THE COBLESKILL PROPOSITION

     +                                                


                                                                          JMJ
                                                              Dedicated to my wife
                                                           Jacqueline Avril-Crumish
                                                            Jacquie - Toujour Royan


                                               THE... COBLESKILL PROPOSITION




Journal of  The... Cobleskill Proposition
aka 'The Big C' Proposition
Shadow Trackers                                                                 copyright 2010   (cc)
P.O. Box 11
Howes Cave, N.Y 12092

Original copyright 1996.  (cc)


 This journal 'The... Cobleskill Proposition'  aka 'The Big C' Proposition' is protected under International copyright law against reproduction in any manner.  Reproduction, duplication or transmission by any means including: Fax, copy machine, photograph, audio recordings, electronic media, computers and all and future adjective's that computer terminology is capable of is expressly prohibited. All legal rights and remedies attendant to the copyright holders (Bill Crumish & Jacqueline Avril.) will be enforced under copyright laws domestic and foreign.

                                                               Publishing rights owned by:
                                                               Magic Moments Publishing

                                  
                                                                                   ***
                                  
                                                  'THE... COBLESKILL PROPOSITION'   

                                                            MISSION PREPARATION
                                                                        
                                                  JOURNAL ONE  OF  TWO JOURNALS

Prologue:

                  When dealing with insanity it helps to give the perception that one is insane.

On October 1, 1946 the International  Military Tribunal at Nuremberg, Germany sentenced Martin Bormann, Adolph Hitler's (Dolph to his closest conspirators) private secretary, and many believe ran the Third Reich in the late thirties and early forties to the Second World Wars end, and who had a most powerful control over Hitler.  Martin Bormann was sentenced to death (in absentia) by hanging along with twelve other Nazis of the total 22 defendants.

Martin Bormann, was found guilty for, Crimes Against Peace, War Crimes,  Crimes Against Humanity which included murder, enslavement, deportation, crimes committed against civilian populations before and during the war. Crimes against prisoners of war.  Crimes of mass murder of millions.  And in 1948 the crime of Genocide was added.

It is said by other Nazis who knew Bormann that he tried to escape from Berlin in the last few days of the war as the Russians fought their way into the German capital.

In 1998 German DNA expert Wolfgang Eismenger is said to have matched DNA samples from Bormann's relatives to bones found near the Berlin Lehrter subway train station near where Bormann was last seen by fellow Nazis.  It was also suggested that Bormann had several distant relatives killed and buried in that spot on the advise of  Doctor Josef Mengele who was experimenting with genetic codes on concentration camp prisoners.  It seems Bormann and Mengele knew what was coming in the years ahead.  It was called 'Sequence of Life or Gene Codes' in the thirties and forties. Now DNA.

Mengele's experiments on concentration camp prisoners, and supported by Bormann, was to prove that cancer cells stop the telomeric clock which stops aging.  The target was to stop aging without the ill effects of cancer.

Prior to the Russians entering Berlin, Bormann issued orders under Hitler's name, which he was authorized to do by Hitler, to transport four hundred thousand ounces of gold, three hundred thousand ounces of platinum, three thousand carats of diamonds, over a billion dollars in various currencies , ninety five tons of gold bars (1945 value 150 million U.S.) not to Argentina but to a mainland island near Malatupo Island off the coast of Panama.

 Six Reich submarines, with orders to depart for Argentina, have never been accounted for and believed to have been sunk or scuttled.  Rumor has it Bormann was on one of those subs and had changed the orders to sail to Panama where he had prearranged connections.

Martin Bormann,  lunatic, arch-criminal, murderer, thug, megalomaniac and narcissist considers himself  'The' ladies man and unbeatable dancer of the highest championship quality.

Those in the Third Reich that met Martin Bormann (The Brilliant Grinning Lunatic) all agreed "It was like being in the presence of 'Pure Evil.'  A coldness like a dead area.  To look into his eyes was as if one is being drawn irresistibly into never ending darkness.   Others said it was flirting with Satan itself.  A glimpse of hell.  A destroyer of, people, cities, countries."

  This first Journal takes us on a bizarre mission 'prep' toward the actual mission to prove or disprove if Martin Bormann still exists  Don't expect normal military mission preparation.  This particular type of mission requires 'thinking out of the box.' It takes a lunatic to catch a lunatic. And, perhaps, just perhaps a little tongue & cheek which is evils Achilles heel.

                                                                       ***

Cobleskill, New York:                Known  as 'The Big C.'
Doctor Magie Carousel:              Her greatest weakness is her brilliance.
Steve Ptah:                                   His greatest strength is his stupidity.
Herr Schutzstaffel:                      Well... do you believe in demons straight from...  ?
Dzerzhinsky Street:                     Street were KGB is located,  Moscow Soviet Union.
Pakistani ISA:                              Pakistan Intelligence Bureau.
Dim-mak:                                    The deadliest martial art ever invented.
Tranny:                                        Transgender individual.
Finger unit:                                  Military term for 5 team members to locate terrorist, etc...
Section 8:                                     Military Term for 'Koo Koo.'
*drift:                                           Herd of  hogs *2nd meaning.
Dodo                                            French slang (domir)  Sleepy-time.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
                                                                                 ***


                                                      THE  'BIG C' PROPOSITION  (cc)
                                                 FIRST JOURNAL OF TWO JOURNALS


JOURNAL ENTRY:

TUESDAY
15 FEBRUARY 1994
5:33P.M.

COBLESKILL, (Known as 'The Big C.') NEW YORK. O'TANNENBAUM'S, TOP OF THE HILL  FIVE STAR RESTAURANT OVERLOOKING A PINE FOREST AND THE SCENIC, HISTORIC AND HAUNTED VILLAGE BELOW. A COLD SNOWY, GHOSTLY, DARK GRAY LATE AFTERNOON GALLOPING INTO NIGHT.

"Deception only works if it reinforces the preconceptions of the people you want to fool."  (per)U.S. Army's Edgewood Arsenal via Sargent C. and probably Attila The Hun among others.

"The most important thing to remember about what we do is always make sure everyone we go up against underestimates what we know and what we can do."  Steve Ptah a tracer of missing persons tells Doctor Magie Carousel, theoretical physicist, mathematician and scientist extraordinaire at their first official planning mission meeting.

Doctor Carousel prefers to be called Magie (Pronounced 'Majee' - French slang for the word 'Magic.') She is wearing a lavender cotton turtleneck with black slacks and Yenta Yoiks black snow boots slip on style. Her black water repellent fur-lined jacket rests on the back of her chair. Magie has her hair in a ponytail held by a lavender band she made herself from precious small jewels.  Lighting  on melting snow on her brunette hair gives the impression it is studded with miniature diamonds. She does not wear makeup only a peaches and cream complexion sporting a light tan and a passing kiss of freckles renders her stunning.

The ambiance of the restaurant is prolific and warm, contrasting markedly with the darkening gloom and continuing snowfall outside. They are sitting at a candle-lit table next to the wall size windows that run along the front of the restaurant facing the almost empty, snow-filled parking area.

Stirring the chocolate chaud they both ordered with cinnamon sticks; the East Indian spice toys with their sense of smell. Piped-in music plays melodies of the 'Lost Gypsy Caravan.'

Ice has no trouble clinging to the outside window glass giving one the feeling it is trying to work its way inside encouraged by the soulful melodies. Occasional headlights cut through the arriving night sending flares like shots of surreal illumination into the almost deserted restaurant.

An attractive waitress, dressed in black slacks and white blouse with a blasphemous purple bow tie, sits behind a small corner bar- lost in her crossword puzzle.

"In other words,"Magie said, in her seductive, melting amber voice that can trap men for eternity once they hear her melodious call as she speaks-- then tapping her beautiful shaped pouting lips with her linen napkin after taking a sip of her chocolate chaud, "be a little scatter brain,"

"That's it," Steve said glancing out the chatoyant ice layered picture window.

"Cleverness masked by stupidity." Magie stares at Steve with a hint of a superior smile.

"Let us not get carried away but you get the point." Steve holds his index finger over the flickering candle flame then blurts out "El yow."

"Why did you do that?" Magie asked, looking at Steve with a stare she once used seeing a man fishing at Cape Cod without a fishing rod, line or hook reeling in a big fish before the ambulance came to take him away to a reinforced rubber room.

She told that story to Steve while standing on line at "Who's Not Here" Supermarket at Icelickers Mall on the east end of the 'Big C'.  Steve's response was, "Certainly a man has the right to go fishing without a fishing rod line and hook."

Steve looks at Magie with raised eyebrows. "... er, there is something about a flickering flame that seems to draw me-- and I wanted you to know how macho I am holding my finger over
 a flame for an interminable length of time."  his voice was low, almost a whisper, yet strong calm and decisive.

"Interminable length of time," Magie scoffs. "It was less than a fraction of a nanosecond before you yelled like a little-- And most people yell 'Ouch,' " Magie chastised. "Who yells 'El yow?' "

"Impressed with my facility for the Spanish language," Steve said.  His swelling chest pushing out his winter-blue Air Force sweater over a white dress shirt. Sparkling droplets of that melting snow on his sweater reflecting the candle light from their table.  His blue jeans creased military style. He kicks his black winter combat boots against the side of his chair to get some  of the stubborn ice on the ringlets to dislodge. His dark brown hair with silver streaks shooting through it combed 'Ducks Ass' style from the late 1950's.

  Those diamond droplets of melting snow dripping on his face. He rubs his forehead with his linen napkin then tosses it back on the table. Steve doesn't use aftershave.  Something about jungle work. Too easy to be found by people you don't want to find you.

"Spanish?"  Magie challenged, leaning back a little more trying to adjust her sitting position on her chair. "That's not--"

"Of course you're impressed."  Steve takes a slug of his chocolate chaud. "But enough about my linguistic abilities.  The next thing to remember when working with me in the field is 'situational awareness.'  Always know what's going on around you."

"Anything else?" Magie asked.

"We will be working with my old 'alma mater'  Special Covert Operations Unit 107.  It's known as 'The Cloak-Room."

"Steve I know that.  I have 'Top Secret' clearance too.  It's an assassination unit developed in the early 60's at Edgewood Arsenal in Maryland under the 'Pontius Pilate' experiments.  It turned out the most dangerous people in the military.  Someday you'll have to tell me about those horrible tortures you went through.

"Ah, I've forgotten them.  Can't remember anything. On this mission you've been cleared for 'Above Top Secret.' "

" 'Nalod' clearance," Magie whispered like a soft summer evening breeze.  "I'm impressed."

From the far reaches of a hidden kitchen  a tray of crashing glasses and plates can be heard exploding. getting their attention for a moment.

  "I hate broken glass," Magie said, grinding her teeth as she looks back at Steve.  "If one steps on glass splinters it takes forever to get them out.  That's why I only attend private beaches where glass is never allowed."

"Who cares?  Wait a mo... That's right," Steve said, turning to look into her violet-green eyes. "I forgot about you being a nudist."

"Clothes optional not nudist," Magie corrected harshly again adjusting her position on her chair.  Her facial expression displaying some pain.  "Strange you forgot.  Most men... well that's all they want to talk about."

'Huh?' Is something wrong with your chair?  You seem to be in some discomfort."

"What are you talking...  Oh.  Nothing  no...  uh... one of my research assistants is a practical joker.  Yes that's what I mean.  Put a tack on my desk chair in my office."

"Beware of tetanus," Steve cautions.  "You want to sit on my jacket?"  Steve's black military jacket lies across the back of an empty chair at the next table.  The snow on it has now metamorphosed into splotches of water gripping his jacket with pangs of desperation.

"No... er... thanks.  I'll be fine.  My work at the Institute requires all scientist to be up-to-date on all shots."

"Oh yes," Steve said pausing to take another gulp of his chocolate chaud.  "The Institute where you do all that 'Top Secret' research for the military.  And that idiot head of your Institute that looks and walks like a beached Walrus.  Your boss, what's his name?"

"Myron Insolentt," Magie said with a disgusted look.  "He prefers to be called the--"

"I know," Steve said shaking his head while he examines his cinnamon stick.  "The Fuhrer."

"Actually the Beloved Fuhrer.  You know... Washington."  Magie gestures circling the side of her temple with her index finger. "Always mumbling something about being 'the ruler of the universe.' "

"Doesn't any one read about history anymore?"  Steve asks, holding his cinnamon stick up to the light as it drips tiny droplets of his chocolate chaud.

"What are you doing?"  Magie questions.  "Stop that.  Anyway, Insolentt knows nothing about science.  A political appointee.  His Ph.D. is in Political Science.  Insolentt's dissertation was on: 'The Political Importance of Size of Cafeteria Trays for Grade School Students in Bolivia.' I can't stand him."

"And he's the head of one of the most 'Top Secret' research sites in the country," Steve said, shaking his head, dive-bombing his cinnamon stick into his chocolate chaud while making a Messerschmidt dive bombing sound.

"Idiot.  Your like a four year old.  Insolentt's only a titular head," Magie said holding her head high.  "The swine is the boss but, I'm in charge--

"Sort of like our relationship,"  Steve inserts.

 "He's in that new position assigned by Washington for all government agencies. 'The Political Officer.' "

"I see him roller skating occasionally at the Tunguska Roller Rink at Deep Wood Warnerville," Steve said, looking up at the snow covered glass ceiling.  "I must admit he's pretty agile for a bloated Walrus."

"Yes.  Not too many 7th of a ton vertically challenged individuals can do a kip and on roller skates.  Insolentt and my sage Doo Doo Foozoo are forming some kind of Roller Derby team," Magie said, her words on fire with disapproval.  Flummery at its best, or, worst.

 I must admit though, Warnerville is a very nice scenic and historical place.  And who could pass up a delicious, original Pee Wee Revolutionary War Patriot Burger.  My sage Doo Doo can't.  Of course I usually have sweet, organic, non fattening salads, which only Pee Wee can make-- the one and only 'Warnerville Rainbow Sage' salad.  If it wasn't  for my sage Doo Doo, I would have never known about Pee Wee's.  The ISI Pakistan Intelligence Group eat there whenever they are passing through.  Of course they always stop and pay a courtesy call to my sage, Doo Doo."

"Courtesy call... the Pakistani ISA? Doo Doo Foozoo," Steve chuckles to himself. "What kind of name is that for a gangster?  A Masnadiere?"

"Masnadiere?"  Magie challenges.  "I think not."

"It means--"

"I know what it means," Magie said sarcastically with a scoff and raised eyebrow.  "I speak several languages including Italian."

"Simultaneously no doubt," Steve said.

"Huh?"  Magie cocks her head.

"Anyway, it's older than the Mafia.  I'm not really sure why they call your sage 'The Noggin.'   I always thought they call him that because of the peculiar shape of his bean.  Or maybe he was in charge of that facility if he was in the Navy.  I mean on a ship it's called 'The He--"

"I know what it's called.  Your jealousy and envy of my sage is noted and that's something you better remember when we go to confession." Magie said, sticking out her tongue.  "But, I prefer no one call him 'The Noggin.'  It's so-- so--"

"So egg'y," Steve yucks.  And what's the story about your sages nose?  It looks like it exploded and someone tried to glue it back together."

"Steve, be kind.  My sage is always trying new explosive remedies to clear his nasal passages.  Chairman Moe... I mean Mao protocol requires you must make believe you don't notice my Doo Doo Fazoo's nose.  I have broken him from using Semtex to clear those stuffy nasal passages.  Now I'm working on my sage to stop using Black Powder.  The pharmaceutical  medications have no effect on my sages stuffy nasal passages at all.   It's taking all my Dim-mak healing skills."

"Semtex?  Black Powder? Has he tried C-4? Yeah... anyway good luck with that.  Well, I ask you again as I asked you a year ago... what does a sage do?  Or should I ask what does a sage doo doo?  I mean your 'Noggin' is so short he keeps trippin' over his necktie."

"Swine," Magie whispers between closed lips. "Short jokes?  I'm so disappointed in your lack of--"

"Yeah, you're right Magie. Sorry."
 
 "Besides my sage Doo Doo has stopped wearing neckties because of that tripping.  Now when a tie is called for he wears his Nehru formal jacket designed by the world famous Indian Mutra Oakie Doakie--"

"Oakie Doakie?  Steve asked looking around.  "I'm on the planet earth... I mean this is the third planet from our sun."

Actually Steve it's the third known planet.  My investigations of our solar system is proving that there are--"

"Please Magie, I beg you no more intelligent talk I'm getting a headache.  I'm still trying to figure out why they call him 'The Noggin?  And I don't want it explained to me... again."

 "Of course you don't.  They call him 'The Noggin' because he's so brilliant.  My sage is a good person he is just suffering from Traumatic Potty Training Syndrome involving a rhinoceros when he was growing up.  I've said too much."

"I agree.  We are definitely in sync about that.  Anyway you call it, it still sounds like potty rage.  Tell me 'O' great one does your sage really keep a mule on his roof?"

"Vito,"  Magie said.  "it's not as strange as you may think.  There are 'unknowns' in my sages vast mansion.  Folks that came to visit and became lost or decided to live in the numerous passageways, so my sage reports."

"Parasites?"  Steve asked in that deep whisper voice that sounds like a anaconda stalking a deadly meal.

 "My sage's mansion roof is the size of a football field and, Vito has been trained to know every nook and corner of the mansion.  He has the run of the mansion from the roofs to the sub basements and caves beneath the house.  One rarely sees him because he was trained by a ninja.  He's like a shadow in the night. He walks in whispers.  Never seen, unless he wants to be.  Never heard unless he blows methane gas by accident.  I suppose you want to know why he has full range of the mansion."

"No.  Please enough mule talk. You know no locals believe that elongated stone building you scientists work in between here and Middleburgh on route 10 is a  monastery."  Steve gives her one of his quizzical smiles.

"That's why we are going to change it to a waffle mania bodega as a diversion." Magie said, brushing aside his comment.  "Now what about this proposition you're offering me?"

"Waffle mania bo--?   Okay," Steve said, massaging his temples with his thumbs.  "The the last thing to keep in mind is no one ever looks up.  The exception is firemen."

"Fire personnel," Magie corrects giving him a haughty stare.  "One must always be gender neutral."

"Huh?  Gender neu--?  Will you forget about the nudist thing."

"Nudist thing?  What?  What are you talking...  Never mind.  What does looking up have to do with this mission or even finding missing persons?"  Magie shakes her head as if she was trying to clear her brain from Steve's ability to fog peoples minds with his brilliant repartee.

"I don't know," Steve snaps taking a quick slurp of his drink while attempting to peer out at the parking lot, the clinging ice allowing a petite partial view.  "Just something you should remember."

"Astronomers also look up," Magie said in a matter-of-fact way.  "And then their are bird watchers--"

"Yeah, okay" Steve sighs holding up his hands in front of him.  "The point being--"

"I know the point,"Magie counters.  "I like the aroma of chocolate and cinnamon."  She went on, taking another sip.   "You did forget astronomers.  We mathematicians who are also theoretical-nuclear/astrophysicists always look up-- searching the heavens, the cosmos for--"

"Is this speech going to be long?" Steve asked.

"Swine," Magie mumbles again without moving her lips.

"Anyway I thought you were a physical therapist," Steve said, a look of profound bewilderment slapped across his face.  His jungle green eyes locking on to her violet greens.

"Not a physical therapist, moron.  I keep telling you I am a theoretical physicist.  There is a difference you know."

"It's still a bone bender, right.  I mean space snoopers are trying to bend the universe into what they believe." Steve demands.

"Space snoopers? Not quite, Steve.  A physical therapist uses exercise, massage, manipulation of the body to help individuals who are in pain and/or have disabilities.  A theoretical physicist... well to put it so you can understand-- deals with the speculative side of energy, matter, force--"

"That's what I said," Steve said impatiently.  "Now if you can stop talking about 'you' for a moment and quibbling over trifles, I am trying to offer you a proposition."

"Quibbling over trifles," Magie blurts almost spitting some of the chocolate chaud she just sipped.  "You accuse me of pettifogging?"

"Huh?"  Steve asked, looking out the frosted window.  "I didn't say anything about a pretty fog?"

"What?" Magie asked, crunching her brow.  "Now what are you babbling about?"

"You said I said you look like a pretty fog.  I don't even know what that means."

"Pettifog," Magie said in a raised voice.  "Not a 'pretty fog' you-- Now I don't know what we were talking about. I received my first doctorate when I was 14 defending my thesis on 'Irritation Physics.'

"You mean like... er jagged suppositories?  That kind of thing?"  Steve asked, making a sour face.

"Wha...  Jagged suppositories?  What are you--  Not a biological physic to clear the colon you--  I'm speaking of von Ettinghausen's work on 'Chemical Reactions Involving Gaseous Components.'  Thermodynamics."

Steve shakes his head.   "Look, I haven't had my evening meal yet.  Do you mind not talking about bowl movements, gas and thermometers."

Magie just stared at him.  Now it was her turn to shake her head.  "You can't be that stu--"

"I thought you agreed to meet me here to hear my proposition," Steve blurted out.  "I want to tell you about this mission but I need to know a couple of things about you to see if you can handle it and if you're interested in helping me.  Say, what is that slight trace of perfume you're wearing?"

"Oh, is it too strong?"

No, not at all.  I find it-- bewitching even mesmerizing.  I've always been meaning to ask you about that perfume you wear.  It seems to draw one to you like the...  the Circe of Homer's classic."

"Homer?  You surprise me Steve.  I took you for a comic book reader."

"I  yam what I yam, That's a Popeye quote the great Datu says in moments of Datu wisdom."  Steve boasts.

"Who?  That sounds famil...  never mind."

  "Funny books are my forte. I've dabbled in the reading of classic comic books."

