implied, rather than directly smeared on the face of a singer, because i felt no oils or pastes, nor did anyone make even the ancient religious “hands on hands” sound of respect to the cantors of the temples.
where were my applause?
to be continued…
No responses yet