Mo’ Stories

But the hardest part wasn’t following the spaghetti code that made up that recipe, but getting the ingredients — in particular, he had to get someone still ’live within a certain district o’ the city, based on complex calculations o’ the moon’s position relative to the earth. So he had to plan hard to decide who to capture & the way in which he’d do it — without getting caught, ’course. Nothing ruined a topaz tortellini like hard prison.

But ’twas always worth it when Chef Torte finally bit into that tortellini & felt that sweet-&-sour lymph stretch its succulent arms down his tongue.

The most notable thing ’bout the Mudos is that they didn’t just have foul words, but believed that all words were foul. They considered saying anything, no matter what language, obscene. Saying, “¿How do you do?”, in English was the equivalent o’ saying, “Go fuck yourself”.

As one can imagine, this has made any kind o’ “Mudo language” very elusive. While researchers were able to find common patterns one could call words, & e’en linguistical patterns, none could find definitions beyond, well, “Go fuck yourself”, or perhaps the million other ways to say vulgar things to someone in English.

E’en the name o’ their tribe was given to them by others: early Spanish Boskeopoleon settlers, who simply called them the Spanish word for “mutes”. But as research has shown, this is not strictly accurate, for Mudos don’t consider speech to be illegal or morally wrong; it’s simply a way to let someone know you’re pissed @ them & that they should watch out.

This shouldn’t lead others to mistakenly believe that Mudos can’t communicate ’mong each other or with others amicably. To make up for their rare use o’ speech, they have a much richer form o’ body language. In particular, they have far mo’ complex nuances in facial expressions.

@ 1st Trey Orta was horrified when he realized the community was discussing the mark on his cheek, till he was mollified when he found out he wasn’t the only 1.

But then his discomfort began to grow @ what he heard the community discuss: the likelihood that the suave & charismatic, but quite pale, capitalist up on the castle on the hill might’ve been involved.

Now that he thought ’bout it, his cheek did seem to itch a bit, & he did feel the urge to drop out o’ med school & start a business selling residential vending machines.

Whenever Kylie Keys saw ’nother human, she had to take a short video clip o’ them on her camera, no matter who they were, which made getting a job or not being kicked out o’ a restaurant difficult.

But ’twas worth it, for inside these video clips was all these various peep’s juicy tonis. She s’posed that most people called this “souls”, but she knew there was quite a bit o’ difference ’tween them. For 1, tonis wasn’t a gas, as most people imagine souls to be, but a thick, syrupy liquid, & certainly wasn’t ethereal, but very much concrete.

In the half second before the judge slammed the hammer down, Shakira Passmore had to dig through the mo’-than-100-page transcript in a desperate search for loopholes that could stop the judgment & free her from the clutches o’ the pendulum blade. Her only blessing was her obscure power to slow time so that a second took an hour.

What was less a blessing was that the entire transcript was in Jupiterian, & she didn’t know a letter o’ that language. It made her truly wish she’d been born with teleportation powers ’stead o’ the ability to procrastinate the inevitable.

Mayor Herbert Sunday scratched the side o’ his sweating face. Despite being late October, it sure was a hot day out.

I don’t know if the people would like that very much, Sir.

The gray-faced woman with sharp fangs & a blood red robe rose slowly, causing her chair to shudder a creak. She slowly reached a bony, wrinkled hand forward onto the table, & like a fleshy egg, its fingers twisted open & the hand produced a wad o’ bills.

Mayor Sunday rose a brow & then snatched up the bills. After a second o’ rapidly counting them, he pocketed them & cleared his throat.

I’m sure I could ’splain to them what a addition to land values & economic development your exciting haunted house would be.

1 rainy afternoon, Contessa Canfield, unemployed & hyped up on sugar, though too tired to get up from the couch, gazed @ the flashing TV as a man in a flashy suit spoke to her.

Just reach up & press “Yes” — yes, just reach right up & press that button, & you’ll get a chance to be a whole person, full o’ energy, passion, popularity, & the technical & practical knowledge to become a world-builder, Contessa Canfield.

Cantessa’s droopy eyelids rose as she struggled to rise herself, despite her aching back & head that felt like a burnt egg.

& then the commercial ended & she was lost ’gain in Judge Joffrey presiding o’er 2 homely, beligerent people arguing o’er a dent in one’s minivan.

On a rainy night, the not-so-young-anymo’ woman heard a knock. ’Pon opening the door, she saw an official in the indigo robes o’ the Castle.

King Wisteria heard through the drips o’ his all-reaching grapevines the fellows you met with last night. We want to come in & meet with you tonight on our king’s behalf.

The woman nodded. But we can’t talk without tea.

’Course.

It took less than 5 minutes for her to prepare a special brand o’ tea for all the officials. They were courteous ’nough to wait till their 1st sip to begin talking ’bout her crimes, after which she bogged them down with arcane legal loopholes, so that before they had a chance to rise ’gain, they had collapsed onto the ground.

’Twas on an October afternoon o’ her 11th year that Leola decided she wanted to become a reality chef.

She & her mother had just come home from the library, where, ’mong other books, Leola had picked off the shelf @ a whim a book on the most famous chefs, & she immediately went to her room & spent the rest o’ the day & evening reading ’bout the chefs who made Mt. Everest through centuries o’ blending Stormy Street ice cream, lemon halibut, vanilla extract, & various other rare inredients, or the chefs who baked Death Valley for decades, while sprinkling on the lettuce leaves that would grow into cacti & the bread crumbs that would grow into bovine skeletons.

She was remembering that all now, in her 18th year, as she walked toward her chemistry class, her 1st on her 1st day @ BU.

The pale-skinned robber was dressed in all black, from the hood o’ his black jacket to his sagging black jeans. The only variance was the silver cross that dangled from a chain round his neck, gleaming in the exquisite evening light. Said light didn’t deter his break-in.

He did stop & turn, though, when he saw the owner o’ the manor, also pale-skinned & in black, but much older, with a receding hairline, & dressed in a tuxedo with coatails that stretched out so much, they looked like a cape.

The owner, seeing the robber, raised a hand & becknoned him forward. Come. Come.

But the man in black raised his iron pistol @ the owner, causing the owner to shrink back into the shadows with a shriek.

Give me your valuables, or I’ll put this bullet in your brain.

The owner lowered his head just ’nough to look @ the robber, but still cringed @ the sight o’ the gleaming metal. If you insist. Come with me. I will give you something mo’ valuable than anything any mere mortal has.

The robber smirked but followed the owner down into the basement all the same.

No one e’er saw that robber after that night… a’least, none who lived afterward.