  "Yes well...  don't worry Steve.  Unlike Homer's Circe  I don't plan to change you into a pig although there are a few...  anyway my perfume is called 'Phantastica.'  A potion made especially for me from poison berries and blossoms and secret sorcerer's ingredients made almost nonlethal by the HeHe people of Tanzania's witch doctor as a gift to me for warning--"

"Yes," Steve sighed. "I read about it in that insufferable scientific magazine with a name no human being can pronounce, your research saving the HeHe people from destruction by--"

"Steve," Magie said impatiently, leaning forward. "We attend Saint Teresa of Avila Roman Catholic Church together.  We've  known each other for 3 years since you first attended one of my lectures on
 'Method of Edge Wave in Physical Theory of Diffraction,' when all my colleagues, top scientists from all over the world, military officers, Congressional people and Senators from various appropriations committees where there and of course --you seated in the front row with that blank expression on your face raised your hand and asked me: "Do I still believe the moon is made out of green cheese?"

"Well," Steve said shyly. "I do think you overreacted.  I mean leaping off the stage and trying to strangle me."

"Only because you kept demanding an answer to your inane question.  You wouldn't shut up,"  Magie snaps. Then gaining her control back continues.  "Anyway, I apologized to you and had to go to confession.  I mean sometimes you just make me want to kill you. Thank goodness for my Dim-mak training that builds discipline."
(Magie, was referring to her three national Dim-mak championships and two world championships in the most lethal martial art ever invented.)

"Yeah," Steve leans back, putting down his chocolate chaud and wiping his mouth with his linen napkin.  "well I'm happy for your Dim-Wit training too."

"Dim-mak you dimwit,"Magie shouts, then looks sheepishly around and repeats with lip-biting anger. "Dim-mak, not dim-wit you dimwit.  That pathetic nitwit, my sage's muscle Goombah Wong calls it that.  Don't make me hurt you Steve."

"What is this thing you have for annoying details," Steve volley's back at her.  "Magie, everyone in the lecture hall was so stiff and serious I thought a little joviality was due just to lighten things up. No one in their right mind believes a big important brain like you believes the moon is made out of green cheese. You, er... don't do you?"

"Steve, these scientists, professors, politicians, government people have no sense of humor. They are all publishing the most current information on theoretical science.  Their livelihoods, their arrogance, pride all depend on publishing their latest works. They are all 'power-trippers.' They depend on me enlightening them.  I'm the person the people who write the textbooks come to.  I have an IQ well over 295... I didn't mean for that to slip out."

"Listen Magie,-- by the way your lower lip is bleeding."

"Oh," Magie whispered, dabbing her lip with the linen napkin.  "Is it still bleeding?" She leans toward Steve.

"Naw," Steve said, squinting. "You better have a doc look at that. It seems every time we're together your lower lip begins to bleed.'

"Yeah," Magie said shaking her head.  "Go figure."

"Listen Magie, don't worry about those jamokes at your lecture. For most of them their education exceeded's their intelligence."

"I never heard it expressed that way before." Magie said, her voice softly cautious but appreciative.

"Aw, those are not my words. They're directly from the Holy Spirit. And for you Magie, just the opposite is true"

"You know for a moment I thought I saw--" Magie, started to say.

"And don't worry about your IQ.  Hang with me and I'll get that precious IQ of yours up to a respectable number we can all be proud of.  Anyway when you--"

"Respectable number?  You pea brain.  That is the--"

"I don't even know what my IQ is," Steve said trying to sooth.

"Then you admit you have an IQ?" Magie shakes her head again and leans back in her chair. "You are one scary guy, Steve.  What do you want to know?  My favorite colors are lavender and turquoise.  My favorite movie is 'Citizen Kane.'  What about you?  What's your favorite movie?

"Oh that's easy. 'Terror in Teeny Town,' an all pygmy western."

"Pygmy western," Magie said with a sarcastic, scholarly laugh while shooting a 'Steve's chewing Loco weed again' look at him.

"Throw all your smug stares at me if you wish," Steve announces.  "I wouldn't expect a cosmetologist and a physical therapist to grasp the significance of pygmy contributions to American cinematic history."

"You are so strange," Magie, said staring at him as a physician ponders a diagnosis.  "How many freakin'-- times do I have to tell you, I'm not a physical therapist. I am a theoretical physicist.  The people who write the textbooks come to me for information and advice."

"Magie, if I told you once I told you a zillion times you have to get over this obsession you have with this detail thing.  It's unhealthy.  Next you'll be telling me you're not a cosmetologist.  You really have to get over this obsession you have with this psychopathic detail stuff.  It's really, really mentally disturbing."

"For the freakin' last time Steve," Magie said,squeezing her her chocolate chaud cup in her left hand and mangling her linen napkin in her right while employing all her Dim-mak control discipline.  "I am the top authority in all my fields. I study the universe.  I am renowned in my fields.  I am not a cosmetologist, which is also a noble profession as is physical therapy.  Cosmetologist deal with the skin, hair, and-- fingernails. Physical therapist treat illnesses and injuries by physical and-- mechanical manipulation.  My cosmology deals with the origin and structure of the universe.  I am a cosmologist not a cosmetologist. Tu compris, tete du viande."

"Huh?  Don't try to sweet-compliment me with your French. There you go again, with those annoying little details," Steve said. "You seem to be always getting hung up on semantics.  If you're gonna work with me finding persons who vanish sans a trace... no one else can locate you can't get bogged down with facts and clues. They just get in the way."

"You are joking." Magie leans back as she presses her napkin nervously on the table. "I mean you do that scatterbrained thing so well.  Perhaps... too well."

"Scatterbrained thing?" Steve questions seemingly confused.  "I don't understand? What scatter--"

"I am analytical, " Magie continues.  "methodical, orderly, detailed person. I crave clues in my research. My second religion after  God the  Father, Son, Holy Spirit, the Blessed Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary and all the Angels and Saints, after them and Eucharistic Adoration comes logic.  I throw myself at the alter of  'critical thinking.' "

"Critical thinking? Chaff," Steve points out.  "I mean that 'critical thinking' stuff."

"Chaff?"  Magie said, placing the tip of her linen napkin between her lips and biting down while almost growling.

"Logic?" Critical thinkin'-- what a waste," Steve gasped.  "The universe isn't logical.  If it were we wouldn't be here.  You above all people should know that.  The Great last Person, who had a Critical Thought was Devine, crucified almost two thousand years ago by idiots like us. Today, straitjackets and loony bins are expressly made for anyone claiming they have a 'critical thought.' "

Magie's silence is deafening.  Clearing her throat she states, haughtily, "It's obvious to me Steve you have a lot of inside experience with these... what you call 'loony bins.' "

"I hunt by instinct," Steve said, his voice in his low casual manner that hints at mystery.

"Please," Magie said with a professional smirk.

"Excuse me sir," the waitress in the blasphemous purple bow tie said coming to their table to see if they wanted refills of their chocolate chaud. "Did you drop this newspaper clipping?" She hands the clipping to him.  "It was next to your chair."

"Huh?" Steve grunted eloquently.

"Yes," Magie said. "I'll take a refill. Steve?"

"Huh? Oh yeah, sure."

"Would either of you happen to know an 8 letter word for a South African horn used at soccer games?"  The waitress asked before leaving the table to fetch their refills.

"The 'Vuvuzela,' " Magie said, without thinking.

After asking Magie how to spell it the waitress turns to Steve and said," Thank you," looking at Steve with an appreciative glance as she danced merrily away.

"A 'Boo boo' what?"  Steve asked, shaking his head, fingering the newspaper clipping.

" 'Vuvu' not 'boo boo.'  'Vuvuzela,' " Magie said, in her matter of fact way.  "One blows into it. The most annoying musical instruments ever made.  It is the only musical instrument banned by the Geneva Convention."

"Banned by the--" Steve started to say before being interrupted.

 "Let me see that clipping." She takes it from Steve's hand with the swiftness of a mongoose avoiding a cobra strike.

"Do you mind?"  Steve asked. "What's on it?"

"Oh this has to be yours," Magie decrees.

"What?  I didn't have a newspaper clipping with me."

"It reads," Magie said: "MEET FULL FIGURED WOMEN!"

"That's not mine," Steve protested. "I don't want to meet any full figured women."

"Of course," Magie said, a sly smile tickling her lips.

"Maybe someone cut it out for whats on the other side of the paper," Steve said, making a disapproving face.

Magie flips the clipping over like a card shark dealing from the bottom of the deck, holds the the paper closer to the table candle and reads: "MALE DRIVERS WHO CONSTANTLY SPEED HAVE SMALL--"

Just then some person, dressed as a Harlequin Punchinello passed the table doing rollover somersaults at a very high speed.

"What the--" Magie started to say-- the clipping catching fire on the candle flame-- as she dropped it embers rocket upwards.

"Try not to burn the place down before our refills arrive," Steve said, watching the 'somersaulter' disappear out the back entrance that leads to the deep interior of the building and connecting to the award winning, renowned  Kublai, Fran and Ollie Butterfly hotel.

"Oh," Magie said, shaking her head as the waitress brought the refills to the table. "Pamplemousse, he startled me.  I had forgotten about the County's  annual--"

"Pamplemousse?"  Steve interrupted. "That means 'Grapefruit' in French. What are you talking about now? You don't mean  'Pamplemousse' that makes believe she's a tranny Go Go dancer at Molly's Irish Tavern down below here at Icelickers mall?"

"The same,"Magie said surprised Steve didn't know the most famous, entertainer in the county was a tranny.  "And please don't use the term 'tranny.'  The Chairman Moe... I mean Mau  wouldn't like that. The Chairman's little red book calls for the use of 'Alternate Life Style Person.' "

"Chairman?  Please don't start that PC stuff again.  You mean the Go Go dancer is really a guy?  I always thought that was just Molly's Dzerzhinsky Street advertising hype." Steve said in a shocked tone.

"Everyone knows he's a Soviet, I mean Russian, spy only during Winter Fest and only in the international somersault race," Magie lectured. "Starting at the 'The Big C' Park down Morning Street ending at  Molly's Irish Tavern. The rest of the time Pamplemousse is a true Go Go girl.  My sage has an organ grinder Mau Mau whose monkey is also named 'Pamplemousse.  Very popular name in these parts.

"Winter Fest?  You  sure Pamplemousse is a real tranny," Steve coughed the words.

"Who?  The monkey?  Not that I know," Magie said.  "Now about 'Winter Fest--' "

"Are you sure you're on the right planet?" Steve asked, taking another slug of his chocolate chaud refill."  You know parallel universes can get confusing. What Winter Fest?"

"You know Steve, the 'Schoharie County Annual Winter Fest Rolling Thunder Somersault' contest."

"Somersault Winter Fest...   Rolling Thunder? What are you nuts?  I never heard of--"

"C'mon Steve, you really are beginning to scare me, again. How long have you lived here? Either you're the one that's on the wrong planet or you have to get out more.  Every New Year's Eve in 'The Big C' hundreds of somersaulting aficionados from all over the county take part."

"Stop calling 'The Big C,' 'The Big C.'  No one  calls 'The Big C,' 'The Big C.'

"Steve I pray for your sanity returning every night."

"Thanks,"  Steve said with a sarcastic arrow let go from his deep voice bow. "Wait a mo," Steve continued, placing his cup back down with a forceful motion. "You're not talking about the nut, dressed as a winter time Punchy Jello that--"

"Do you mean by any chance...The Harlequin Punchinello," Magie questioned and corrected as if she were speaking to a pupil wearing a dunce cap.

 "Yeah yeah... that stole a chicken from old man Grunt's chicken coop and was chased through town holding that squawking chicken by the neck as he was being pursued by the villagers?   Then stopped to place roman candles and other fireworks in every orifice he has-- last winter, at night, in the middle of a major snowstorm, lit them and did rolled up somersaults down Morning street, being chased by the same villagers carrying pitchforks and torches, as he began setting a number of parked cars on fire as he passed?"

"Ah, Magie said, relaxing a bit. "The Traditional Grand Opening of the 'Winter Fest.' Then you were there at Winter Fest opening last year.  You actually had me worried for a moment.  And as far as the parked cars being set ablaze.  Hello.  There is a reason there is no parking on Morning street during a blizzard."

Steve pushes his chair a little ways back from Magie.  "I, ah...  I don't think I want to talk about this anymore."

"Too bad that clipping went up in smoke," Magie said.  "Are you a fast driver?"

"Can we get back to the proposition-- the mission," Steve said as if he was ordering a big mouth bass that's on the menu from an argumentative waitress.

"I just find it interesting that a newspaper clipping like that was under your chair," Magie whispered coyly.  "I'll have to add another variable on the algorithms I'm computer processing on you to understand how your mind can function in that fog bank you call a brain."

"Save the kudos for me I'm not impressed and forget about the stupid clipping  and alligators who have rhythm," Steve snapped in a low but controlled voice holding up his hands in front of him and pushing them somewhat toward Magie. "As I was saying before you began spinning a web of your fantasies."

"My fantasies?" Magie said, sitting upright.

"I hunt by instinct, Steve said in that low alluring voice of his.  "You ever hear of the 'Heisenberg Uncertainty Principal?' "  Steve's tone carried the patience of a father explaining to a 6 year old how God carries babies down from heaven so they may be born by the mommies-to-be.

"Heisenberg," Magie responded with a professional sneer, lifting her head up a bit and leading with her exquisite chin.  "Of course.  Who hasn't.  I cut my baby teeth on his Principal."

"Well excuse me little Miss 'know-it--"

"I'm surprised you know about 'Heisenberg's' theory though," Magie stated with curiosity sprinkled on her brow.  "Actually shocked is a better wor--"

"Well then you know Heisenberg states, 'Particles can appear in places where they have no right to be.'  I just change the word 'Particles' to 'Persons'  Now you know my secret of finding people no one else can locate."

"But you're oversimplifying 'Heisenberg's Quantum Mechanics Theory,' because you--"

"Oversimplifying? You accuse me of oversimp-- who's this mechanic guy?" Steve asked.

"Mechanic guy?" Magie shakes her head as she takes a deep breath. "What mechanic guy?--  Wait a minute. What am I doing arguing quantum mechanics with a mental... forget it."

"Huh?" Steve said, glancing out the huge frost plastered window pane.

"Why do you keep looking out the window?" Magie asked adjusting her sitting position again turning her head trying to see what he is looking at.. "You can't see much through the ice covered pane."

"I thought I... don't know. That car seems to be prowling."

"Just waiting for someone I suppose," Magie said.

"Yeah...  Maybe?  I just have a feelin'..."

"Steve, before you tell me about the mission... Well if we are going to be real partners-- there is something I feel I must tell you. Something about me. I mean I'm excited about going on one of your screwball adventures."

"Screwball 'missions,' " Steve corrects adamantly.  "Not advent--  I mean military miss--"

"Whatever.  As you know I wanted to do this for the past couple of years.  To get out of... of my 'fishbowl' academia and see the world-- get a few adventures in before I get... well too, you know--je ne sais pas.  Too lauded by my colleagues.  Actually, I should have mentioned this little peculiarity before. I mean just so you know when we're down in Panama."

"Okay," Steve said, finishing his chocolate chaud with several silent slurps. "Go ahead. Shoot."

The frosted window next to them begin to explode as bullets shred the massive floor to ceiling window panes sending glass throughout the 'Top of the Hill' restaurant. Then the glass ceiling they are sitting under begins to rip apart.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

TUESDAY
15 FEBRUARY 1994
6:35P.M.

West of 'The Big C.'

Doo Doo 'The Noggin' Fazoo's  Modified Victorian Mansion.  Spirit road, West 'The Big C,'
New York.  A blinding snowstorm rages.

'Goombah Revenge.'

"Look ya ferbonie," 'The Noggin' said, his voice sounding as if he were speaking through a tube that once held a roll of septic safe toilet tissues, to his driver, muscle and 'Certifiable'  Public Accountant, Goombah Wong.  Because of 'The Noggin's' 'Burnt Powder' aftershave it always smells, when one is near him, that he just came from a massive gunfight inside a telephone booth.

'The Noggin,' is dressed in a red and yellow ankle length silk robe with very long sleeves and straps that tie behind his back to give him a firm, straight fit.  At the hip the bottom half of the robe can be unbuttoned and becomes a sheik jacket which, he believes makes him irresistible to to women and farm animals.  His whole ensemble designed by 'The Russian Front,' House of Fashion.

 He dons a Friar Tuck cap (hair going round and nothing in the middle designed for bald men to show their profound lack of hair on their crown developed by Frau Tularemia of Terminal Security Prisons Systems for the Criminally Insane at Redacted, New York.)  that has a Friar Tuck cut exposing the zenith of his bare scalp with a macho-black mask that could easily be pulled down over his face to hide his identity in case of earthquakes or electronic phenomena.

They are in 'The Noggin's'  den surrounded with exquisite paintings, sculptures of slaughtered  rhinoceroses. The essence of 'The Noggin's' aftershave 'Burnt Powder' still hangs heavily in the air. To the right of the den are large ballrooms with highly polished teak wood floors.  The walls are covered in a vacuous deep purple and glazed pink. 'The Noggin' uses the ballrooms to roller skate and have classical parties and hold secret goombah chants. Organ-grinder music sometimes can be heard coming from some distant part of the mansion.

'The Noggin,' who suffers Messerschmitt-Phobia is a collector of World War Two barrage balloons and has numerous barrage balloons in this ballroom one of three, wide open, connecting ballrooms.  The barrage balloons are filled with hydrogen, floating all over the ballroom stuffed overhead like a hundred gallons of succotash in a 5 gallon cowboy hat.  All anchored to early blacksmith horseshoe-making anvils as the barrage balloons float midway between the floor and a ceiling so high the Baroque ceiling can hardly be seen because of the tightly packed barrage balloons.

About 25 feet up and just under the lowest floating canopy of barrage balloons is a small balcony overlooking all three ballrooms.  This is where 'The Noggin' entertains his party guests with his expertise on Kettle Drums.  All five Kettle Drums form a semicircle and are filled with hydrogen instead of air giving them a richer sound.  Due to several minor kettle drum explosions and numerous falls from the balcony  accidents 'The Noggin' now has a climbers rope safety harness attached to him and then secured to a doorknob on a door leading to the balcony along with a fire-retardant Lash LaRue black mask to protect his identity from himself if he accidently looks into a regular mirror.

 Back in his den, 'The Noggin' is seated on a pastel flowered 19th Century antique straight-back swivel heightening chair. The seat belted swivel  is a 20th Century addition 'The Noggin' added as he likes to puff up his cheeks and blow out air through his mouth to see if he can make himself spin.  Also 'The Noggin' at well under six feet tall, the swivel-heightening chair can give him altitude above his subordinates, enemies and others.  Usually he forgets to put on his seat belt.

Goombah Wong, 'The Noggin's' driver, muscle and 'Certifiable' Public Accountant is seated on his favorite yellow bean-bag chair from the early 50's.  He is attired in a white corduroy Zoot Suite so when he meanders downtown he fits in with the ambiance of Molly's Irish Tavern at Icelickers Mall where he hangs with the cool guys & gals of the county.  He involuntarily slicks back his bushy eyebrows with his split tongue.  The calender in the Molly's Tavern still reads February 14 1942.  The night Mort Pplop, the official calender page turner, disappeared under, some say, stupid circumstances.  Goombah Wong is on the case but, can't figure out when 1942 was.

The light from the part of 'The Noggin's' cap that does not cover his bald bean, 'The Noggin's' cue ball head that gives the impression that it comes to a point, is reflected from massive overhead recessed lights, wall lights and floor lights, dancing throughout the den as 'The Noggin's' head makes robotized moves.

'The Noggin' continues:  "Barney Bongos of Queens the biggest freakin' goombah in the whole world has challenged me to a Roller Derby contest.  His Piggy Banks Roller Derby Menagerie  against my team."

"Piggy Banks,"  Goombah Wong whistle-speaks as his split tongue probes the air to pick up the scent of any simian intruder but only the aroma of his 'Kong Spoor' skin bracer is evident.  When 'The Nogin' and Goombah Wong get together the combined scents remind one they are shooting Great Ape's in that telephone booth.  "Piggy Banks is the top Roller Derby team for meanness and cheatin' in the Roller Derby business.  They're the only Roller Derby team that can switch from skating on their feet to skating on their hands at a moments notice.  I mean they wear derby skates on their hands as well as their feet. I wanna see the monkeys. Where ya hidin' that Mau Mau organ-grinder and his ape partner that thinks he's a sailor?"

"Forget about the monkey's ya ferbonie," 'The Noggin' bellows,  his face turning rage-red.

"But 'Noggin' you ain't got a team,"  Goombah Wong announces nervously in that whistle tone as he flicks his tongue in and out.  Goombah Wong's eyes are permanently looking up at the ceiling and to the right as his face is pointed straight ahead. 

'The Noggin's' goombah maritime foghorn he has placed on his massive mansion roof, wails all clear.  No fog tonight just zero visibility as the snow attacks.

'The Noggin' pushes his swivel chair back and begins to collect air in his swollen cheeks as he prepares for a major blow.  His chair begins to turn as he slowly squeezes his air-filled cheeks.  Spinning and rising 'The Noggin' yells,  "I know that, ya ferbonie.  But 'The Noggin' is making inquiries.  'The Noggin' is gonna build his own ferbonie Roller Derby team ya ferbonie.  'The Noggin' beats Barney Bongos Menagerie then 'The Noggin' automatically becomes the biggest goombah in the whole world."

As 'The Noggin' rises in his chair, Goombah Wong plunks his sunglasses on to fend off 'The Noggin's' kaleidoscope burning glare from the sunken ceiling lights over 'The Noggin's' head which forces the  light to race insanely throughout like an exploding rash off his Friar Tuck area of his bald bean.

"Where's Magie?"  Goombah Wong asks shielding his sun glass covered eyes from 'The Noggin's reflected  laser beams.  "She gonna help you with the Roller Derby team?

