Mo’ Stories

It rained, like it oft did when Leafboots strolled down the leaky sidewalks o’ Boskeopolis in search o’ mysteries to solve.

She reached into her pocket & pulled out her chained astrolabe to ascertain that the moon was in the right position. Then she stood @ the curb with her hands in her jacket pockets, leaning forward & back loosely in the wind as if waiting for a taxi.

Then she pulled out the strange-shaped block o’ wood & held it @ a perfect π/4-radian angle. It revealed in shadow less strange shapes: the shapes o’ English words.

Now, ¿wouldn’t you just like to know what those words were?

Adalberto was O so close…

You keep calm, you keep steady, he kept saying to himself as he carried the stack o’ sausage plates round the winding route ‘tween the hard steel tables & barstools toward the end desk. The itchiness from o’ steaming sweat on his forehead wasn’t helping. His dozen or mo’ drinks o’er the night helped e’en less.

When he finally made it to the desk, he almost threw it onto the desk, his strength had so withered by that point. He barked as he saw the stack o’ plates begin to shake, but was able to steady it straight & stood back with a sigh.

It crossed both pairs o’ arms. It asked ‘gain, “¿What want you?”

“I told you: I don’t want anything, but to thank you for your brave service.”

Beetle Boboros was moveless. “Don’t believe it I.”

The fox dog sighed. “All right. I just need the key to the cave ‘hind Fresh Falls, ¿OK?”

The fox dog’s heart stopped as the beetle just stood there silently for a full minute.

But then the beetle said, “Is a nice flower it… Tonton…”

So the paw traded the “Fore’er Flower” for the key, & then its legs took it ‘way.

The fox dog waited till ’twas far out o’ the vicinity to chuckle to himself.

Yes, it is a nice flower… Too bad I forgot to mention the li’l bit o’ venom it has in it.

The poison o’ the Bad Berries spread all ‘cross Margarita Menagerie like rain river.

Orval could only see how bad ’twas for each animal with his Spectroglasses, which glowed a sour blue for those hit the strongest & a flat red for those barely affected. Those unaffected had no glow @ all. E’en in autumn, the sight o’ all these neon lights wandering Worcestershire Woods popped it full o’ mo’ color than it e’er had before.

But Orval’s mind was somewhere else as he etched off the color next to each individual animal’s # on his pad.

He muttered to himself, “They’re still not done. Peace or no peace, they won’t stop till they’re stopped.”

“You don’t need to do all this, truly…”

But he only grunted as sweat dribbled down his forehead, & he continued his work drilling into the blue raspberry blossom, refining its boughs to perfection.

O, ¡he’d show her mother who had the spookiest ghost trees!

* * *

“¡You’re still working? She called: she said she’s not coming.”

He looked up & noticed with a start that the sun was just drowning @ the bottom tip o’ the far-off firs, leaving mostly silver blue ‘hind it. He just realized he was shivering–probably had been for several minutes.

E’en long after they’d gone, the blue raspberry blossom tree remains.

Deep into October, it had to be quite late–though still early by next-day standards–for the sky to finally turn from black to blue. But it did.

Still, all they could see was what was lit by the quarter moon on that thin walkway ‘tween the mountain tips.

But if they wanted to meet from their opposite ends, this was what they had to do.

“¡Norberto! ¡No!”

“I know it must be somewhere,” he said to himself as he patted round his shirt pockets.

His breathing began to become tenser as he kept patting round himself & kept not finding his li’l green pocketbook.

Already he was forgetting, & if he forgot… ¡He had to find that book!

But he had to be careful… 1 scrape…

¡He was scraped!

1 scrape, & he loses points. But if he has no points, he has none to lose. So ‘stead, he loses… everything.

No sobs, no mumbling, “¿Why did this have to happen? could save him.

“Look, the sign isn’t e’en right. ¿`Offence’?”

“No, that’s the British spelling.”

“¿Do we look like friggin’ Brits?”

“That’s my sash.”

“I’m using it.”

“It’s mine; give it back.”

“Stop it. We don’t have time for this. We go on in 10 minutes.”

“Sir, I need to talk to you ’bout something.”

“¿It can’t wait?”

“It’s ’bout the zamboni that’s s’posed to go on…”

“¡I thought we had that all cleared up!–¡Augh! ¡Stop it, you 2!”

“It’s mine; ¡give it back you fucking asshole!”

“¡You psychotic shithead!”

& then the curtain rose, & they all stood frozen red.

Under the sickly sunset-yellow sky they looked @ the 4-way highway before them, screaming with racing car after car.

Then they looked @ each other–but Foot only @ a glance. It didn’t dare look Meter in the eye.

Then Foot shuddered when it saw Meter reach its hand out toward Foot, as if–No. That’s impossible.

It took a few steps ‘way from Meter with a deep frown.

I’d better get out o’ here soon, before that thing decides it wants to touch my instruments or something.

Quit being a bitch. Be an Imperial.

Foot took a deep breath & then stormed down the highway, only to be run o’er by the ghost o’ Herby the Politically-Correct Crab.

Moral: Racists should protect themselves by staying ‘way from busy highways.

But every time they’d point to their cheek & say, “Lord, there’s–”

The Lord raised a hand straight up into the air. “¡Don’t call me crazy! Off to the whips.”

This happened a dozen times, & still the Lord ne’er learned that he still had blueberry jam on his cheek, sticky from the sun.

That was when the flies came, their fingerlike legs clamping & unclamping gainst his hairy skin like suction cups.

“¡Somebody get these flies off me!” he shouted.

But nobody dares to go near such a freakish mutation as he was now & ‘ventually a fly flew into his throat & choked him to death.