Look ya ferbonie, I yapped a bit with my sweetie.  She thinks I'm nuts ya ferbonie."

"Thinks?" Goombah Wong said, still trying to figure out where the monkey's are.

"Look ya ferbonie, I've been havin' depressions on the phone with all the families, the Koreans, Russians, Nubian's, Gumbees, Dominicans, The Pall Mall Club, Amelia  Earhart, The Three Tons of Goombah Fun and... it all points to the Panamanians as the Best roller derby ferbonies in the world and trained by the--"

"Where are the monkeys?"  Goombah Wong interrupts, his tongue searching for any sent of the filthy beasts.

"I got ya ferbonie monkeys,"  'The Noggin' spits making a politically incorrect gesture with his pointy tassel toed, robe matching colored, sultan type slippers. "You and ya ferbonie monkeys. 

"I thought I saw..."  Goombah Wong starts to say, still looking up at the ceiling.  "How's Magie gonna help you with the Pomeranians?"

"Panamanians ya ferbonie.  She was tellin' me that... ferbonie moron she knows, Steve Ptah may take her on one of his ferbonie missions to Panama to find some missing person.  'The Noggin' was against it at first, I mean Doctor Magie Carousel being 'The Noggin's' goombah sweetie.  But, this Panama stuff fits right into 'The Noggin's' plans.  Ya see ya ferbonie  she dusts off these Panamanian roller skaters  then 'The Noggin' moves in to clinch the deal.  I even hear these Panamanians are so good they only skate backwards.  Ya know like the Philly-Loo birds only fly backwards."

"Yeah 'Noggin' Philly-Loo birds but how is your sweetie gonna dust them off?"  Goombah Wong asks till examining the ceiling with his eyes but his heads points directly at 'The Noggin.'

" 'The Noggin' got a plan, ya ferbonie."  'The Noggin' pulls the skin under his right eye down with his index finger.  A goombah contact in Panama, a goombah soldier, Pacifico 'The Angry Guy' Palumbo."

Goombah Wong flicks his tongue in and out excitedly smoothing down those untamed brows.  "What kind of plan 'Noggin?'   What kind a softenin' up plan ya got in your noggin, 'Noggin?' I means what kind a plan and--"

"Shad up ya ferbonie 'The Noggin' will tell ya this ya ferbonie."  'The Noggin' spinin' his chair as he fills his cheeks with air and prepares for another blow; his original blow-spin slowing.  It has to do with Anaphylactic shock, pig noises and --"

"In other words a Goombah plan. And maybe seein' the monkeys," Goombah Wong cries out hysterically.

"Will ya shad up with ya ferbonie monkeys, ya ferbonie."  'The Noggin's' facial muscles contort in his face until it resembles twisted tree vines trapped underneath a thin layer of grotesque red bark.  Veins bulging.  Arteries pounding.  Large, outward ears sending depraved semaphore signals. "And I'm sending you to follow them ya ferbonie so nothin' goes wrong."

"Yeah, yeah 'Noggin'," Goombah Wong said in a confusing tone, his tongue flicking.  "Tell me again what's Magie gonna do in Panama?"

"What?  Are you ferbonie dense?  I just told you ya ferbonie." 'The Noggin' spins higher and higher as rage-wind fills his cheeks.  "Barney Bongos is the biggest ferbonie gommbah in the whole world.  The reason he's the biggest ferbonie in the world is because his Piggy Banks Roller Derby Menagerie  ain't never been beaten.  But besides the Panamanians skating backwards I know something they can do no other ferbonie Roller Derby team can accomplish.  Ya see ya ferbonie they can--.

Phibb's 'The Noggin's' manservant interrupts.  "Beg pardon Sir Doo Doo ('The Noggin' claims to be knighted in England by a guy named Low Pan when 'The Noggin' got lost in the Stone Henge circle and couldn't find his way out.)  a phone call for you on the Foozoo phone."

"Foozoo phone,"  Goombah Wong repeats excitedly as he jumps for goombah joy then sits back down with goombah fatigue.  "I wonder what goombah is calling you, 'Noggin?'  And on the Foozoo phone.  Ya know only goombah's can call on the Foozoo phone."

"Will ya shad up ya ferbonie."

Phibbs hands the land-line Foozoo phone to 'The Noggin' who puts it on speaker.

"What?"  Goombah Wong yells sitting straight up.  "Magie's boss?  A non-goombah calling on 'The Noggin's' Foozoo phone.  Sacrilegious."

"Yeah, yeah. Hold on.  I'll talk to ya, ya ferbonie in a goombah splash."

"Talk to a non-goombah on the Foozoo phone,"  Goombah Wong shouts leaping from his bean bag chair and going into a sumo-fighting-crouch.  My world is crashin' down on me."

"Relax ya ferbonie,"  'The Noggin' said, deflating his cheeks for a moment attempting to control his spin and wrestling with the phone wire.  "I gave the ferbonie special goombah... special goombah deprivation.  Goombah-deprivation."

"Oh, well," Goombah Wong said, rising from his sumo war attack-crouch, his tongue again flicking the air but only picking up the scent of Chicken Poopalardie cooking two floors below in the Goombah-kitchen being prepared by 'The Noggin's'  former Nazi savant Gnadage Frau Puckarber.  "If you gave Myron Insolentt special goombah deprivation."

"Now 'Noggin' why you want me to go to Panama?  Ya want me to whack Ptah?"

"Look ya ferbonie, how many times does 'The Noggin' have to tell ya?'  'The Noggin' yelps in a high-pitched voice, spinning himself up higher and higher in an emergency blow.  "Nobody whacks Ptah until I get my Panamanian Roller Derby team.  What a I have to do to get through to you ya ferbonie.  Now, here is 'The Noggin's' goombah-plan.

"I know 'Nogin' like you say it has to do with asinine swamps and pigs feet. Wow." Goombah Wong flashes the secret goombah signal with his left hand making a fist and extending his  pinkie and thumb fingers straight out in a jerking motion as he takes the index finger of his right hand, bends it at the second knuckle and puts it between his teeth as he mumbles the words 'Asti-Casuni.'
  (This secret goombah-flashing can be a 'Jump for Goombah Joy' for joyful delight or a 'Goombah- Curse' that even makes the practitioners of evil-side voodoo flee in panic.)

"Shad up ya ferbonie."  'The Noggin' goes into a hyper spin-wrapping himself up in the telephone line tighter than an ancient Egyptian mummy wrap.  "Not asinine sweat and a pig greet ya ferbonie." Spinning himself higher and higher at a seemingly G-12 force.  'The Noggin's' ears wiggling and red, squeals goombah-style blab out of the side of his mouth, his bellowing words incoherent.

"Okay 'Noggin' now why do yuh want me to go to Panama?"  Goombah Wong's tongue probes the air again for any scent of great apes but scents only his 'Kong Spoor.' "Nothing better than a goombah-plan.  Maybe I'll see the monkey's?  Is that why Magie is goin' to Panama?"

'The Noggin' mumbles, goombah-style-anger, incomprehensibly out of the side of his mouth as he becomes a spiraling upward blur.  'Ya stupid ferbonie.  I'm tellin' ya--"

"Lookout 'Noggin' "  Goombah Wong shrieks.  Ya spinnin' right into --"
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

WEDNESDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
10:15A.M.

Dr. Magie Carousel's 3rd floor apartment
100 Morning Street, 'The Big C' New York.
Snow still fleeing as it is blasted by the wind.

'Hoov and Mouth is on the menu.'

"Well did you find out what happened last night?"  Magie asked Steve as she opened the door of her 3rd floor apartment.  The aroma of Pennsylvania Dutch rolled up peanut butter candies made with  potato strips and sugar burst forth in a pleasing bouquet of warmth in the cold weather that infiltrated the hallway, hitting Steve like a sledgehammer smacking a steer between the eyes in a slaughter house.  "Why did they tried to kill me."

"Us," Steve said, brushing the snow off his hair.  "They tried to kill us.  I don't have all the facts yet but, it was lucky for us the whole counties lights flickered for a moment just before they started blasting away. Threw their aim off for a second.  Even the waitress escaped serious injury.  My source said they have something to do with the IRA.  By the by...  You haven't seen an oriental albino gender confused giant in your travels around 'The Big C?' "

"Oriental... albino...?  Yes I run into a bunch of them everyday. No you moron."

"You sure,"  Steve asked suspiciously?  His real name is Adam Canwell. He use to be in hot women's shoes. But he made more money when he became a giant."

"Hot shoes? Adam Canwell an oriental albino giant? I think I would remember.  Someone else you ticked off no doubt.  How does one get an oriental albino giant so angry he, or she--  Where does one even find a--?  Never mind.  Wait IRA?"  Magie questioned sternly with surprise.   Er... ah... I mean... what did you do to the IRA to almost get me killed?"

"Us.  Do you know some idiot is doing push ups outside your door here on your third floor landing," Steve Ptah said, standing on a thick hazelnut colored doormat with the picture of a dragon swallowing the sun. With the word 'Heartburn' emblazed in Latin instead of 'Welcome.'

Magie looks over Steve's shoulder as she lets him in her hallway entrance.  "Oh him," Magie said in a softer welcoming tone   "Pay no attention."

"Pay no attention," Steve said removing his sunglasses.  "Everything is blinding white out there."

"Snow has a way of doing that," Magie pointed out, dressed in designer jeans by C'est Moi, a turquoise colored sweatshirt and bare feet, her hair combed back over her shoulders.

"What a ya mean, pay no attention?" Steve asked.  "The guy is wearing a white T-shirt in the middle of winter with the words "IF I GET PUNCHED IN THE EYE AGAIN... WATCH OUT!" printed on the back and a loin cloth for a trouser.

"Hey.  'The Big C' can be a lonely place, a very lonely place. In fact the whole county can be pretty lonely."  Magie snaps out of her momentary reverie.  "Says he a lone wolf Cuban shoe salesman. Brags he knows Castro.  His first name is Convertible.  I guess he was named after some Cuban car?  He's been trying to impress me for the past few days doing push ups in front of my door"

"Impress you?  What the blazes are you talking about?  If 'Convertible' is his first name he was named after a pull-out couch.  You're too young to remember the Castro Convertible pull-out couch.  The best pull-out couch ever made.   'Punched in the eye again?' I don't even know what that means.  Who is he again?"

"Blazes?"  Magie asked.  "Who says that anymore? Never mind.   You have a way of making the stupid sound reasonable.  Other than a lone wolf named Castro,... Convertible  shoe salesman from Cuba I have no idea who he is.  Just a pain in the butt I have to hop over whenever I come and go.  Anyway, you know the county courting ritual."

"County courting ritual?"  Steve asked.  " I don't--"

"Steve, don't tell me you don't know about the county courting ritual. Claiming not to know about Winter Fest is bad enough.  What are you a hermit?  Like I always tell you, you have to get out more.  It's always been part of the local courting ritual of males in the county.  He'll lose more than a quarter of his body weight trying to impress me doing push ups."

"What in Sam Hill are you talking about?"  Steve asked still frozen in her doorway."

"Sam Hill?  Will you stop using those antiquated expressions of surprise and disbelief.  I mean who still says that?"  Magie asked, staring at Steve hardly able to believe his ignorance.  "I mean I know it's slang, Sam being Salomon and hill being a euphemism for hell."

Steve  begins to say something with that bewildered look on his face that he has become famous for but Magie continues:

"C'mon Steve, you're really beginning to scare me again.  You must have done your share of push ups in front of some damsel or waifs door."

"Are you nuts,"  Steve demanded to know slapping snow off his jeans, and asking if he could come in.

As she motions for him to enter Steve said, "I never heard of such a stupid thing."

Steve enters and Magie slams her apartment door so hard that it blows the push up guy off her third floor landing.  Steve, bending over and removing his last snow covered boot is all most thrown forward  from the concussion of the door being imploded with such extreme prejudice.

"And you claim to be the... the 'situational awareness' man."

"That has nothing to do with--" Steve starts to say.  "What's that noise?  Sounds like someone falling down stairs.  Did you hear a scream?"

"I heard nothing. Anyway to get back to what I was saying, you're not a woman.  You probably wouldn't notice anyone doing pushups at your front door."

"I think I would pick up on it after a while, " Steve answers sarcastically.  "Especially if I had to keep hopping over the person.  You must a really got whacked on the head last night.  For rice flakes sakes Magie, wouldn't you be more impressed if he left a Rolls Royce with a chauffeur at you front door?"

"Steve, I live on the third floor.  That stairway goes straight up and down for three floors with only a small step-off landing for the second floor."

"Huh?"  Steve grumbles,

"Besides you know I'm not a material person.  You know that."

"Yeah, I know that. But that nut out there could be dangerous. I know your an expert dim-wit martial arts--"

"Dim-mak you--"

"Yeah, okay."  Steve said holding up his hands in front of him.  "That death-touch stuff.  There is no one you can't incapacitate by striking them in certain ways."

"Steve, I use Dim-mak for healing and self defense."

 "I read what happened to you last summer at the annual Summer 'Big C.'-Shindig.  Those gang members. They tried to attack your sage...  Doo Doo.  Who were they?"

"Oh that," Magie said modestly.  "They're called 'The Ouspensky's.'   And it's Sir Doo Doo.  Remember my sage was knighted."

"Knighted."  Steve said as if he was trying to rid of a bad taste in his mouth. "England can't be that hard up."

"Your so jealous,"  Magie said, shaking her head.  "Shall I tell you how it came he was knighted by the--"

"No please don't.  I'm not in the mood to commit suicide.  What gang would call themselves a noble name like 'The Ouspensky's'?  I just thought that was a misprint in the paper."

"Steve honestly, how do you survive from day-to-day not knowing this.  The ruthless, vile gang is named after the Russian philosopher, 'Peter Dimianovich' 1878 to 1947.  They go around protecting his philosophy of non-violence with violence.  Miroslav Elias was their leader. They are also offended by men who's heads comes to a point."

"Who's Philosophy?"  Steve asked.  A look of complete idiocy that he wears so comfortably well.

 Then studying  Steve's head, she said.  "Be warned. "

"Very funny," Steve said.   "Miroslav Elias was a Captain in the KGB."

  "The Komttet Gosuparstvennoy Bezopasnosti,"  Magie said thoughtfully.  "I always suspected they are behind 'The Ouspensky' gang."   Never the less, I mean there we were walking through the Shindig grounds in the evening, Sir Doo Doo and I--"

"Doo Doo Foozoo," Steve interrupted.  " 'The Noggin.' "

"Please Steve, I prefer you not call him 'The Noggin.'  I mentioned that to you before.  Call him Sir Doo Doo or Sir Foozoo.  I told you he was knighted in England for some secret work he did at Stonehenge."

"Secret work my... No.  I must have missed that part.  I can't bring myself to call a cartoon character any of those names.  I'll just call him your sage.  I mean a sage is a plant?  Right?  He thinks he's a sagebrush?  Is that it?"

"Porcine,"  Magie mumbles under her breath.  "Anyway, we were just strolling along enjoying the sights when all of a sudden these gang members spotted Sir Doo Doo as we passed the Ring Toss game and started tossing the rings on my sage Sir Doo Doo's head  because--"

Steve interrupts.  "I know, your sage's head comes to a point."

 "Exactly,"  Magie said with a sigh.  "As if a pointed head here is anything unusual for men of power in the county.  I asked them politely to stop but they wouldn't.  They wouldn't so I stopped them."

"And put them all in the hospital if I remember correctly.  But, whatever happened to 'The Noggin's'... I mean your sage's muscle?  What's his name?  Goombah Wong?"

"Oh yes, that bonehead.  We passed a cotton candy machine as it was spinning pink cotton candy when we entered the Shindig grounds and Goombah Wong became mesmerized.  It took me a week of intense Dim-mak healing to bring him out of his stupor.  And I still think he's not fully recovered."

"And that surprises you?"  Steve asked.  "Listen Magie, even if this Dim... er mak stuff is the deadliest martial art ever invented you still have to be careful.  This nut doing push ups  in front of your door may be violent.  Perhaps this guy is  'Peter  Demianovich' or a member of that gang... maybe Miroslav Elias himself."

"Hush," Magie said, holding her index finger up to her lips.  "He'll hear you.  You have no romance in your heart," Magie said, as she punch-shoves Steve toward the living room. "It's a romantic gesture.  Idiotic to be sure, but so pathetically... romantic.  Besides Demianovich was a peace-nick who died in 1947 from a gunfight with his protege.  I think his name was 'Opine Draws.' " 

"Open  wha...  Never mind.  If this gang is so enamored with this Russian philosopher, Demianovich why do they call themselves 'The Ouspensky's?' "

"Honestly, Steve do I have to explain every little detail to you?  Must I press your suit too?  It all started with--"

 "Huh?  My suit?  Please, no lectures on Russian Philosophy.  I can't take it.   Anyway, how can you say this push up guy's actions are... 'romantic.'  'Romantic?' "

"Forget about that idiot," Magie said in a more stern but still sweet voice.  "Did you or did you not find out why the IRA wanted to kill me... er us last night?"

Walking behind Steve to the living room, she performs various discreet ballet moves to avoid residue of melting snow brought in by him.

Her living room has a long soft sun-gold couch facing two inviting, well padded matching sun-gold armchairs.  A well used cherry coffee table, with padded corners, rest on a thick beige throw rug separating the opposing furniture.  The floor is of polished oak.  Several modern but simple well place lamps are situated to make reading easy no matter where one is perched, although there are enough white laced curtain windows to make lamp light unnecessary even on the most dismal days.

  A large bookcase contains an eclectic grouping of books in several languages.  The white walls hold several original oil landscapes and still life paintings signed by P. B. Numbers. The ceiling a fluffy-cloud white.  A long chalk board holds the words on top,  'JESUS 1st.  Others 2nd. Me 3rd.,' followed by dozens of what look like equations, formulas and a shopping list and a quote  'there were three minutes between the gunshots.'

  On a cherry wood desk, circa 1930, were papers, I guess an early computer, and several smaller more modern looking computers, a telephone and some other electronic looking equipment and a framed photograph of people that looked like it was taken in a coal mining area.  Another photo of what Steve assumed was a young Magie with classmates in front of her early school.  Over the small school house door was written 'South Armagh Grade School.'  From somewhere in her large apartment a recording of a lone piccolo player could be heard playing a dearth off key.

"Steve, you really didn't answer me.  Did you find out who and why they were shooting at me-- I mean us last night?

Magie takes his ripped black insulated flight jacket, white scarf to hang up.  The only thing dry on him is his white turtleneck and thick white socks.  She attempts a fake strangle on him as she takes a lavender towel and wraps it around his neck with gusto.

"What is that depressing sound?"  Steve asked fighting for breath.

"A recording of my sage's piccolo player.  I've never seen him. He was lost in my sage's vast mansion years before I met Sir Doo Doo.  My sage's cook and Svengali Gnadage Frau Puckarber leaves food and water at night in some of the mansions passageways.  Sometimes when I'm at the vast mansion all I can hear are the mournful demented off-key piccolo wails and well,--"

"Gnadage Frau Puckarber is she the one that goes shopping wearing a Nazi uniform?"

"Modified Nazi uniform,  you know the stupid Storm Trooper outfits they are all wearing in Gstaad this year for the ski season." Magie slapped her words, hard and determined at Steve as if they were in a heated ping pong game.  Fashioned by Gertruda  Newreich House of the Hideo --"

  "Gstaad? Forget it. Enough. I'm just glad we were the only people there at the time," Steve gurgled choking, then executing a counter move to her strangle hold, snatching the towel away from her, rubbing the lavender towel on the back of his neck.  "The waitress fell behind the bar.  She wasn't physically scratched"

"Just emotionally. And fortunately your somersaulting Go Go dancer, Pamplemousse passed through before--"  Magie started to say.

"Please," Steve said, shaking his head.  "I had a grapefruit for breakfast. I'll never be able to enjoy grapefruits in the same way... ever again.

"Huh?  Hey. I made some fresh coffee," Magie said handing him another lavender towel so he can dry his hair as she goes to walk down a short baby-bluish-whitish hallway to the kitchen.  This time there was no 'fake' attempt on his life by Doctor Carousel.  "That snow is really falling,"  She remarks as she passes a window.

"That's strange,"  She continues peering down from her third floor apartment window facing the main drag, Morning Street..  "There is an ambulance outside.  They seem to be placing someone lying on my front porch step wearing a T-shirt on a stretcher."  Magie makes the Sign of the Cross as she always does for poor souls so that her little prayer will help them and their families.   "Oh that reminds me.  I have to go back to the Receiving Hospital this afternoon.  Seems my sage--"

"Don't tell me," Steve said.  "He's back in the Psycho Ward again.  They're going to have to put  a revolving door on the loony bin area just for your sage."

"For your information it's called Mental Health Oasis or a... a...  Alternative Lifestyle ward... or something like that...  I hear they're going to officially use Sir Doo Doo's name as a predicate adjective for those admitted to the Mental Health's secured straight jacket area."

"The Doo Doo ward. And you must be so proud,"  Steve snips.  "Actually, I like the term Mental Health Oasis. It does give the patient dignity and denotes mercy.

"Kudos for you Steve. But you're still jealous they named a wing in that secured area of the hospital for my sage.  He's is a very generous individual."

"Yeah Magie, I have to give him credit for that.  He helps a lot of charities and individuals.  And his open soup kitchen for anyone, from children and all ages that are hungry.  And the food is top rate."

"Then you'll be happy to know he's not in the loony-- I mean the Alternative Lifestyle secured area or Mental Health Oasis this time or whatever it's called.  I hope that is politically correct to call it Alternative Lifestyle.  I have to check in my Politically Correct little red book that Chairman Moe... I mean Mao distributes.  I can't get those 'Three Stogies' movies out of my head you made me watch."

"Stooges not stogies.  'Three Stooges.' Those guys are the best,"  Steve said proudly.  "I've tried to model my life after 'The Three Stooges.' "  The humility in Steve's voice was moving.

 "Yeah well you certainly achieved that. Anyway,"  Magie continues.  "my sage just had some electrical mishap with his head..  When Goombah Wong called me he said my sage would not be awake until this afternoon.   But I understand he'll be okay.  That is once they get the mummy wrappings off him."

"Mummy wrappings?"  Steve asked, as he thought what he should dress up as this Halloween.  Then rejected the idea as too scary for him.  Besides, what if  'The Noggin' decides to dress up as a mummy again.  It would be a social faux pas. "What mum--"

"Even I don't understand how that could have happened,"  Magie said, shaking her head?  "The doctors said it looked like he tried to mummify himself with telephone wires?"

"He must be great at parties.  Mummicide," Steve said, pondering ancient Egyptian protocol."

 "My car is snowed in out back back,"  Magie mumbled almost to herself, sashaying into her pastel low profile soft peach colored electronic kitchen.  "Can you give--"

"Sure.  Electrical damage to his er... your sages noggin.  I wonder if his head was responsible for the momentary electrical flickering throughout the county?   He may be responsible for saving our lives."

"An interesting thought," Magie said.  "I'll include that in my sages monthly report to Washington."

(Note:  'The Noggin' sends a monthly report to people living in the District of Columbia, Washington DC  as he picks their names out of the Washington DC telephone book at random. The reports are coded in gibberish. There have been complaints to postal inspectors.)

 "Good show. A hero but, hospitalized by stupidity,"  Steve theorizes.  "Sorry.  I never read Chairman' Moe's Politically Correct little red book. I wonder what Big Moe writes about being a politically correct mummy in his little red book?  Hey, how about some of those Pennsylvania Dutch peanut butter candies I smell that your so famous for?"  Steve asked.

"Like I said.  When you called this morning you were coming back over I made fresh coffee," Magie said, bringing in a erupting volcanic cup of coffee on a tray with her demitasse of green tea  and honey and a small dish of her famous Pennsylvania Dutch candy hors d' oeuvres, as she sits down very softly on the couch facing Steve who is adjusting his position on the inviting armchair.

"Just the way I like it," Steve proclaims.  "Steaming, black and without milk or sugar."

"Thanks for the clarification," Magie said.  "Now I say again.  I want to know who tried to kill... er, us and why last night?  And my designer ski jacket designed by Khashoggi himself-- cut to pieces not to mention my 'Khashoggi Junior' designer slacks."

"There's a Khashoggi junior really?" Steve spouts. "Since railroad companies removed all the cabooses off freight trains the world is not the same.  The first of the seven and 3/4  signs to Armageddon.   I bet you that's Khashoggi juniors turban's head size--seven and three quarters, the second sign  The third sign to the end of our planet will be the removal of all the red fire call boxes on street corners all over the world.  At least that's what Colonel Bayerenov said before he was killed in Afghanistan by Special Operations Unit 107.  The third sign will be the death of a light General named Vick Paputin by..."

"Steve," Magie said throwing a couch fling pillow at him.  "You left me again and floating in outer space.  What in the name of Albert Einstein's repertoire of musical interludes are you--"

"Sorry.  Hey what about my flight jacket, my winter blue Air Force sweater and my dungarees?  All ripped to...  Speaking of my lucky flight jacket... where'd you put it?"

"I hung it up in the closet?"  Magie said, sipping her tea.

"Closet?"  Steve scours the room with suspicious eyes.

"A small room where one hangs things up," Magie said.  "Don't tell me you don't have any closets in that 1700's haunted hotel your refurbishing across the street.  I'm sure they must have added closets since then."

"I don't get it," Steve said, still looking around.

"No, you wouldn't.  And, may I again remind you once more my black slacks and lavender turtleneck all slashed to pieces," Magie said, a scolding sound in her soft voice.

"I just told you my jeans were cut too," Steve counters.  "Not to mention my lucky blue Air Force sweater in addition to my flight jacket... where ever you put it."

"You just said that again.  Stop repeating.  You never hear me whining or repeating.  Dungarees," Magie said in a now haughty, come hither-voice.  "How much can they cost?  I'm talking about genuine designer slacks made personally by Amin-Adnoid Khashhogie Junior himself. He personally signs every pair of his slacks across the derriere."

"Have you priced dungarees lately?"  Steve asked."

"I know," Magie poohed" I know.  You sound like that idiot I work with Insolentt--Every time is butt gets bigger he has to buy a new pair of jeans."

"Please," Steve said with affront, "Don't try to compare me to your...  what's the moron who insists on being called?  'The Fuhrer?"

"Beloved Fuhrer," Magie corrects.  "Evidently, as I said, it's all the rage in Washington.  Every narcissistic megalomaniac wants to be called--""

"Yeah, yeah Magie, we all know about politicians.  Look Magie, just because I wear dungarees that doesn't have  some fags name written across my bum don't think the jeans I wear are not expensive."

"Steve,"  Magie said almost passing out from the vapors.  She shushed while looking around.  "You can't say that word.  It's so... so passe.  Politically incorrect.  Someone passing by might hear you."

"Who?  We are on the third floor with all windows closed in the middle of a snowstorm.  And most importantly, I don't care. "

 "Steve, this is the new America.  You know, 'truth is the new hate speech.'  Someone is always listening.  The correct term is 'Alternate Lifestyle,' I think.  You're a Neanderthal,  a dinosaur, you are on the endangered species list you insensitive boob."

"What are you getting hysterical about?" Steve demands.  "I didn't say the perpetrator of your designer jeans was a bad fag, or, a stupid fag.  The perp who signed his name across your backside... excuse me, jeans might be a nice fag.  Even a great fag; besides, I'm talking about British cigarettes.  What are you talking about?"

"Wha...  I don't care.  Will you stop using that word," Magie pleads in a low voice.  "Chairman Moe... nuts, I mean Mao writes we all must use the term 'Alternative Lifestyle'  when speaking of fags," Magie said flipping through her little red book.  Oh--  Now you have, have me calling  'The Chairman' Moe again--"

"Moe is an honorable name, like Curly and Larry." Steve rises from his armchair like a great Phoenix and moseys over to Magie.  Using his gift of ventriloquism throws his voice in a Brooklyn accent behind Magie.  "Hi Ho Magie, pip pip und all that rot."

Magie, startled,  spins around on the couch as Steve, with the speed of a greased pig shooting across wet, freshly cut grass, whips her little red book from her hand, moseys over to a window, opens the window and tosses Chairman Moe out with a flourishing drum roll that would make any socialist, communist or fascist proud.

"I forgot about your ability to throw your voice," Magie said. "Puerile revenge," she continued nonchalantly.  "And, I hate the way you mosey.  Most people who mosey, mosey with arrogance.  But not you you have to mosey with humility.  Throwing Mao's little red book out the window like that... you-- you moseyer.  If you're gonna mosey mosey with arrogance so I can criticize.  No one moses with humility."

"Huh?" Steve devours another of Magie's special candy as returns to his armchair. 

"Now forget about the world of  Moe's and fags for a moment,"  Magie orders again in her saucy  authoritative voice. "Think about my world.  The world of Doctor Carousel you-- Did you really find out who shot at us," Magie demands.  Don't hold anything back from me."

"After we were released from the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital on Bull Weed road--"

"I know the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital is on Bull Weed road, you dork. Get to the point."

"Dork?  Anyway, early this morning after I saw you home, I went home, made a phone call.  I was advised the two people that were caught when their car spun out of control on the hill tearing down from O'Tannenbaum's and wound up turned over behind 'Who's Not Here' supermarket below the restaurant--  Anyway there names are... You want one of these candies?"  Steve asked as he gobbles down another.

"No, thanks," Magie said holding up her hands to ward off his offering.  They make me... well...  er let's say warm."

"Warm," Steve said.  "Why do you make them if you don't enjoy them."

"I didn't say I don't enjoy them-- Forget the candy who are the two that shot at us last night"

  "Oh... well all I could find out from my source is that they're both assassins for the IRA.  A Grady Mc Hoov.  And some guy believed to be his partner... 'The Mouth.'  They don't have an ID on him yet.  One thing weird though," Steve said making a facial impression that gave the impression he was thinking hard.  Magie thought she caught the scent of sawdust burning. "They were both outfitted by 'The Russian Front.'  You know fashions for tranny's that's all over the raido with their bizarre   advertisements."

" 'The Mouth?' " Magie asked her voice showing controlled discomfort.  "Give me a break.  'Mc Hoov and 'Mouth?' ' "

"Yeah.  You know them?"

"No, I don't know them moron.  How would I know them?  And I don't know any albino giants."

"Okay," Steve said in a soothing tone.  "No need for more hysterics."

"No one is  hysterical, Steve.  They just sound like a bovine disease, and I asked you not to use the term 'tranny's.' It's not  politically correct.  If Chairman Moe... I mean Mau, if he knew half of what I have to put up with."

"Forget Moe.  Someone tied his shoelaces together and he's been goin' around in circles. I think it's called the Feng Shui effect?  Anyway--

"Chinese Metaphysics Steve?  I have completed a series of monographs on--"

 "Anyway, they found a mortar in their car in addition to machine guns and a... a--"

"A what Steve?"  Magie asked impatiently.  "What else?"

"A pea shooter."

"A pea shooter?"

"No peas though.  We lucked out,  Just be thankful they only used the machine guns on us.  Those mortars and pea shooters are quite nasty."

"Idiot," Magie said, taking another sip of her tea.  "But you may be right about those pea shooters.  I had to hide my sage's professional pea shooter on him.  He enjoys shooting peas up peoples nostrils so they can't breathe and he's deadly accurate."

"Yeah, well he's a nut," Steve said shaking his head.  "Look Magie, I'm really sorry.  The attack is all my fault."

"Your fault?  Is it about this mission we're going on, if you ever get around to briefing me."

"No, nothing about this operation.  I'm afraid it might be about an old operation that's coming back to haunt us."

"Us?  What are you talking about Steve?  There's no 'us' just you."

"Did you ever  hear of the 'Flying Fewks?"

(Note:  This is a Chinese gang called 'The Fewks back in the early 1990's in New York City's Chinatown.  Ah Kay was reputed to be the leader but, there were others.  He was what they call a 'snakehead.'  A smuggler of illegals from China and other places. A real nasty guy.)
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

WEDNESDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
10:21A.M.

Molly's Irish Tavern, Icelickers Mall, 'The Big C.'

'Peacocks, Carnage, Panther Pis and Chicken Little.'

 As one approaches  Molly's Irish Tavern, sandwiched between numerous shops, the first thing that hits one is noise of babbling, laughing, honking people, and screams of the terrified framed by fingernails across the blackboard karaoke music and singing by Sung Tuu.  A Mongolian transplant to the 'scenic valleys.'

Entering, the aroma of the house speciality, 'Valley Borscht' kicks one in the groin as it mingles with the massive numbers of cramped swaying bodies combining to keep the cold at bay as outside the snow begins its swirling dance of hypothermia to waist depth.

The Tavern is unusually mobbed with excited people. Molly's subliminal message plays over and over again on a very worn looped tape that have speakers hidden all over inside all the walls.  'Molly is the ruler of the universe.'  The regular crowd doesn't start rolling in until just before noon  time.  This morning the place is not only filled with locals but packed with reporters from various media outlets enjoying respites from covering last evening's attack on O'Tannenbaum's just up the hill.  And, of course, Molly's is a few shops down from the 'Who's Not Here' grocery store and market where 'Mc Hoove and 'Mouths' car wound up on the cars roof.

Word seemed to get out that the IRA or UDA was involved.  Reporters had been sniffing around O'Tannenbaum's to survey the damage.  But, Federal, State, Local and even Code Mauve had the place cordoned off.  The biting cold and frenzied snow forces them into the local watering hole for the discriminating gourmet 'appreciative's.'  The reporters were searching Molly's for any eye witnesses.  They found none.  Even the waitress at O'Tannenbaum's saw nothing as she fell behind the bar when the firing started.  But that didn't stop eye witnesses that weren't there testifying to what they didn't see.

Reentry, a scorched face local mystic of Molly's, who's clothes seem to be always smoldering from his high body temperature and after downing his third jug of 'Lonesome Freight' wine for those who enjoy reading 'Dyce' in the dark, was yappin' with reporters in an animated style telling them how much he likes winter strawberries

Reentry, claimed O'Tannenbaum's 'Top of the Hill' restaurant  was stormed by a stubborn holdout of Redcoat ghosts that regrouped from local battles led by Chief Joseph Brant.  In fact he claims the Chief dropped-kicked him in the butt when he didn't get out of the way of the charging Redcoats fast enough.  In the melee somehow he got the Chief's autograph.  Reentry, will be happy to sell a hand written copy  to the reporters for $3.75 per copy.  Strangely enough the same price  as a 'Village Flame Thrower' Reentry's favorite brew.  Served in a fiery asbestos goblet coated with a lining that looks suspiciously like mercury.  A drink not for the faint of heart.

The pressing crowd and diminishing oxygen supply doesn't stop those patrons, mostly locals, who are so inclined, to break into bouts of spontaneous clod dancing.  Even though Molly has signs clearly posted stating:  CLOD DANCING VERBOTEN.  (A vicious form of Clog Dancing in which only the head and feet continuously spins, the middle body goes limp and just follows along, while one is wearing open galoshes cool guy style and clothed in Zoot suits.  The feet doing a British type of double quick-step march at all times)

Sung Tuu, professional karaoke singer, hearing of the incident last night and first at Molly's is cranking out undecipherable karaoke songs from the nineteen forties.  He always starts his karaoke songs with his opening line, "What time is it kids?" The locals 'in the know crowd;' bring clocks with them and throw the time pieces at Sung Tuu when he asks that question.  Molly loves to tell the story about the time the 'in the know crowd' heaved a rare 1816 Waterhouse Grandfather clock at Sung Tuu with deadly accuracy.  A lengthy hospital stay followed.

Two  partially frozen mimes who raced their way through the screaming blizzard' in separate vehicles because they dislike each other, arrived earlier from Albany, New York 40 miles to the east are miming a tug-of-war using an elephant's trunk and tail on the mobbed floor as a rope until they are attacked and pummeled into the red tile floor by several local TV anchors including the famed Ugona Ga and the wannabe Anchor Mengan Werami and a deranged well coiffed, local weather person from a New York City TV channel.  Other mimes, who must have slipped in even earlier and in disguise are sprawled in various locations in the pub, injured and unconscious.

Molly has to bring in her ace cook, Carnage.  Famed throughout the area for wearing a blindfold while preparing meals.  And a full staff of waiters and waitresses who serve on roller skates.
Including Acid Burns, a beautiful, intelligent and charmingly psychotic waitress who believes she is a Peacock living in ancient Mesopotamia.  She is also the 'The Big C's' air-raid warden.  Oxygen is at a premium.  The 1930's Fugel Horn cash register howling Alpine calls as it is boiling over.

"So both of them got caught," Goombah Wong said, sniffing his green bottle of Panther Pis beer.

"Yeah," Molly said, in her baritone Long Island twang. Molly, in reality is the owner of the tavern but, violently denies it, said as she places another bottle of dark green warm Panther Pis beer in front of him.  Then slides into a seat across the booth opposite Goombah Wong.  "Hey knock off that honkin' ya miserable... I know what it means."

"Ya know Molly,"  Goombah Wong announces.  "For being a cute five-foot-six, slightly plump blond with a just electrocuted style haircut stickin' up all over in the air like that and a backside pushin' forty an orange face that's supposed to be a tan and optional blue eyes, painted on black leather slacks, and red gold-tip cowboy boots you ain't too bad lookin'.  Those monkeys are yours that just swung by on the ceiling chandeliers?"

"What monkeys?  What chandeliers ya witless--  Never mind.  Yeah, they're my special bodyguard chimps."

Molly, a retired gandy dancer from the Continental Divide area, and 'Most High Imperial Rail Head' of the local gandy dancer's yearly ball, is dressed in her standard red cardigan sweater with a glitter gold  sign blazing across her back reading:  I'M TOO IMPORTANT TO STOP FOR RED LIGHTS, STOP SIGNS AND OPEN DRAWBRIDGES.  She also has matching bumper stickers on her modified vehicle.  A 79 Krebs-Mustang, with exposed, enlarged fuel tanks on either side.

  Because she has a 'Stupidity Sticker' disguised as a 'S' scratched on her old Soviet Union diplomatic licence plate she can't be pulled over by any known or unknown authorities except while driving in Furstenburg, Germany.  Also, Molly can park in 'S' marked parking spots.

"You're too kind about my wardrobe ya creepy piece of--"

"I knew ya were hidin' monkey's someplace in the tavern.  Ya know Molly, those limestone on granite caves under "The Noggin's' mansion I was yappin' to you about the last time I was here. Well I got lost down there lookin' for Vito, 'The Noggin's' mule that lives on 'The Noggin' roof  and has the run of the whole place.  Well I stumbled onto  a wide cave that leads directly to your cellar."

"Yeah?"  Molly snapped  "There's an entrance to a cave down there I got blocked off.  Hey... was that you down there last week scarin' the giblets out a Acid when she was bringin' up some a my1929 'Why Don't Ya Shut Up' home brew wine bottles that I make in the cellar?"

"Acid?  I was just goombah peering' in I thought she was that Lord Mutton Head ghost, that nitwit Ptah, Magie's friend, has locked up on the third floor of Ptah's hotel he's 'rerubishin?' "

"You mean 'refurbishing?' "  Molly screamed hysterically over the tavern's din.

  "No.  I got so scared I skedaddles  out a there.  I was lost for hours until I ran into Vito blowin' methane and guided me back to the mansion.  I learned the hard way not to light a match near Vito when he's soundin' off. Ya know I could never find that passageway back to your place again.  I thought I picked up the spoor of some great apes down there?""

"Ya know monkey breath, you were probably sniffin' your aftershave and that ghost of Lord Mutton Head is trapped on the third floor of that haunted spook factory hotel and can't find his way off that floor.  Everybody knows that.  And don't be using that passageway to my place if ya ever find that tunnel again ya--"

 "I see ya still wearin' ya special  bullhorn strapped  low on ya hip, gunfighter style,"  Goombah Wong interrupts. "I heard Pongo 'The  Really Great Ape' wore his bullhorn gunfighter style when he tamed the wild West Germany.  I always carry a picture of my hero.  Want to see it?"

"Never mind the monkey's ya moron, ya hear anything more on the 'Big C, Street' about McHoove and 'The Mouth' after they careened off the hill comin' from O'Tannenbaum's and flipped over landin' behind 'Who's Not Here?' "  Molly drawls, Downstate style.

"Who?  'The Big C' Street?  Naw.  But I heard a lot on the Arab Street.  Gaymar, the butter fat guy remaining on top of water buffalo milk after it has been boiled and cooled is getting married. But nothing on 'The Big C' Street.   Now on the Fujiamo Street in downtown 'Solomon' Islands there's a rumor, unconfirmed of course--"

"Ahh, shut up a big dope.

"And the goombah buzz on Dzerzhinsky Street is that you're a nut and a--"

"I said rein in ya monkey lovin'...  I'm talkin' if ya heard anything on the McHoove and ''The Mouth' street?"

 "McHoove and 'The Mouth?" Goombah Wong asked, his face in twisted meditation.  "You know them 'Big Mo' ?"

"I told ya, no one calls me 'Big Mo,' "  Molly snaps angrily as she reaches for her bullhorn.

"Hold ya wagons,"  Goombah Wong cried out.  "I ain't stupid enough to slap leather with you.  I don't want my ear drums busted.  Anyway I ain't armed."

"Yeah,"  Molly drawled.  "I ain't had a good bullhorn fight in months.  That was the good old days, facin' down Johny Tuba.  Tuba always wearin' his Kashmir-Zoot while the rest of ya boneheads always wearin' just Corduroy-Zoot suits."

"Yeah, Johnny Tuba,  always the showoff."  Goombah Wong said holding his hand over his heart.  "What ever happened to him?"

"Forget Johny Tuba,  He had it.  After I finished  slappin' leather with him he wound up an Oxford professor teaching Post Graduate Annoying.  And no I don't know McHoove and 'The Mouth.'  Probably kids just foolin' around.  Never mind that.  I thought you'd be here earlier.  You're usually the first one in the place wearin' ya Corduroy-whites Zoot suit when you're in town.  Even before Sung Tuu.  This snowstorm hold you up?"

"Naw.  I was in the hospital all night.  You know, droppin' 'The Noggin' off and-- "

"Admit yourself to the psycho ward again or was it another court order?"

"Naw, nothin' like that.  'The Noggin,' got his noggin stuck in a ceiling light again.  Hey can you introduce me to those monkey's that past here awhile back?"

"Monkey's?  Oh yeah.  Right.  Listen, you wait in the road by the Warnerville Pee Wee's when the snowplow comes barreling along.  The monkey's sit on the plow--"

"I was hoping for a personal intro from you, "Molly."

"That ain't gonna happen ya monkey lovin'--  Look they like ice cream and... if you stand in the middle of the road wearing an ice cream sellers outfit in this blizzard  holding three ice cream cones... I'm sure they will signal the driver to stop."

"Middle of the road?  I don't know, Molly.  Seems there's somethin' missin'... I know.  What flavor?"

"You and ya nitwit monkeys,"  Molly said, giving him her legendary stare pigeons give you when you're sitting on a park bench without a bag of bread crumbs.  "You sure you just dropped 'The Noggin' off at the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital.  I mean...  the boys in the white jackets ain't lookin' for you... again?"

"I like the smell of this beer Panther Pis when I pop the top,"  Goombah Wong announced as his split tongue flicked in and out savoring the aroma of the golden liquid in the green bottle.  "Has a Brooklyn Zoo fragrance., Ya know, a Prospect Park zoo ambiance.  The big cat house and monkey house before they're cleaned on a hot, humid August day.  Brings back nightmares, Molly.  Nightmares is what it's all about."

"Don't you mean memories, ya--"  Molly starts to ask.

"No. Nothin' like room temperature Panther Pis and watchin' the monkey's go by."  Goombah Wong had drifted away in his reverie like Albanian Skerd cigarette smoke reaching the cracking tile ceiling then lazily circling for a while.

"Knock off the freakin' clod dancing."  Molly's use of her thunderous bullhorn cuts through the bedlam like a berserk ax murder slashing her way to fame.  So loud that minute drops of blood could be seen from Goombah Wong's left ear.

"Hey Molly, I think one of my ears is bleedin'."  Goombah Wong, holds out his index finger with a drop of blood on it.

"Ketchup," Molly said, dismissing the blood.

"Huh?  Can't hear yuh Molly."

"You know how ketchup flies around here,"  Molly yells into his right ear.

"Yeah, ketchup.  Ya know Molly, I appreciate yuh serving these beers at no charge.  I wish I could do something to repay yuh."

"Don't worry," Molly drawls holstering her bullhorn.  "Nobody can stand the filthy brew, let alone smell it.  Made by the Brighton Beach Russian mafia.  But, you're doing great just keepin' me posted about this Ptah guy and 'The Noggin's' sweetie, Doctor Carousel.  I put the info you've already given me to good use.  I'm keeping a daily diary"

"Just like 'The Noggin' " Goombah Wong slurped.  'The Noggin' keeps a nightly 'dairy' too."

"You mean diary," Molly sceamed.

"Naw, I mean a cow place.   Almost every night I borrow a cow from Old Man Grunt's farm without his knowin'.  Then bring it to 'The Noggin's' mansion.  'The Noggin' writes, in non-erasable ink what he goombah thinks happened that day on the side of one of Old man Grunt's cows. I goombah sneak the cow back to Old man Grunt's barn.  Old man Grunt has so many cows he hasn't noticed.  Although, on the Grunt street I hear he's complaining that somebody is 'graffiti'ing' his herd.?"

"Why don't you morons just use a pencil and paper?"

"Never thought a that Molly."

 "And they think I'm nuts. Acid. I need a double Village Blowout and A Panther Pis. Now this is important.  I want you to write down for the next couple of months, on paper -not on cows- everything you know and hear about Ptah and Doctor Carousel. I need it by the first of June.  I have to send your report into--"

"What doctor?"  Goombah Wong suspiciously sneered.  "Do I know this saw-bones?"

"Magie, ya bean brain.  You er...can write?"

"Oh, yeah.  Why are you so interested in that idiot Ptah and that Amazon killing machine, Magie?"  Goombah Wong slicks those bushy brows back again with a snap of his whip like tongue.

"Why you always starin' at the ceiling Goombah Wong when you come in the tavern.  Think you'll see your maraudin' apes up there?"

"What a yappin' about Molly?  I'm lookin' ya right in the eyes."

"Yeah yeah.  I forgot about your head bein' on a slant,"  Molly drawls.  "Well it's very disorienting  As far as Ptah and Doctor Carousel goes, lets just say I'm nosey.  Somethin' to yap about at the beauty parlor.  You have any more information about those two?"

"Don't worry Molly, I'll have a written report on everything I know and hear about them before the 1st of June. I heard Magie mention once when she was yappin' to 'The Noggin'  she wanted to go to Panama with Ptah to look for a... a, harmonica, I think?"

"Harmonica,"  Molly shouts  giving Goombah Wong her 'Irish Borscht' withering stare."  Why in the name of 'Newton Hamilton Northern Ireland' would she go to Panama to look for a... a harmonica?"

"Beats the Goombah Wisdom out a me Molly.  Maybe I heard wrong.  Maybe it was a missin'... I don't know, hero-worshipper?"

"Hero-worshiper?  What in the name of Newton Hamilton are ya--"

"I'm tellin' ya Molly that's what I heard.  maybe it was a missin'... haboob?"

"Haboob?  What the boiling borscht is a... a, haboob?"

"Beats me. Molly, but whatever it is it's missin'?"  Goombah Wong , smooths his brows back again split tongue style.

"Will ya stop doin' that with ya freakin' snake tongue."  Molly shivers.  "That really creeps me out."

"Doin' what?"  Goombah Wong takes a slurp of his brew.

Molly just shakes her head.  "I gotta get that strong drink."  Whipping out her bullhorn she blasts a 'cobus cobus cobus' cow calling scream for Acid. "Whers's my Village Blowout and a Panther Pis, Acid."

"Ya know Molly, it's funny though.  'The Noggin' was against Magie goin' off to Panama with Ptah.  But then... just like a woman he changes his mind."

"Whadayamean, 'just like a woman?'  Molly leans over the table and tries to stare Goombah Wong in the eyes with that famous 'Irish Borscht' stare again but it's impossible to use on Goombah Wong because, as before, his permanent upper stage  right ceiling stare.  "Never mind.  You mean Panama City, Florida?"

"Is there any other?" Goombah Wong hisses.

"Why do you think 'The Noggin' changed his mind?"

"Who knows why a 'Noggin'  does what a 'Noggin' does?  Ya know it's funny though.  'The Noggin' was against it.  But he had some phone powwow's with Barney Bongos on the goombah Fazoo red phone hot line a couple of days ago.  And even a powwow with Magie's boss the Insolentt guy and on the goombah Fazoo phone and Insolentt not even a Goombah.  Then 'The Noggin' changes his mind.  He was trying to explain it to me... then out of the blue he sticks his noggin into a ceiling light.  You know the rest."

"Yeah, yeah I know all that about the momentary blackout throughout the county.  But this powwow with who?"

"I think ya mean with 'whom,' Molly. It's a common  grammatical mistake.  Ya see-"

"Corrected by an illiterate.  I'm sure your grammar is impeccable, ya slimy--"

"My Grandma?"  Goombah Wong questions.  "Ya know my Grandma knows where the monkey's are.  And she is impeccable.  But she thinks 'The Noggin' is a real fruitcake... nuttier than a---"

"I don't care about your Grandmother,"  Molly blasts.  "Who... I mean with whom was 'The Noggin' having a powwow with?"

"I just told ya Molly.  Barney Bongos from Queens, the biggest Goombah in the whole world."  Goombah Wong holds two fingers up in the air to make quote marks over Barney Bongos name.

"Yeah, isn't that the guy that wears a tutu and likes to go roller skating with... ferries.  The New York papers accused him of being a... a, 'Fairy... Godfather.'  If ya get my drift,"

"Ya mean like like leavin' monkey's under ya pillow when ya loose a tooth?"

"Monkey's? "  No ya--  I want to know--  I mean... Are you sure Doctor Carousel and Ptah are going to Panama?"

"Sure as I'm starin' ya right in the eyes,"  Goombah Wong assures Molly while looking up at the tiled ceiling. 

"But ya don't know why they're going?"

"I can't know everything Molly.  I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty smart.  But I ain't smart enough to get on that radio show 'It Pays to be Ignorant.'  I'm not sure why he wants me to follow them to Panama.  All I really know is 'The Noggin' has a goombah plan."

"Yeah, what's this goombah plan?"  Molly asked, keeping her eyes peeled for insidious clod dancing outbreaks.

"Molly, it beats all the laws in the universal.  When 'The Noggin' gets excited no one can understand what he's yappin' about.  He's yappin' in goombah speak. Ya know-- out of the side of his yap. And shootin' off his six shooter. Last time he was givin' orders to me while he was swivelin' in his swivel chair I fell asleep."

"Shootin' his six shooter?  At you?"

"Yeah Molly.  The Woodpeckers at the West Wing of the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital, ya know where they diagnose the guys who can't see the ocean because of all that water, they have him down as a 'homicidal maniac but, a nice guy with a big heart.'   I didn't mean to show off my medical knowledge by using big medical words like, 'diagnosis.'  But the docs in the nut wing are always adding another diagnosis when it comes to those woodpeckers pecking away at 'The Noggin's' head.  I'm even thinkin' about hangin' up my own medical shingle."

"Homicidal mani...  he shot you?"

Goombag Wong points to his forehead with his tongue.  " 'The Noggin' hit me with a slug last week but it bounced off my metal plate in my head."  Goombah Wong bangs his head with his knuckles.  Even with all the noise and mysterious screams in the pub, Molly can still make out the faint sound like an empty barrel being hit with a stick.

"Then you were in the hospital last night with 'The Noggin?  You had a relapse?"

"Naw  'The Noggin' shoots at me now and then.  You know, he uses hollow nose cork bullets so they don't pack a punch as regular bullets.  What a guy.  I could tell ya stories about 'The Noggin' tryin' to clear his nasal passages with black powder and--"

"I don't wanna hear," Molly shouted.  "Ya have no idea of why you or they are goin' to Panama?"

"Like I said, Molly.  Somethin' about Ptah and Magie looking for a...a...  roller skate.  Or was it 'pigs feet?' Somethin' like that?  I overheard 'The Noggin' " talkin' to someone over the goombah phone about somethin' called 'Astrolite.'  Maybe Ptah and Magie are goin' to Panama to look for this 'Astrolite' roller skater that has pigs feet?  I don't know Molly.  It's so confusin'."

"Interesting," Molly said. " 'Astrolite.'  And good luck findin' roller skating pigs.  You sure you didn't escape from the psycho ward.  I mean you were discharged?   Right?  I don't want any guys in white suits runnin' through the pub with butterfly nets lookin' for you again like last time."

"What are ya yappin about Molly? I wasn't admitted to the--"

"What is this 'Astrolite' stuff?"  Molly, slapped leather pulling up her bullhorn to her lips so Goombah Wong could hear in the din of the growing, swirling mob.  "Who's this 'Astrolite' big deal roller skater anyway?' "

"I think 'The Noggin' was saying he's some kind of non-clear-explosive when he skates?  Why you so interested Molly?"

"Oh, ah nothin'.  Just curious.  Beauty parlor chit-chat."

Acid, arrives on pink-skates with a Panther Pis for Goombah Wong and a Village Blowout, served in a asbestos mug with a sprig of nightshade.  Acid, dressed in pasted on peacock feathers lets out a peacock distress cry and dissolves back into the turmoil of the undulating mass.

"Doctor Carousel is pretty brave to go off with Ptah."  Molly said,taking a sip of her Village Blowout drink with her left hand and holding the back of her neck with her right.  Then raging into a  fit of uncontrollable shaking for several minutes.  Followed by the usual seizure, followed by  spontaneou pneumothorax (Faux Ruptured  Lung Lining) before Molly can shake off the effects of the drink.  "Bloody Heck.  Now that's a drink that'll clear out your sinuses."

"Who?"  Goombah Wong demands to know, flicking one half of his forked tongue into his beer bottle.  "Who is this doctor?"

"Magie, ya moron. How many times do I gotta tell ya."   Molly answers, wiping the foam from her mouth with a napkin and applying  modified CPR to herself with both hands.

"Oh right. I forgot she's a Doc.  But ya don't have to be brave goin' to Panama.  Look at me.  I'm goin' to follow them."

"I'm talkin' about goin' with Ptah.  I hear he's nuts."  Molly takes a few deep breaths as the blueish pallor begins to leave her.

"Don't worry about  Magie.  She's a walkin' lethal weapon.  She knows that dim-wit stuff."

"Dimwit stuff?  What are you yappin' about?"

"You know what a dim-wit is Molly."

Yeah, I know what a dimwit is," Molly said giving Goombah Wong the 'Valley Borscht' eye but with no semi-lethal effect on him as it has on others.

"It's like that carrot stuff.  You know, Molly."

"Carrot stuff?

"You're sound like an echo, Molly.  You know.  Fump Poo."

"Hey watch it.  I don't allow that kind of language in here."

"I mean that... high kick, Fump Poo carrot fightin' ya see in the movies."  Goombah Wong gargles  his brew.

"Oh, ya mean... karate Fump Poo," Molly said taking a  belt of her 'Village Blowout."   Slamming her asbestos mug back down on the table and grabbing her chest.  Then reverberating for a minute.  Her head hitting the thick wooden table like a power hammer slamming a ten penny nail into concrete block.  Some minor convulsions follow.  A moment later, as Goombah Wong finishes his brew with a hissy slurp, Molly lifts her head slowly off the table, and feeling her mouth saying:  "By Granny, who doesn't like to be kicked by a mule in the front teeth.  Think I loosened them on that one."

"But it ain't like that high-kick Fump Poo. carrot thing ya see on the silver screen.  Something about that dimwit stuff being a, a... death touch.  Yeow."  Goombah Wong grabs his head.

"Hey everybody." Molly bellows through her bullhorn as she jumps up on the booth seat with unexpected agility.  "Goombah Wong here just got hit with a piece of our famous falling ceiling tile.  He's the newest member of our 'Chicken Little Club.' "             

The regulars immediately respond their approval by clucking, holding their hands under their armpits, flapping their arms like shortened wings and and doing the Pub's synchronized 'Flash Mob,' 'Charlie Chicken' dance.

In the crowded bar, where there no room even to turn around, it was murder.  Individuals disappeared in the mayhem today attempting to do the synchronized ritual dance that have never been found.

And patrons still battle their way  into Molly's Irish Tavern, ignoring the 'Seating For No More Than 60 Persons by Law sign,  compressing other patrons and staff out through the back door, through bathroom windows, around the corner of the bar and flooding the small but efficient kitchen area.  Waitresses and waiters caught in a phenomena called crowd compression that is only seen at the 'Running of the Bulls' in Pamplona, Spain are forced out the back door with Herculean prejudice, along with others patrons swept up in the exit vortex, gallantly fighting their way through the still boiling blizzard and around the adjoining businesses joining the throngs still attempting to enter through the Code Mauve color padded door which is impregnated with ice and snow resembling miniature moving glaciers.

Goombah Wong, bloody and groggy half stands, dizzily up on his seat and waves to the the adoring crowd.  Giving them the obligatory 'thumbs up,' and promising to lower taxes before collapsing.

Molly, anal retentive, is biologically unable to spend a dime to get the ceiling fixed.  Anytime a piece of deteriorating ceiling tiles hits a patron they're inducted, by force if necessary, into the 'Chicken Little Club' for a hefty fee of a half a C note.

Acid, peacock-roller-skate-struts, with great difficulty, even firing her tazer to make a pathway, jump-skating over tazed patrons, through the horde.  Giving the peacock distress call to also aid in clearing the way.  Some of the non-locals and TV anchors that have never been to Molly's before become panicky.  Unable to see what's going on in the dimly lit pub, teeming cauldron of swaying and in some cases lifeless humanity.

Their fears are put to rest at Molly's bullhorn announcement that the traditional  'potato sack race' will go on at its usual time at noon from the impossible to find in the mobbed front door stand to the back exit door.

Acid, finally arriving at Molly's and Goombah Wong's booth wearing only thick, heavy duty cooking mittens, and ripped Peacock feathers, carrying a slab of dry ice reaches out and slaps it on Goombah Wong's scalp to stop the bleeding.

Goombah Wong, goombah shrieks as the shock propels him airborne.  After a moment  he ignores the effect of the sizzling dry ice burning on his bean.

"Acid,"  Molly cries, "I told ya to be careful someone slapped that car bumper sign across your backside again.  'Honk If Ya Think Molly's A Nut.' You want me to lose my license."

"Reentry, ya smoldering little pervert," Acid cries out as she peacock skate-leaps back into the swaying bodies.  "I'll peck your freakin' eyes out.  Every time that smoke trailin'  nitwit fireball enters earths orbit there's trouble. "

Occasional screams of terror are heard ejaculating from deep within the gathering.  Above the joviality music of Sung Tuu, the televisions blaring inane pronouncements of keno winners followed by tax collectors threatening pummeling if they are not paid  immediately by mailing all winnings to the tax collectors home address flashing on and off the keno TV screen: We Taliban Loves Ya Babee Inc. on the  the lonely cross streets of 29 Infidels and Vine. The innovative 1930's cash register constantly detonating a Fugal Horn every time the cash draw opens and closes.  But, one by one the screams are mysteriously muffled until the next one.

"What in goombah beans are ya yappin' about Molly?"

"First gimme fifty bucks."

"A grumbling Goombah Wong forks over fifty clams as his forked tongue flicks in and out searching again for any scent of lowland gorillas.

"You were saying, Doctor Carousel... I mean Magie is one deadly woman."

"Oh yeah, nonthreatening Magie was at one of 'The Noggin's'  Midget throwing parties were they throw  vertically challenged folks up a against a Velcro wall to see if they stick.  Well, when she saw that she put a stop to it right away.  Some soldiers from the Goobleegoonie mob went to throw her out  because she put a damper on their fun.  She coldcocked all twelve of them in a flash by using that dimwit stuff."

"Coldcocked them?"  Molly questioned.  "Didn't the police arrest her?"

"No. they couldn't prove anything.   It was ruled all 12 of the Goobleegoonie mob suffered being coldcocked from natural causes.  I think vitamin B deficiency.  It was that judge Roloand Freisler from Berlin that Washington D.C. sent in with that 'Untied Notions' exchange program.  Funny thing though, he was the ugliest judge I ever saw.  Looked like a heavy beam of wood fell on the poor sap. The worst case of mass coldcocking since the case of the 1931 'Big C,' mass jay-walking stampede on Addition street during the bumblebee attacks off Morning street."

"Yes,"  Molly said pensively, as she rubbed her holster.  " Lum Inersoles, was trampled when he tried to halt the fleeing mob from crossing Addition street to let Finee Dubaie's marching band pass as stressed bees attacked the escaping crowd.

 So no one was suspicious about the 12 coldcocked Goobleegoonie mob soldiers?"  Molly jawed  down tearing a slab of beef jerky, she always carries as a backup to her bullhorn, to shreds with her back molars.

"I have to give ya a big goombah nope on that Molly.   Nobody seem to care. Good for Magie.  Bad for the Goobleegoonies.   Hey did I just see a shrewdness of those low land apes swing by?"

 "So the flicks couldn't prove a thing," Molly pondered out loud.

"I just said that Molly.  Ya gotta do somethin' about the echo in this place.  It might scare the monkeys away.  No witnesses if ya get my dandruff  Molly."  Goombah Wong takes his index finger and pulls the skin down under his right eye.  A contagious reflex he picked up from 'The Noggin.'

"Don't do that," Molly shivers.  "That and ya flickin' tongue really creeps me out."

"It's a nervous tick Molly.  Anyway 'The Noggin' smoothed things over for Magie.  Magie is 'The Noggin's' good luck piece."   Goombah Wong smooths his unruly brows back again with his tongue.

"Magie's Irish and French," Molly said, fondling her asbestos mug.  Takes another slug. Immediately causing...  complete hearing loss, ruptured tympanic membrane followed by spasms of respiratory muscles.  Two minutes later Molly begins jerky body movements as her muscles alternate between contraction and relaxation.  Finally ending in a romantic attack of cardiac tamponarde before Molly again shakes off the effects of the brew.

"Yeah, so she's Irish and French,"  Goombah Wong's now gravel voice cries out to be heard.  "Anyway I overheard her once on the phone yappin' to this idiot Ptah about her problems and fanatics."

'Fanatics?" Molly bellows, preparing herself for another swig of her 'Village Blowout.'  "Fanatics," Molly regurgitates in a loud thunderous rumble.

"There's that freakin' echo again, Molly.  Ya got a do something  about your 'a cute ticks' in this place.  Ya know, dreams and crazy stuff like that when ya daydream.  It's called hallelujah nations.  You just see some great apes go by?"

"Cute ti... don't you mean acoustics?"  Molly interrogated.  "Hallelula...  Oh, those 'fanatics.'  "  Molly said eyeing her brew with the finesse of a hanging green viper ready to strike.  "And I don't allow any freakin' apes in here... great or not so great ya--"

  "Hey, Goombah Wong,"  A smoldering Reentry blisters in a sardonic Aurea explosion of "I'm late!  I'm late!  For a very important date.  No time to say hello, goodbye, I'm late!  I'm late!. I'm late!" Now adorned with some of Acid's peacock feathers stuck in his hair Comanche style as he suddenly reappears in his smoking, slightly flaming Army field jacket and fatigue pants like a pimple being popped.  "You leave that dry ice on your head you're gonna get... first degree burns."

A white smoke screen trailing Reentry, a seven time member of  the 'Chicken Little Club' with  a mutilated head to prove it,  Thanks to falling ceiling tiles, he suffers from selective, retroactive amnesia.  Last week he regained a memory. Unfortunately, it is the memory of a Coptic, Ethiopian brain surgeon.

"You practicin' medicine again in my establishment."  Molly bleated like an elephant that was about to have some drastic action performed on him, her voice exploding through the bullhorn.  "I warned ya about ya--"

"Yeah, yeah.  I just don't want Gumball Wong here to bleed to death."

"Mind ya own freakin'  business."  Goombah Wong, goombah shouts through the side of his mouth, balancing the still sizzling, like bacon frying on a hot skillet, dry ice fizzing away on his head.

"'Ya get Acid's feathers back to her right now ya pervert,"  Molly pasture snorts, and stop slappin' those bumper stickers on her butt.  'HONK IF YA THINK MOLLY'S NUTS!'.  I got busted for that once before. I'm not going down again for that.  That West Wing fruitcake factory at the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital on Bull Weed road is 'moider.' "

  Molly was adamant as she piled drived her fist down on the table causing the drinks to defy gravity for a moment.  Then Molly turns to Goombah Wong saying,  " Acid gets her claws on that little doofus, she'll peck him to death.  That moron got me busted once before when undercover feds caught him practicing medicine when he regained the memory of a insane oriental podiatrist,  you know, the one that always wears a homburg hat he's trying to get blocked, what's his name... Sham Puu."

"Sham Puu," Goombah Wong ponders as his forked tongue samples the air for ape spoor.  "Yeah, I remember that, he's the doc that got a whole generation of  Lapland reindeer to wind up walking pigeon toed when he had the reindeer Sheppard's put his 'corrective hooves' on the critters.  I wonder if Sham Puu is any relation to Fump Poo the creator of the fighting art of Fump Poo--"

"Last I heard," Molly twanged, "that nut is working his con trying to get pigeons to wear his corrective foot wear.."

"Motzaball Mullahs,"  Reentry, now trailing black smoke, volleys back at Goombah Wong and Molly.  "Acid is a peasant pheasant.  I'm wearin' peacock feathers in in my hair.  Guess where I got them from?"  Reentry turns around, does a handstand, sticks his tongue out at Goombah Wong and Molly, hand walks into the now delusional crowd and is immediately mangled by the fast moving  river of people doing a spontaneous 'hokey poky' like appearing and vanishing whirlpools of death. 

His cries of help go unnoticed swallowed up by mobs of revelers, squashed reporters, moans of semiconscious mimes and locals looking, but not finding a way out, as Acid pheasant screams "Comin' through with hot Borscht ya filthy animals," and, of course,  Sung Tuu's now belting out operatic tunes of 1940 Italian favorites as clocks fly in his direction.

"Listen Goombah Wong,"  Molly shout-whispers over the ear-splitting din.  "You keep me posted about Magie and Ptah.  You didn't hear Doctor Carousel... I mean Magie ya sidewindin' tenderfoot, anything about her havin' a run-in with a shoe salesman?"

"Naw, Molly.  What's the beef?  Ya still have it in for that insane podiatrist that invaded Reentry's brain and  made those corrective boots for ya?  No one can tell ya walk like a pigeon toed reindeer."

"Nope, forget it Goombah Wong.  Now I gotta get ready to make the final announcement for my fine patrons to sign up for the noontime potato sack race.  Acid line up the racers in their sacks."  Molly bullhorn's her orders.

"It's too early Molly,"  A maddened Peacock scream answers.

"Not in this pathetic crowd of losers,"  Molly Bullhorn's back.

"Sacre bleu!"  Carnage, is heard screaming out of the kitchen as Molly gives Sung Tuu a bullhorn blast and firing a modified flare into the air to get everyone singing, 'There is a Tavern in the Town.'  It seems no one heard the blindfolded Carnage yell, "This Creole seasoning smells like grease from freshly coated railroad ties.  I will not allow gandy dancers in my kitchen.  Zut alors."

Goombah Wong, goombah yells after Molly.  "You still gonna hold a potato sack race in this mess of revoltin' moltin' humanity?"

"Does a puppet live in the woods?  Does a bear have a wooden--  Tradition.  Now you all make a hole before I start breakin' bones.  I gotta make a call."

Who ya gonna call?"  Gombah Wong screams hysterically as he  tries to swallow the last of the sizzling dry ice.

"A leprechaun, Goombah Wong.  A leprechaun."
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

WEDNESDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
10:36A.M.

Magie Carousel's 3rd floor apartment
100 Morning Street, 'Big C,' New York.

'A fleeting chill of stupidity.'

"Why does a Flying 'Puewk' ring a bell with me?" Magie ponders aloud sipping her honey green tea.

"Ah, you heard of the Chinese gang that operates out of Chinatown," Steve said.  "I'm surprised you know how to pronounce the last part of their name... 'Fewk.' "

"Oh... right, 'Fewk.' The phone rings. "You forget, I speak both Mandarin and Cantonese as well as a number of other languages."

"I think you forgot too," Steve whispers to himself.

"What?"  Magie chimes back as she gets up.

"Nothing.  Just said, yeah, yeah.  You're wonderful."

  Magie, with a stern expression,  stands up excusing herself heads for the kitchen. The short hallway to the all electronic culinary area holds numerous photos of famous women scientist and watching over all the Blessed Virgin Mary.  Magie picks up the wall phone as if she is flipping a pancake.  A few minutes later she returns with a look of distress finger painted on her face.

"What's up?"  Steve asked, chewing on one of the few remaining pieces of Pennsylvania-Dutch candy that Magie made.

"That was my sage calling from the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital.  Evidently, our surmise was correct.  Last night my sage became highly excited over some discussion he was having with Goombah Wong.  Spun his heightening swivel chair so high he  screwed his head into one of those recessed lights above his desk, breaking  the bulb and receiving an electric shock that fried his socks to his feet, third degree complementary burns to his head and his feet in addition to glass bulb splinters."

"That's got a hurt," Steve said doing the shiver arms and squeegee face..  "Swivel highchair?"

"The electric company traced the momentary blackout last night to my Doo Doo's head.  I, er... mean traced the incident to the accident. Or the... ah, accident to the incident... I think.  Oh, you know what I mean Steve."

"However you put it Magie, Ya got a admit, 'The Noggin,'  I mean your sage probably saved our lives.  Now, what's this about a swiveling highchair?"

"Being Brachy Skelic, Sir Doo Doo has a need to swivel to great heights.

"Brachy Skelic?  You mean... short?"

"If that helps you understand," Magie sighed.

"Why can't you just say...  Forget it.  Last night at the Private  Emergency Receiving Hospital?"  Steve asked, downing another candy.  "I wonder why we didn't run into him there?"

"My sage... Sir Doo Doo has a private suite on the top floor of the West Wing.  I think I mentioned that,"  Magie said, sipping her tea after going back to the kitchen and refilling her demitasse.  "It's strictly for important people and politicians.  Not available to the ordinary public."

"Listen, can you stop calling him 'Doo Doo.'  It makes it sound like he has to go potty?"

"You really are a swine, Steve."

"Whatever," Steve said.  " 'The Noggin' has a private suite in the nut wing.  Sorry.  As I said, I really prefer the term 'Mental Health Oasis' except when it comes to your sage and his 'groupies.' "

"I understand your jealously Steve. My Sage wanted to buy his own suite at the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital but the doctors suggested the best suite area available for him with a secured revolving door was in the psycho... I mean mental health wing."

"I bet,"  Steve said, shaking his head.  I've heard  doctors and nurses talking about that West Wing looney bin.  They say every once-in-a-while they can feel fleeting chills of stupidity when 'The Noggin' I mean your sage and his finger unit are brought in."

"I assume your using the term 'finger unit' in a way it is not meant to be used. The suites are larger in that section."  Magie counters. "I never pegged you for a twaddle monger."

"Facts are not twaddle.  And the rooms up  in the West Wing are larger because the walls are padded," Steve said... still looking around the living room. I heard a rumor that your sage is suspected of being a homicidal maniac but the authorities can't prove it."

"You are so pathetically envious of my poor Sir Doo Doo.  You know  better than to listen to twaddle."

"Yeah.  That's it.  I'm not locked up in a loo... A Mental Health Station."

"Not yet,"  Magie smiles.  "And it's a Mental Health Oasis.  Yes I prefer 'Oasis.'  Sounds more cosmopolitan.  When my sage is in residence there he has complete security.  Locked area.  Twenty four hour armed guard  service.  Just like the President."

"Yeah," Steve said.  "but the President can leave anytime he wants to."

"Are you suggesting--"

"I'm suggesting we leave now if you want to see your  'Noggin'... I mean sage before the snow seals off all roads.  Are you sure we're not helping him escape?"

"Very Funny. I'm only going because my sage always has trouble zipping up his designer jacket when he is released from the Mental Health Oasis and heads outside."

"Yeah, those straight jackets can be a little tricky," Steve said.

"For your information the zipper on his Dandos Akenfeet designer winter jackets are designed that way.  A malfunctioning zipper is a sign that one is wearing an original Dandos Akenfeet."

"Damn those... what?"  Steve asked.  "I thought that idiot designer... what's his name?  Khashoggi, was the a... uber designer?"

"Not for men's fine clothing you... Khashhoggi and Khashoogi junior for women's apparel.  Dandos Akenfeet is the upper crust for men's clothing.  You embarrass me by not knowing that.  They are the most expensive designers in the world.  Sir Doo Doo's... I mean my sage's winter jacket cost well over ... $120,000.  Dandos Akenfeet's sticking zipper is considered a work of art by those in the know."

"I never heard of these designers you're speaking about.   It sounds to me just like another fag, excuse me, British cigarette, signing its names across someones backside."

"You are such a lowbrow," Magie said.  "He'll be sleeping on and off all day."

"Who?"  Steve asked, searching the living room for a hint of where Magie put his flight jacket. "Akenfeet?"

"No you ninny.  My brave little buckaroo."

"Sounds like he's in pain," Steve said, pensively.

"Who?  My sage?  Of course he's--"

"No magnificent one.  This jamoke, the guy with the aching feet."

"Why would you  say that about, 'The Maestro, Dandos Akenfeet?"  Magie asked, sternly.  "Never mind.  I don't want it explained to me.  Sir Doo Doo, is so... so brave."

"Yeah.  Right," Steve said, doing an eyebrow lift followed by an eye roll.  "What a guy."

"You, moron of the universe-- can explain to me all about why those Chinese gentlemen are trying to reacquaint themselves with you while you drive me to see my brave--"

"Please.  No more about your sick escapades into your world of... buckaroos, dwarfs, gas  and--" Steve starts to say.

"The 'Flying Fewks'," Magie interrupts.  "If I remember correctly, which I always do, a Chinese musical gang that committed 'en masse' suicide a few years back.  Someplace in Ireland."

In Steve's car on the way to the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital Steve explains:  "Belfast.  And it wasn't suicide.  I had a contact in the gang I occasionally used as an informant.  A particularly loathsome character... Ahh Choo--"

"God bless you,"  Magie said.  "You sneeze like a sissy."

"No no," Steve said squinting through the windshield, the heater and defroster seemingly not wanting to do battle with the freezing blowing snow,  The wipers barely holding their own without the backup of the other two.  "His name is Ahh Choo.  He is... was what they call a snakehead.  Someone who smuggles illegal workers aliens while playing music."

"Listen Steve, no one uses the archaic term, 'Illegal Aliens,'  the term is passe.  Tres passe. Besides you have your window on a crack.  Someone we pass might hear you.  The correct term is... a 'Faux Pas.'  That's all the rage in Washington now.  Very PC."

" 'Faux Pas' my--"  Steve starts to say.

"Now what's this nonsense about a musical gang?"  Magie asked.

"Magie, you are in that parallel universe of yours again.  If we pass anyone walking they are frozen Popsicles--"

"Never mind that.  A Chinese gang playing music while smuggling numerous 'Faux Pas' in.  If anyone is on another planet it's you.  "What type of music?"

"Polish polkas," Steve said as he circumnavigated snow drifts.  "Jumpin' Jehoshaphat, how do I know?  No one ever asked me that before.  I suppose oriental music."

:Jehosha--"  Magie shakes her head. "There are numerous types of Chinese music Steve.  Can you narrow it down to a particular dynasty?"

"What?"

"Nothing Steve."

"I should have brought some of that cold potato peanut butter candy to get me through this drive," Steve said, trying to see out the windshield.  "I guess I didn't want to make a pig out a myself."

"You did make a pig out of yourself.  You not only ate them all but licked the plate."

"Well, they're irresistible.  It's your fault."

"Oui, je sais," "Magie sighs, shaking her head in the negative again. C'est la faute de Magie.

"I see you," Steve said.  "You know in Albania when you shake your head from side to side like that... it means yes."

"You where saying about this Ahh Choo."  Magie said, ignoring his remark.

"Right.  Unfortunately Ahh Choo and his contacts in China pack his illegals--"

" 'Faux Pas.' "  Magie interrupts.

"Paaallleassseee."  Steve said.  "They pack these poor souls in... in cargo containers. Many die on the trip."

"I'm truly sorry about that." Magie turns on the car radio which Steve has set on a classical music station.

"Anyway, I and a couple 'cloakroom' friends were piloting 'The Flyin' Fewks'  over Belfast in a disguised C-130 I got for them.  They thought I was a procurer stolen goods.  The SAS were after the blokes.  I got them a cabin on the outskirts of Belfast no roads in or out. The perfect hideout.  They all were going to parachute in at night.  They didn't know the SAS would be waiting for them. Unfortunately they thought jumpin' out of a plane at only 500 feet wearing a parachute was for sissies.  So they jumped without chutes."

"Wow.  Brave but stupid,'  Magie winces as she turns on the car radio. "What were they doing in Belfast?

  "Lookin' for women they could  sneak into the States for unnatural purposes...Say, that singer and opera playing she's  'Kristen Flagstad singing Wagner's Tristan and Isolde, n'est-ce pas,"  Steve announces.

"How... how  perceptive of you,"  Magie acknowledges.  A look of utter disbelief sucker punched into that lissome, sculptured face of hers.  "I'm in shock--"

"Yeah," Steve said, trying to hold his 1968, purplish-red,fire spitting dual exhausts, modified Plymouth Road Runner with RR decals on the side fenders, what he believes, is still the road to the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital.  "Well here's another shock for you--"

"And what would that be?  Magie asked, singing along with Wagner's Tristan und Isolde in her mind.

"I can't find the road ."

"You know Steve, you not only identified the Wagnerian opera, but pegged the singer playing the part of Isolde.  That is an old 78 record that's playing made years ago in Norway."

"What in tarnation are you talking about?  I think I'm driving in some field."

"Just follow the telephone poles, they'll take you past the cattle loading railroad stop and on the other side is the parking lot for the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital.  It's a short cut I take all the time."

"With the foggy windows and the blowing snow I can barely see the freakin' telephone poles in this whiteout.  Do you hear a train whistle?  If I stop or slowdown we'll get stuck."

"You're such a baby," Magie said rather unconcerned.  "There is no train operating in this weather and the whistle you hear is the wind whistling through the window I lowered a bit on my side to get the fog off the windshield.  Your ancient relic you drive needs a better defogger."

" I think we're airborne?"  Steve notes.  A tinge of curiosity in his voice.

"You're in the parking lot of the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital," Magie chastises.  "You can slow down now, moron."

"I turned the engine off a moment ago, Magie," Steve said calmly.

"Then why are we speeding through the countryside?  Slow down you pea brain, we're passing 'The Big C,'... again.  My apartment is up that street.  You're going the wrong way. Where are you going?"

"Magie, I hate to break this to you but, I think... we're on a flat bed freight car heading towards... you're short cut is taking us through Oneonta.  Maybe Chicago, even L.A."

"But Sir Doo Doo?  He's waiting for me."

"I got ya Doo Doo--"  Steve snaps, as the magnificent horses of his Road Runner engine roar to life.  "Hang on Magie I'm taking you for a flying lesson."

"Don't be stupid you know there is almost no aircraft I can't fly.  You know that."

"Yeah, I know that but this is a flyin' car lesson.  I'm doin' a modified Barney Oldfield."

"Barney who? Steve, what are you gonna--"  there were no screams only the sound of railroad cars clickity-clacking away until they were silenced by the snow and wind.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

WNESDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
10:41A.M.

Molly's Irish Tavern, kitchen area. Icelickers Mall
'The Big C.' New York.

'The Cockatrice, Leprechaun and the...'

"I tell ya operator," Molly bellows, pressing the receiver against her right ear like she was turning goose liver into pate de foie gras plunging her index finger into her left ear to keep out the patter, honking and Sun  Tuu's karaoke yodeling.

"Put me through to the Wardens office at Brawn Mansion.  It's near Londonberry, Northern Ireland.  I tried dialing directly, but I can't get through.  It's the home for the criminally insane located in the Sperin mountains.  What?"

Another piece of the ceiling tile must have fallen and struck someone as the sound of heinous clucking erupted plunging into the kitchen area along with unknown screams.  As the ritual, 'Charlie Chicken Club' dance overflows into the kitchen, Molly grabs a black iron 1940's frying pan and coldcocks patrons and staff alike. "Knock off that honkin' ya mangy rats.

"Hello... Hello, this is warden Dara Adair.  To whom am I conversin' with?"

"Cursing?  what are ya talkin' about?"  Molly snaps still pressing the phone surgically into her ear.  "I ain't cursin' yet ya big dope."

"Who is this?"  Dara Adair demands.

"This is Molly.  Molly 'The Cockatrice.'  I want to speak to the 'Leprechaun.' "

"Half a mo," Dara Adair belched loudly.  "I'm gonna put you on the scrambler phone."

"Molly does the same on her phone by switching a lever on the instrument.

Note: The scrambler attachment makes normal conversation into unintelligible sounds then the receiving units on each phone converts the sounds back as clear as the original normal conversation

After a brief pause Dara Adair comes back on the phone,

"This is the 'Leprechaun' talking.  We are now on a secure line."

"Your order peese."

"What?" Dara Adair bellows.  "Is that you Molly?

"This is Toodles Lou order taker to the stars Stockholm's finest Swedish 'Meataball' Restaurant.       Order peese."

"I don't want to order anything, ya doofus."  Molly and the 'Leprechaun,' Dara Adair mouthed at the same time.

"I thought this was a secure line,"  Molly screeches.

"Molly?  Is that you?"  The Leprechaun asked in a hushed tone.   "This is the best secure line in the world we stole.  It is the P-145 from your National Security Agency."

"Who is this?" Another voice asked in a husky tone.  "Get off my party line.  It's my turn."

"Who is this?" A high pitched voice asked?''

"Order peease.  You're holding up my order line.  May I recommend our infamous 'Meataballs a'Hoi' on a'la pogo wand."

"Who is this?"  A new voice with a Mid East accent threatens. 

"Germany calling.  Germany calling." 

"Molly, I will call you back on a regular line.  My secure line has too many people on it."

"Your call to Florida is ready Mister President, a high-pitched nasal voice announces.

"Who is this?" A new voice asked.  "Get off my line."

""Yeah,"  Molly snaps, her index finger screwed into her ear and yelling to the rowdy bar patrons to "shaaad-up ya miserable...  Ya got more people on your secure line than Carter has little liver pills."

"Order peease."

"Who is this?"
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

WEDNESDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
10:45A.M.

Magie Carousel's 3rd floor Apartment
100 Morning Street, 'Big C' New York

'It all started with Benedict Arnold.'


"Did you see me fly that Road Runner, fifty feet in the air and I landed that baby like a ... if that snow was eggs I wouldn't have broken one.  Did you see that Magee?"

 "Remember me," Magie said, her voice carried the snap of a bullwhip's crack.  "I was your copilot you nut.  You realize of course I have to kill you."

"Ah, Magie, may I remind you of the Fifth Commandment of God; Thou shall not kill."

"God must really love you.  Okay, no killing but I don't think The Blessed Trinity would mind if I ruffed you up a bit," Magie said disappointedly.  "But never drive off a flat car of a speeding freight train in a blizzard again with me in the car.  And you wound up in the attic of that old abandon farm house.  So as far as your landing--"

"The snow was up to the roof of that house in the field. I aimed for the attic.  Besides it was your blasted short cut to the nut house that got us up there.  'Oh, Steve we're in the parking lot now you can slow down.'  I should be the one that's tempted to be doing the kill--"

"Steve, Magie said coyly with extra syrup, "When we became airborne and shot over route seven by Deep Woods Warnerville, I looked down on the road and thought I saw a...  never mind."

"Some doofus in the middle of the road holding three ice cream cones in the blizzard as if he was waiting for someone."  Steve said, shaking his head in the affirmative.

"Then you saw it too," Magie questioned, her voice dripping with a bite of wasabi.

"It's perfectly logical delusion," Steve said, ready to step up on his soap box.  "You see Magie, when we went airborne... well we didn't know what would happen, so as we looked down as we flew over route seven in my Road Runner, we saw an ice cream man selling three ice cream cones standing in the middle of a highway during a blizzard.  A symbol of freedom for flyers.  It's obvious.  What else would we have seen."

"A symbol of... Were you really born that stupid or did you take post graduate work in... 'Stupidity.' "

"I'm not trying to compare myself to you Magie, obviously you don't watch enough Saturday morning cartoons. Daffy Duck post graduate 'shrinkology.' "

"Symbol of freedom for flyers... you--"

"Speaking of Daffy, where did that guy doing push ups at your door go?"  Steve asked in an exhausted voice as he plummeted on the couch  "He wasn't there when we left and he's not here now when we returned."

 Magie turns on her soothing Gregorian chant music that bathes the rooms like a mellow mommy humming a lullaby. "Are you really interested in that sweet nut after all you put me through?"

"No,"  Steve sighed.  "But it came to me he might be hiding in your apartment holding his breath or something."

"Forget that... noble deranged steed,"  Magie ordered.

"Noble...  forget it?  Ya  know, I don't think they'll ever get my classic Road Runner out of that attic snow pile.  It has all original equipment on it," Steve moped. "Did you find out how your sweetie 'The Noggin' is doing?"

"You're so jealous.  My sage was quite upset I didn't pick him up at the appointed time.  He started bouncing off the walls with impatience."

"Thank goodness for those rubber walls," Steve said.

"Swine.  That idiot Goombah Wong wasn't even around to take my sage home in the limo...   My sage hired old man Grunt to take him home through the storm piggyback.  They got stuck in the snow halfway home,  fortunately old man Grunt has snowshoe size feet."

"Yeah," Steve snorted.  Listen, about my Road Runner--"

"You know Steve, I wanted to tell you last night at O'Tannenbaums's," Magie 'remorsed' with a sigh as she again brought in from the kitchen a tray of her delicious Pennsylvania-Dutch peanut butter candy made with rolled up white sugar dough, thin slices of cooked cold potato wrapped up in a petite circular roll, with a hot cup of coffee, no milk, no sugar, just the way Steve likes it and, of course her green honey tea. "I am 'white toast intolerant.' "

"What?" Steve almost shouted. shaking his head.  "What the heck are you talking about?  You're yodeling about 'white toast'  and my classic Road Runner car is in some snow drift in some attic in the middle of nowhere," as he chucked down one of Magie's homemade candies with a splash of steaming hot black coffee.  Then commenced to choke and yell as the hot coffee began to impose third degree burn on his tongue. Grabbing his throat and spitting, struggling to say the words "Coffee... hot..."

Magie, ignoring the international signs for choking and burning Steve was giving continued:

"Drift?"  Magie questioned in a tone that would make ice feel cold.  "You call crashing through  the attic window of an old abandoned house that was just about covered in snow--"

"We were being propelled by the fast moving freight train that was hauling us along on that flat car.  I had no choice but to engage my superchargers to fire us off that flatbed freight car your shortcut took us on." Steve gaged.

"My shortcut, you dolt  It's not my fault you can't follow a few simple directions."

"I never took a shortcut like that in my life,"  Steve snapped back fanning his tongue with a 'Theoretical Physics for Genuises' magazine he grabbed off the arm of the couch. Please, please no more back seat driving."

"You are so wimp-sensitive," Magie sighed.

"I'll show you 'wimp-sensitive' ya..." Steve started to say under his breath.  "So what's this stuff about you being... white-toast intolerant?  I don't even know what that means.  Are you talking about lactose intolerant?"

"No you...  it  effects  true geniuses. I have to be careful not to eat white toast.  If I accidentally have so much as a crumb of white toast... well I don't have to tell you what happens."

Steve just stares at her with that look of nicompoopery he is so famous for.  "Yes you do.  I don't even know what the heck we're talking about. I never heard of white toast.  I Don't even know... how does one make white toast?  No don't tell me.  I can't stand it.  Can you eat regular toast?"

"Yes, of course.  What kind of stupid question is that?"

Steve shaking his head in utter frustration.  "Then just don't eat white-toast... whatever the heck it is."

"I never realized how cruel you are," Magie declared.  "But, I guess that's what I get for sharing my most intimate weaknesses with the ' Idiot of the Universe.'  No offense."

"Moron... you said I was the moron of the universe.  I don't understand," Steve said biting on another of Magie's homemade peanut butter candies.  "Man these are real good.  Sure you don't want one?"

"No.  er... thanks.  Look Steve,  I only bring my white-toast intolerance up because... well you know that white-toast is a staple of Panama, especially with the Cuna native people."

  "Cuna who?  You mean Cuna Indians?  Look, will you stop with this white-toast stuff.  Nobody in Panama eats white toast.  I doubt anybody in the world eats white toast let alone knows how to make it.  Can we get on with the mission briefing."

Magie staring at Steve like a mother teaching her toddler not to walk into walls said,"  Okay, I just wanted you to know of a problem that might come up with my disability on this mission.  But if it doesn't concern you... don't say I haven't  cautioned --  My psychocognisist will be interested  in your bias against those afflicted with WTI."

"Psychocognisist?"  Steve asked.  You see a psychocognisist?  Isn't that the branch of psychiatry-psychology that deals with... having old historical houses shipped back to England from New York and New England to be reassembled as shrines to Benedict Arnold?"

"Steve, sometimes your astuteness surprises me."

"What has Benedict Arnold have to do with white-toast intolerance?  No.  Wait.  Please don't tell me he was white-toast intolerant also."

"Bravo Steve.  You're  not as stupid as you think you are."

"Huh?"

"Benedict Arnold had a piece of white toast by accident.  It did crazy things to him.  That's why he became a traitor."

"I can't take anymore, Magie.  You wouldn't have a loaded revolver laying around the apartment by any chance?"
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

WEDNESDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
10:56A.M.

Molly's Irish Tavern, Icelickers Mall
'The Big C.' New York

'...and 'The Tongan'

"I called ya back on my pay phone collect Leprechaun," Molly said, pressing the phone to her ear and cupping her hand over the other ear.

"Collect?" the Leprechaun questioned, a nasty ring to her bellow.

 "You can't have  a secure line on a party line.  Your Scrambler phone sucks.  You should get your money back."

"Listen Molly, that Scrambler phone is right from your National Security Agency.  I got it from a 5 & 10 store in Belfast for a  buck fifty, top of the line.  It was so hot I had to wear asbestos gloves to pick it up so don't give me a--"

"Listen Leprechaun, McHoov and O'Mouth, you know the one we call 'The Mouth,' commenced Operation 'Smack-Smack' but got caught as they made their escape."

"Fools Bunglers," the Leprechaun screeched.  "Did they succeed in killing their target?"

"No.  The target is still operational."

"Deposit fifty cents more."

"Get off the line operator," Molly ordered.  "This is a collect call."

"Where are they now?"  The Leprechaun demanded to know.

"I don't know? I warned the committee the flicks in this area are too efficient.  These coppers operate with military precision.  I think they're all military police posing as local flicks.  Has something to do with that research institute outside 'The Big C.' "

"The committee is not interested in rumors," the Leprechaun pronounced.  "And the IRA is not interested in daily goings on of local police matters.  You know our code. 'Don't Bother Me I'm Reading Orphan Annie.'  We are too important.' "

"I'm tellin' ya Leprechaun, we ain't dealing with local police.  There's something strange about this county--"

A scream of horror ricochets off the kitchen walls and escapes into the melee of crowd noise.

"Watch what you're cuttin' Carnage."

"You still have that moron chef that wears a blindfold when he cooks working for you Molly?"

"Are you referring to ace cook Carnage.  He's a draw," Molly said.

"Draw?  That nut should be in a straight jacket, locked in a padded cell here in my prison. Er... I mean my hospital."

''The poisoning rumors have never been proven.   An ace chef is an ace chef.  Now look Leprechaun," Molly said, finishing her last gulp of her Village Blowout.  Muscles on one side of her face become paralyzed.  Her body becomes ridged, legs are extended.  Respiratory muscles begin to spasm.  After a few seconds Molly begins to shake the affects of the drink off.

"Hello?  Hello?  Cockatrice, you still there?"

"Yeah, yeah Leprechaun.  I'm still here."

"Sounded like someone chocking?"

"Naw Leprechaun.  Ain't nothing.  Some unruly patrons.  I put the slug on the creeps."

"Now you listen Molly,"  the Leprechaun screeched.  "you're the Cockatrice.  Don't go paranoid on me. This is your cell in upstate New York.  We are expanding our operation to work with some cockamamie, mullahs, ayatollahs, 'Lichtensteiners,' Andorra malcontent stamp collectors,  Swedes, Asians some weird barking folks from Denmark who claim they're from the planet Pluto, a rug weaving club, a Fraternal order of Milkmen and a nutty ummah... but we can't do nothing until that 'Big C.' target is destroyed.  We must have our revenge.  The IRA's reputation is at stake.  All our enemies must know no one is beyond our reach.  Understand?"

"What the heck is a... a ummah?"

"Who knows.  Some nitwit payin' us big bucks to get them into the States and Canada so they can infiltrate the posh 'Crack Pot Club of America.'  You know they have to be sponsored by a Senator, or Congressperson, or, someone who is 'Connected.' Some jackass calling himself... Muqtada al-Sadir was turned down for membership because he wasn't considered crack pot enough to join."

"Yeah, Leprechaun.  I've been turned down by them myself.  Those Washington bureaucrats are very exclusive.  But there is a guy in the county I know of who is on the executive national board but he's involved with the target.  They call him 'The Noggin.' "

" 'The Noggin,'  sounds good Molly.  Is this Noggin's first name Egg by any chance?"

"Egg? I think 'The Noggin' is his moniker because he claims to be so brilliant."

 "Too bad Molly I used to know this great Oriental guy. He was into 'spats' for men.  Invested his vast fortune into spats coming back over men's shoes in 1961 I believe.  Don't know what happen to him?  Rumor has it he's a lobbyist for his 'Neverwear Spats Company' in Washington.  Makes millions by selling them to politicians?  His name was Egg Noggin.  Forget him he was a moron.  Work on your 'Noggin' angle.  Maybe we can use this 'Noggin' to get that idiot al-Sadr into this 'Crack Pot' club.  We'll be able to squeeze a few more million out of him.  He has this insane desire to say when he destroys lives, 'If  anyone is looking for me I'll be at my club."

"I've had that desire myself," Molly admits.

"What well adjusted sap hasn't." the Leprechaun said. "Now you listen good Molly, we're gonna be moving all these sickos and idiots not just into your area but you will have the responsibility of funneling them to our operation in Central America."

"Central America, huh.   I've always wanted to visit Kansas.  I may have an 'in' Leprechaun.  I have a patron who's always in here. He's always seeing monkeys.  He's 'The Noggin's'  muscle, chauffeur and 'certifiable' financial advisor, or, somethin' like that.  Maybe we can grease the monkeys to get this ummah guy al-Sadir into that prestigious 'Crack Pot' club?  Anybody see Goombah Wong?"  Molly 'stub-toe' screams.

"That idiot left a long while back dressed as an ice cream vendor," Acid's voice peacock shivers her reply.

"You work on it.  I'll inform the committee," the Leprechaun said.  "But the destruction of our target must take priority in all matters.  Operation 'Smack Smack' comes first.   Got any ideas you can ankle up to?  "What about the Albino Giant?"

"Naw, he's workin' 24 hours a day making high heel shoes for Yenta Yoiks fashions in San Quentin for life plus a day."

"Too bad.  Who else do we have stashed away on  24 hour notice in Washington?'

" 'The Tongan?' "  Molly suggested as she delivers a smashing blow with an iron frying pan to an already stunned mime who blundered  into her kitchen area miming opening a door.  "That's pretty heavy stuff.  What's going on in Central America or should I say Kansas?"

"Nyet on 'The Tongan' Cockatrice.  The committee has diagnosed 'The Tongan' as--"

"Deposit fifty cents please."

"Get off the line ya mallet-head operator. We're sending our IRA soldiers and a few 'Bam Bam for the Taliban' mush-heads to Central America through your 'Big C,' to learn guerrilla fighting techniques including guerrilla banana bomb-making."

 "I didn't know Kansas was a hotbed of big monkeys. Will you morons keep it down out there,"  Molly yells, throwing her empty asbestos cup at a patron pleading for help and slides her bullhorn out of her fawn skin holster.  "I'm on the phone ya pathetic morons." Then yelling into the phone.  "Learnin' how big monkeys fight eh.  Listen Leprechaun, the IRA isn't getting involved again with that idiot Palestinian, bomb-maker 'Poor Soul Jihad Ja' a Rah' bloke that blew up all our bomb-makers, when he accidentally sneezed teaching our people how to make bombs, a few years ago in Belfast?"

"Never you mind who we're getting involved with Cockatrice.  You follow orders"

"Please deposit another fifty cents please."

"Operator I made this a collect call, get off the line ya knuckle head."

"We heard from our friends, 'The Army of Syrian Government Despots and Preservers of Jam' and the Al- Shish-Kabab Somalian scruffs  that there may be an Ulster Defense Association soldier in your area posing as an undercover shoe salesman.  If true what he or she is doin' in 'The Big C' we ain't knowin'."  The Leprechaun said.  "Anybody try to sell you a pair of shoes lately?"

"Huh?  shoes? Was he  Cuban?"  Molly yelled into the phone.

"No, Cockatrice. He's as Irish as a four leaf clover.  Why do you ask?"

 "That's a relief. An Ulster Defense Association soldier here?" Molly questioned with anger, straining to hear what the bellowing Leprechaun was yapping  about over the pandemonium in the tavern.  "I hired this fruity Cuban shoe salesman to take out our target but I ain't heard from him.  Why do all the best assassins have to be shoe sales people?"

"Easy Cockatrice, the committee didn't authorize you to hire any Cuban 'fruit' salesman to make a hit.
You ain't gettin' too big for your--"

"Don't worry Leprechaun.  This walkin' fruit bowl guy comes into my tavern one night and over a few Village Blowouts he's tellin' me he's a Cuban shoe salesman.  Imagine an assassin walks into my friendly tavern. Tells me Castro sent him up to 'The Big C' in Fidel's own convertible  So I take advantage and hire the fruitcake  to study traditions of the 'Big C' so he can make a hit and blame it on one of the 'Big C' traditions.  He plays coy makin' believe he thinks I'm nuts but, when I show him our target's picture he jumps on the assignment right away.  I'm just waitin' to hear back when the job is done.  That should give me a promotion in the IRA for Chief  Braggin' Rights Officer.  Clever?"

"Deposit another fifty cents for another three minutes."

"Get off the line ya deranged--"  Molly yells.

"I can't hear what your blathering about 'fruit' all that noise in your tavern.  Listen Cockatrice worse yet  he or she may be a leftover from that psychotic, wacko Company C morons from West Belfast.  You know those guys that sell overpriced hot shoes."

"Those idiots," Molly responds.  "I thought they were all killed by the... that... Fruitcake Chinese gang  from New York City, the 'Flyin' Floozies' or somethin'?"

"Your call is ready for Northern Island 'Big C.' "

"I'm gonna hunt you down operator and give you a necktie party," Molly screams hysterically.  "Now get off the freakin' line ya--" 

"Again with the fruit? One of them may have survived Molly.  I recall a rumor about the top commander for Company C got so excited about the meeting he forgot to put his shoes on and was arrested under the anti-bare feet-flashin' law for public lewdness on his way to the meeting."

"Yeah," Molly said.  "Ya gotta love those knuckle heads. They love their shoes. Don't worry Leprechaun, I'm on top of--"

More boisterous clucking interrupts Molly.  Sung Tuu, after his famous opening line, breaks into a series of arias from famous British World War Two operas as clocks fly in his direction.

"Molly."  Acid the psychotic waitress, peacock belched entering the kitchen area, hopping over the bodies Molly coldcocked earlier.  Acid gives the peacock warning cry.  "I need more dry ice.  Another piece of the ceiling fell and I can't stop the bleedin' on the TV news guy."

"Who?"  Molly demands.to know pulling the phone a few inches from her ear.

"You know.  That news guy that's always breaking into programing with idiot news stories that no one cares about.   The moron they call 'Mr. Breaking News.'  He's sprawled over there next to the karaoke setup."

"Acid you got your feathers back," Molly said, squinting.

"Yeah, but there all ruffled.  I'll tell ya one thing.  That smoldering pervert Reentry won't be swipin' anymore clothes.  After I finished with  him he's runnin' around steam stack smoking and bare-bottom."

"Reentry bare bottom in my establishment Molly screams.

"Helloo.  Helloo.  Cockatrice you still there?  The Leprechaun bellows time after time. "What in the name of the beloved Fuhrers shredded pants is going on?"

"Who's yappin'?"  the blindfolded Carnage yells.  "I can't see what I'm doing with any light on.  I can't see 'blivets.'  How do you expect me to create my gourmet cuisine masterpiece, Valley Borscht with all this calamity in my kitchen.  And we need better darkness in here Herr Molly.  And my Les oiels covert is wearing so thin I'm beginning to sense light through it.  I demand complete blackness when I'm creating."

"Aw Shut up ya Minoan sissy.  Put a bucket over your head.  Acid did you collect the money from that 'Breaking News' idiot for joining the Charlie Chicken club.

"Not yet Molly he's unconscious and I thought I better try to stop the bleedin' first.''

"I'm surrounded by idiots," Molly shouts hysterically.  "Go back and riffle through his pockets roll the parrot, and get the initiation fee.  I'll dig up some dry ice after he forks over the 50 clams.

"But there is so much... blood."  Acid said, roller skate peacock strutting back into the moving, screaming legions of reporters and locals.  "And what am I supposed to do about some folks rolling on the floor holding their stomachs and being trampled on."

"As long as they're not clod dancin',"  Molly cried out, renewing her grasp on the phone.

"Cockatrice?  You still there?"  The Leprechaun asked in a thunderous breaking voice.

"Yeah yeah, I'm still here."

"It's getting near afternoon tea time here," The Leprechaun, now whispering said.  "I have to get going.  If I miss tea time at the asylum here the inmates riot and throw photos of Kaiser Wilhelm at me."

"Leprechaun," Molly said cocking her head like bewildered dogs and humans who just met Steve Ptah do,  Molly's voice taking on a suspicious Caucasian heritage month tone." "You are the Warden there?  I mean you're not a...well a patient."

"Of course I'm the Warden here.  What in boiled ham and Kraut potatoes are ya yappin' about.  Do I sound like I'm nuts... Criminally insane?"

"Well..."

 "Ya sound constipated Molly," The Leprechaun interrupts.

"I was born constipated," Molly slams back.

"It's important you keep the pressure up, Molly.  You're not the Cockatrice for nothin' you know what to do next."

"Pressure?  I've tried every kind of laxative known to man."

"What?  I'm not talking about that Cockatrice. I mean keep the pressure on our target."

"Stop worryin' Leprechaun.  Like I said I'm on top of everything.  I've already activated  the 'Tongan.'  Molly announced proudly. "As a backup to the fruity Cuban shoe salesman."

A horrible scream  emanates closely behind Molly.  "Leprechaun I gotta go.  Carnage just mistook someone for a slab of Canadian bacon he was slicin'.  And I gotta get our traditional three legged potato sack race started. "

"Will ya stop with the fruit ya... Shoe salesman?  What shoe salesman? I can't hear ya with all that screamin' on your end. 'The Tongan?' "  The Leprechaun bellowed in a high pitched scream.  "Didn't ya get our flash message.  'The Tongan'  has become unstable.  She's a lobbyist in DC   She wants to shut down the worlds governments starting with yours. Cockatrice don't activate.  Ya hear me.  Don't activate the 'Tongan'  Abort.  Abort.  Helloo?  Helloo...?"

"Your call to Florida is ready, Professor Biteame."
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

Wednesday
16 February 1994
10:59A.M.

Magie Carousel's 3rd Floor Apartment
100 Morning Street 'The Big C.' New York

'Tutel.'

With the Gregorian chants still holding sway over the rooms Steve chants a hardboiled growl-demand.

"Look Magie, forget the white toast stuff.   Now about this mission to Panama.  There is a guy down there that the Cloakroom believes--"

"Cloakroom Cloakroom Cloakroom," Magie staccatos off in that mesmerizing timbre of hers.  I try to be up front with you about my white toast intolerance and you just flick it aside.  I've spent over 3 years with my Psychogonist trying to cure this affliction.  Although I must admit I do believe she's insane.  And my Sage has--"

"Wait a mo,"  Steve said running interference.  "Who's insane?"

"Don't you ever listen?  My psychogonisist, Doctor Ba'athhouse Dipp."

"Bath house... what?"  Steve asked scratching his head.  "Is that a person, a disease or a delousing solution?"

"Idiot.  Ba'athhouse is spelled B-A-'-A-T-H-H-O-U-S-E  like the Ba'ath party in Iraq."

"Ba'athhouse... Dip?  What the--"

"Two p's in Dipp,"  Magie said this time in a soft cutting tone that makes people bleed. "The two 'p's' in Dipp should make everything clear.  My sage Sir Doo Doo got her for me.  He said a top notch goombah had a note smuggled out of his secured mental ward suite in Ouagadougou with my tutel's name on it.  She's the best."

"Ouagadougou?  The capital of Upper Volta?"

"The country is now called Burkina Faso,"  Magie sighs.  "It hasn't been called Upper Volta since the--"

"It will always be Upper Volta to me.  Tutel?"  Steve asked as he looked around making sure the pathway to the front door was clear.

"It's pronounced 'Toodle.'  Steve what century do you live in?"

"Certainly not the one you're living in,"  Steve mumbled under his breath."

"What?"  Magie demands"

"Ohh, er nothing just looking around for that revolver."

"Very funny.  Psychocognisist's don't have patients.  They have 'tutel's.'  Everyone knows that."

"Yeah... of course.  I must have missed that in my 'Insanity class' at my Manual Training High School in Brooklyn."

"It's short for tutelage.  Why are you getting so excited?"

"And you think your psychocognisist is insane?"  Steve whispers in an ancient Eriee Indian accent, one of his 'Heinz 57 ancestry  nationalities.

"If she is," Magie ponders carefully mumbling some mathematical formula.  "What does that make me?"

"Look Magie,  psychoanalyze yourself someplace else.  Not to worry, it makes you as normal as.... as, me."

"What a frightening thought," Magie said.

"Save the embroidery.  I'm immune.  Do you mind if we get back to the mission.  June will be here before I get a chance to fill you in.  We have a lot of preparation work to do.  "You see this guy in Panama we believe is--"

"Hold that thought just for a moment Steve.  I want to show you around my apartment.  You're the first man I ever had up here and I want to get your opinion."

"First man"  You've been living here since you moved up here from Pottsville, Pennsylvania.  What, 3 or 4 years ago?  That's Molly McGuire country you were telling me about when you were choking me about that Irish joke I told you when I first met you going into church.

"Don't remind me of that you toad.  I had to write a letter of apology to the Pope, Bishop and the congregation for forgiveness for attempting to murder you on blessed grounds. 

"Surly you exaggerate.  That must have been three years ago at least.  What about your sage 'The Noggin'?  You told me he got this apartment house for you and helped you move in."

"Yes that's true Steve, and much much more.  Sir Doo Doo did me a great favor and not just getting me this apartment.  I will never be able to pay him back.  But, I don't consider him... well a man."

"You mean he's...  he's... I don't think I want to know any more about your Doo Doo
Fazoo."  Steve said, making a face as if he just bit into a lemon again.

"I mean my sage Doo Doo is... well above being a man.  He's only interested in what he calls goombah work, you know like synchronized roller skating and helping those less fortunate."

"Again, I have to admit he gives a lot to charity--" Steve started to say as Magie grabs his arm and leads him out of the living room and down the hall to her other rooms.

"Okay Magie give me the 'Cooks Tour' but then I have to tell you about the freakin' mission, if I can remember what it is."

As they start down the hall to the first room on the right something shoots past Steve's head at an enormous speed barely missing him as he dives for the floor bringing Magie with him.  Then a crash as a living room lamp explodes.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

WEDNESDAY
16 February 1994
11:00A.M.

Doo Doo 'The Noggin' Fazoo's Modified Victorian Mansion
Spirit Road West of 'The Big C.' New York

'The Kahblab of Shush where once one is imbedded no one outside the Kahblab of Shush can hear what's being said inside.'

" 'Noggin' you ain't gonna believe what happened to me.  I'm standin' out in the middle of route 7 near Deep Woods Warnerville in the blizzard, the winds blowin' and howlin'  dressed as a ice cream man, holding three ice cream cones waitin' for the monkeys when all of an sudden I  hear this lion roaring over my head.  Goombah guess what.  It was a car spittin' fire and then disappears into the sky   I barely look down and this snowplow  plows me off the road in a tidal wave of snow.  I guess the monkeys didn't see me."

"Ferbonie monkeys drivin' a snowplow.  Ferbonie flyin' cars on fire. What in Goombah Heaven have I done to get you as my Chief Intelligence Officer. mussel man, chauffeur, and 'certifiable' accountant?  Didn't ya learn any ferbonie thing at that ferbonie Pakistani ISA school I sent ya to."

"Ah, don't make me goombah blush 'Noggin.'  You know I was  a lobbyist in Washington for economic and military intelligence and advisor to the Pres before 'The Noggin' wooed me away. It's all part of being goombah connected.   Hey 'Noggin,'  I don't think you should be up and around with the top of your head bandaged up like that and the bandages around your body make you look like a kind of mummy.  Or a pretty scary well dressed  ice cream cone."  Goombah Wong advised.

"Ah shut up ya ferbonie.  My sweetie Magie was supposed to pick me up at the Receiving Hospital.  I was waiting for hours for her to show up."  'The Noggin' said.  Dressed in one of his many tailored-made straight jackets over his bandages.  His Arabian Nights toe tasseled golden, dragon designed slippers shining brightly.  Every step he takes with the temporary help of a platinum walker, his slippers make the sound of a roaring dragon with laryngitis's.

"All you ferbonies deserted me in my time of need.  My sweetie was supposed to pick me up at the Sir Doo Doo Fazoo mental ward.  She doesn't show.  I try to call you, ya ferbonie at Molly's ferbonie dump and you ain't there.  And now I find you were out standin' in tha middle of some ferbonie road sellin' ice cream to some ferbonie moneys and seein' flyin' cars.  If it wasn't for that ferbonie  old man Grunt bein' discharged from the nut ward the same time I was being discharged from my executive suite up there... I got a piggyback ride from him to 'The Noggin's' mansion ya ferbonie.  Ya know how many times that ferbonie got stuck in the snow?"

"Stuck?  With his snowshoe rabbit feet? How'd you know I would be a Molly's 'Noggin?'

"Where else would you be when you're not at 'The Noggin's." It took that ferbonie nurse an hour to get through to the ferbonie tavern and just to tell 'The Noggin' you ain't there.  Said she kept getting some ferbonie in Northern Ireland and some ferbonie wanting to take her order for ...peas or somethin'.  The ferbonie nurse said there was a lot of screamin' and pleadin' for help noise in the background."

"Ah, ya think no one ever saw monkeys runnin' around Molly's before.  Say 'Noggin' why didn't Magie pick ya up?"

"Aw, I think she said she went for a ferbonie train ride with that ferbonie Ptah.  I'm not sure.  The shrink was  tellin' me I was having habitation's at the time."

"Like when ain't you 'hallu-nations' at any time.  Those shrinks don't know--"

"They don't have to know nothin'," 'The Noggin' said admiring his new medical bandaged look in one of his many fun house mirrors. ('The Noggin' a well known confirmed narcissist and megalomaniac only has fun house mirrors in his mansion as they make him look normal making all those minor abnormalities seem to disappear.)  "I know all that needs to be known when it comes to woodpeckers.  How do you think 'The Noggin' would look in a long 'chinny-chin-chin' beard? Now listen ya ferbonie.  You got it straight what you're supposed to do when that ferbonie Ptah takes Magie to Panama?"

"Yeah yeah 'Noggin.'  You know I got one of those brains that never forget.  Whad-a-ya call that again? I follow them down there after you talk Magie into dusting off (softening up) those rouge Panamanian roller skaters to come up here to roll against Barny Bongos roller skating menagerie, the Piggy Banks.  Then I calls you and tells you it's okay to come to Panama and make your move to get the Panamanians to join ya stable of perpetrating roller skaters."

"Ya got it right ya ferbonie meat head," 'The Noggin' said rubbing his bandaged hands together as he admires himself in one of those many fun house mirrors that line his mansion.  "Those ferbonie Panamanians cannot only skate backwards they do the impossible they can--""

"Yeah yeah 'Noggin' Just one question 'Noggin."

"Yeah yeah yuh ferbonie what?"

"What's this secret thing the Panamanian roller skaters do"

'The Noggin' searches his main ballroom like a starving great snowy owl hunting the forest and sky for a meal.  "His eyes scan the numerous barrage balloons floating over head tethered by mighty steamship docking ropes.  Then he looks at his balcony where his prized kettle drums he plays insanely form a semicircle around his girth when 'The Noggin' his messiaship personality brutalizes its way up dominating his other personalities until he drops from white lather-foam exhaustion a Foozoo genetic condition.

 Each of his kettle drums are filled with hydrogen for better resonance.  A secret only shared by his Vienna doctors, Goombah Wong and his sweetie, Magie who tries to dissuade him from using highly combustible hydrogen.  "If ya shut up ya ferbonie and stop interruptin'  'The Noggin' 'ill tell you  ya ferbonie but it's a goombah-secret.  Ya know what that means."

"A goombah secret,"  Goombah Wong whispers, assuming the goombah-sumo fighting stance.  Okay, 'Noggin' I'm ready."

"Not hear ya ferbonie.  On the ride of the... kahblab of shush."  'The Noggin' rings a goombah gong next to him and sends a message in goombah-code that resonates through the mansion. From far away in the bowels of the vast mansion, possibly the caves under the mansion,  faint ancient drums can be heard.  Phibbs, 'The Noggin's' savant has one code.  Ganadage Frau Puckarber, 'The Noggin's' (ex-Nazi? cordon blue ober-fuhrer chef and house duster) has another.

"You gonged Mr. Shlogin."  Ganadage Frau Puckarber stated in a Prussian accent that sounded like the beginning of one of the fuhrer blathers.

"Noggin' ya ferbonie.  Not Shlogin. You been working for me for me for over 30 years since I was a goombah-baby 'Noggin' and you still ain't ever got my name right ya ferbonie," 'The Noggin' rants hysterically. 'Noggin' 'Noggin' 'Noggin.' "  'The 'Noggin's' ears slip out from under his bandages sending beet-red semaphore signals of insults used by his lodge 'The Fraternal Order of The Crack Pot Club of America'  'The Noggin's' family hotel Innkeepers started  'The Crack Pot Club of America' in Luxembourg decades ago and now known in secret circles internationally  as 'The Bilderbergers.'  No one builds an insane burger like the Bilderbergers.

"Easy 'Noggin,' "  Goombah Wong whispers.  "Your 'Noggin' is about to explode...again."

"Get the Kahblab of Shush started ya ferbonie," 'The Noggin' orders Ganadage Frau  Puckarber.

"You mean your merry-go-round with cardboard cutouts of kahblab's instead of horses?"  Ganadage Frau Puckarberger asked as she goose-steps off under the barrage balloons and whistling in German an old 30's favorite 'Who loves ya baby... The Beloved Fuhrer does.'

Soon music of the 'Third Reich Remenice's' could be heard coming from the kablab of shush as it creaked and groaned to get up to speed.  Mau Mau, (Unbeknownst to everyone in 'The Big C.' area is still wanted in Kenya and by the INTERPOL and The International Court of Justice at the Hague for crimes of unbelievable nincompoopery in the mid-50's.) 'The Nogin's organ grinder with his trained parachute wearing monkey, Pamplamousse, both wearing lader-housen type modified sailor suits begins to play 'The Sheik of Araby' as the monkey throws orange peels and unmentionables at the approaching 'Nogin' and Goombah Wong.  No one remembers when the Organ Grinder and his monkey first started to appear roaming through the never-ending mansion.

Of course Goombah Wong becomes hysterical with Goombah delight seeing the monkey and has to be pistol-whipped back into a semblance of sanity.

"Ya Kabasa of Shlush is ready Mr. Froggin," Ganadage Frau Puckarber screeches then hits  the gong with the 'all-is-ready' code.

"Kahblab of Shush ya...  And it's  'Noggin' ya ferbonie," 'The Noggin' commands as he and a bruised pistol-whipped Goombah Wong get on the Kahblab of Shush and strap themselves each on to a kahblab the size of a merry-go-round horse.  All to the tune of one of the Talibans copy of a beer hall Fuhrer's speeches about his proclamation on the 'Thirteenth Ordinance' set to the 'Blathering Beer Hall Belching Marching Band' music of the Third Reich.  "Now listen ya ferbonie,"  'The Noggin' bellows to the rhythm of the beer hall marching band.  The Organ Grinder and his monkey now joining in with Beer Hall Third Reich belching tunes.

   "The Panamanian roller skaters not only skate backwards so the other team ain't knowin' what direction their skating but, but performing the 'Baharata Natya' while making the best Bilderburgers all while they're skating, creating the yummy 'Insane Burger.' "  'The Noggin' mumbles.

"What.  No Monkeyburger?"  Goombah Wong screams hysterically while spurring his Kablab of Shush on to greater speed.

A shot rings out, then 'The Noggin' holds the barrel of his six shooter up to his lips blowing smoke away as he  and a limp Goombah Wong spins deliriously around on the Kablab of Shush.  And then another shot. The sound of metal being ripped apart as broken bolts are fired in all directions.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

WEDNESDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
11:09A.M.

Magie Carousel's 3rd Floor Apartment
100 Morning Street, 'The Big C.' New York

"Fast ball, Curve ball, Knuckle ball and Steve and Magie dive for cover.'


"Why in the name of 'eohippus' do you have three pitching machines on... on active duty in your exercise room?" Steve asked as he and Magie slowly get up."

""Eohippus?"  Magie asked.  "A small extinct horse no larger than a small dog.  Who says that let alone pronounce it correctly?"

"What.  Are you nuts having those baseball pitching machines shooting a knuckle ball
 at us?"

"I have them to keep my reflexes sharpened... razor sharp.  I have the three machines on at once.   When I go in the exercise room off this hallway they sense movement and-- anyway it was a curve ball.

Look Magie all this stuff is nice in a... a, nut ball sort of way but is there a safe place in your apartment where we can situate ourselves without being killed?"

"You're such a drama queen, Steve."  A fast ball bounces off a button on the wall mat and singes the left side of Steve's head knocking him into the hallway.
***



JOURNAL ENTRY

WEDNESDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
11:40A.M.

Doo Doo 'The Noggin' Fazoo's Modified Victorian Mansion
Spirit Road, West of 'The Big C.' New York

'Mau Mau's organ grinder monkey Pamplamousse takes them all for a ride."

Goombah Wong dazed from the Kahblab of Shush exploding off it's Merry-Go-Round track at, one might call a speed that would embarrass the speed of light for its slowness, wonders through several crashed walls in 'The Noggin's' mansion.

"I ain't never been in this part of 'The Noggin's' mansion,"  goombah Wong mumbles.  "Hey 'Nogin' where are you?  For that matter where am I?"

As the dust begins to settle and the acrid smell of broken lights and fixtures increase, Goombah Wong hears a goombah groan coming from behind one of the several destroyed walls.  As he searches stoping occasionally to cough and rub his eyes he steps over the prone body of the Organ-Grinders monkey, Pamplemousse blowing concentric acrid smoke circles.  Farther on he trips over the Organ-Grinder, Mau Mau looking up at the distant hovering barrage balloon with his music-grinder machine embedded in the monstrous bag of  slow leaking hydrogen.  Motioning to Goombah Wong he whispers, "Let A Smile Be Your Umbrella." Then Mau Mau passes out.

A tin cup the monkey uses as a tip cup comes blasting out of a hole in the wall of another room, launched by a left over heavy duty spring a late boing from the  Kahblab of Shush guts,  and beans Goombah Wong in the middle of his forehead.

"Hey ya ferbonie, I'm over here.  Get me out a here," 'The Nogin' screeches in a high-pitched hydrogen filled voice.

"I'm  goombah comin' 'Noggin.' Why you soundin' like a girly?"

"Get me atta here ya ferbonie, I'm embedded in this oak door."

A few minutes later, with the help of 'The Noggin's' Cordon Blue Ober-fuhrer Chef and plumber a battered and cross-eyed  Ganadage Frau Puckarber and, bewildered and limping Phibbs, 'The Noggin's' man-servant and savant they all manage to extract 'The Noggin' from the splintered oak door.

"Ya ferbonies, 'The Noggin' screeches, Where's my Kahblab of Shush?"

"I believe it is on its way to Deep Woods Warnerville,"  Phibbs said in that,  'I'm-better-than-you.' British upper class jargon, straightening his  disarranged jacket and shirt collar.  "At least that is the direction where I last saw it going down the hill."

"Ah ya ferbonie, what a you know?"

"Sir Doo Doo, I know," Phibbs said, now using that very British tone that  usually announces 'dinner is served your Lordship,' " we better do something about the hole in your outer wall. The temperature is dropping in the rooms here, the wind is causing these barrage balloons overhead to sway and blowing snow is beginning to accumulate."

"This 'id' be a goombah heck of a time for that ferbonie Willy Messerschmidt  to attack with 'The Noggin's' defenses down."

 "Don't ya ghoombah worry, 'Noggin,"  Goombah Wong said. "It was so noisy in ya Kablab of Shush I couldn't hear what you were yappin' about.  Somethin' about the Bilderburgers making an insane burger for ya roller skating team"?

"Look 'Mr. Tognish. That last shot you fired hit the mechanism that controls the speed of you Caboose of Science and blew the whole thing away.  Out through one of the walls.  Ya gotta stop shooting."  It's interfering with my Ober-Fuhrer cooking and my nitrogen unt glycerin inhaling."

"Not to complain Sir Doo Doo," Phibbs said.  "I must agree with the Ober-Fuhrer Ganadage Frau Puckarber here.  I almost dropped a tray of all that nitroglycerin you're storing in the sub-basement for your art work you are creating for suppositories--"

"Posterity, ya ferbonie.  'The Noggin' corrects while reaching for his six shooter.  "Where's my ferbonie six guns ya ferbonies."

A non-flustered Ober Fuhrer Ganadge Frau Puckarber continues:  "along with all your hydrogen tanks for the barrage balloons not to mention all that rocket fuel you are storing in your missile silo to shoot down any surviving Luftwaffe aircraft that might attack 'The Blobin.'--"

" 'Noggin,' not 'Blobin' ya ... Ah shud-up ya ferbonies, ya don't know anything.  They don't call me the... the...I forget.  What do they call me?"

" 'The Noggin' sir," Phibbs  in an exasperated  stuffy British upper-crust tone.

 "I know what I'm called ya Limey snob.  Listen hear.  you... you all...  listen up.  I'm not called 'The Noggin' for nothing."

 "Look out," Phibbs yells as one of the many swaying barrage balloons, 'The Noggin' has floating in the rooms of his spacious mansion, deflates, covering them in a blanket of hydrogen and simulated rubber.  The Organ-Grinder music machine can be heard cracking 'The Noggin' on his head as 'The Noggin' mumbles, "Is this the Atchison Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad 'The Noggin' is on? " .

The Organ-Grinder Mau Mau's stunned parachute wearing monkey Pamplemousse stumbles in the dust circulating by mini wind-whirls, surveys it, leans up against the almost flattened two ton barrage balloon still leaking hydrogen gas, burps, pulls out a menthol cigarette from a pocket in his torn lederhosen sailor suit and fumbles for his cigarette lighter and..."
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

WEDNESDAY
16 fEBRUARY 1994
12:40P.M.

Magie Carousel's 3rd Floor Apartment 100 Main Street
'The Big C.' New York.

'Goblin-Dark afternoon. Simian approaching flank speed.'

"Did you feel that?"  Steve asked, as they were both knocked off their feet; the Gregorian chanting still sooths.  Then both doing a kip back on to their feet (Steve a one handed kip) raced to the front apartment windows, Steve still holding a cold wet cloth to the side of his head.  Magie, with a touch of her HeHe made Phantasia scent, only a step behind.

As her 1898 apartment building began to shake with  quake-rage and furniture moving as if ghostly pranksters had invaded..  "Frost-quake?  maybe,"  she said turning from the window to keep her South Armagh grade school picture from falling.

"Or a volcano erupting," Steve said, a blinding light driving them back from the window.  The eye-closing flash cracked the grey-black cloud-laden snowy skies and was gone in an instant.  The streetlight was still on in front of Magie's apartment.  Even though it was around mid-day it was Goblin-dark.

"If I didn't know better I would postulate a missile  was just launched a little west of us."  Magie ponders aloud in soft report-giving tone with a concerned thought showing on her lissome brow.
 
Steve, pressing his face back to the window, then rubbing his eyes.  "What the--"

"What?  Magie asked as she returns to the other front window.

I think I see a monkey with a parachute swirling down to Morning street."

"What?  You are nuts Steve.  How can you see anything with this blinding snow and the street light reflecting off the flak---  Oh my gosh"  Magie said straining to see through the barrage of furious flakes.  "That looks like... like Pamplamousse.  His chute is aflame.  Do something.  Put it out."  Magie said, flinging up the window Steve was at pushing Steve to jump.

"Pamplamousse?"  Steve asks, holding tightly onto the windowsill and pushing back as the snow and wind dropkicks him in the face.  "You mean that Go Go nut that dances at Molly's? Or do you really see a grapefruit in a parachute coming down?

""Grapefruit?  What are you talk---"

"Pamplamousse means 'grapefruit' in French."

"I know that, Steve. How many times are you going to mention that? I speak fluent French and a dozen more languages.  You know that." Magie fires back returning to her gaze to the window.

"Yeah, I know that," Steve mumbled begrudgingly, breaking his stare only for a second as he glances at Magie.  "But that's a monkey."

"Idiot, Magie said without looking away from the strange scene in front of them.  "Pamplamouse is  my sage's Doo Doo's organ-grinder Mau Mau's monkey."

"What? Doo Doo... Moo Moo? Will you please stop talking baby talk you're freakin' me out. What are you blathering about?"

"I'm not talking baby talk you...  and I said Mau Mau not Moo Moo. Look bean-brain  that's..."

"Wow," Steve yells still looking out the window.  "The monkey was just whacked with a stick that came shootin' out of the sky as he landed.  No wait... it looks like a piccolo beaned him he's out cold... in more ways than one."  Steve looks around but, Magie is already flying down the freight train long three story staircase with Steve on her tail.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

WEDNESDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
2:14 PM

Molly's Irish Tavern, Icelickers Mall
'The Big C.' New York 

'The sky is fallin'.'

The movement of the ground under the swirling, sardine packed mob, the nuclear type flash that turned night into day for a few seconds followed by what seemed to be an underground, furniture-moving, wall-breaking explosion that moved the famous Krakatoa explosion of Indonesia that was heard in Chicago to second place in the annals of Sumo belching loud noises as the (adjusted for Reentry's high body temperature) sprinkler system went off was too much even for Molly's locals.

  A warning roller skating Peacock cry from Acid followed by a scream from a smoking Reentry that the sky was falling caused the intelligentsia and professional eggheads to panic first yelling for Molly, who immediately went into a 'Dying Swan' yoga pose on her table top, to direct them to the nearest confessional until she was forehead noogied by a piece of her own falling ceiling tile.

 After the nuclear-type flash quickly dissipated they were first flung back toward the kitchen and Men's, Women's, Tranny's and a new just installed restroom door for Reentry called Dorkroom area. This causing garbage-compacting squashing then shooting forward patrons at bullet speed of an M16, out the front door squeeze-firing them.  Some still making honking noises, and all things not nailed down, through the small reinforced entry way like a Parisian chef making pate de foie gras at super-speed crush-blasting delirious carbon and inanimate projectiles into the snow infested afternoon goblin-darkness.  All types of debris joining the massive fall of snow attacking the earth.

"Look everyone, I can fly," Reentry, smoldering and trailing what looked like a vapor trail mouthed in a fading shriek after just being squeeze-fired out the front door and just before vanishing over the railroad tracks on the other side of Morning Street into black-blotter absorbing sky-snow.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

WEDNESDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
2:30 P.M

Magie Carousel's third floor apartment.
100 Morning Street 'The Big C.' New York.

'It's times like this I wish I was on the Argentine pato field,'

"He seems to be sleeping now, " Magie whispered in the gentle summer evening voice she uses so effectively,  They are in Magie's bedroom with Pamplamousse tucked in under her whitish lemon bed covers.  The room is painted in happy yellow with just a hint of bamboo at various places. A crucifix hangs over her bed as Magie sprinkles some holy water over the little creature. They were not able to remove what was left of the monkeys lederhosen sailor suit as pieces of material were fused to his fur.

"Perhaps you should give him some mouth-to-mouth breathing to clear the little fellows lungs?"  Magie suggest in a concerned soft timbre.

"Yeah right," Steve said in a 'don't hold your breath' voice.  "Try this."  Steve gives her a pint bottle of Christian Brothers brandy."

"Where did you get that?"  Magie asked softly and suspiciously.

"From your kitchen cabinet when you sent me to fetch your herb remedies for the little fella."

"That must be from the last tenants,"  Magie whispered.

"Yeah right," Steve coughed.  "Let the ape sleep.  If it ever stops snowing we'll take him to the vet tomorrow.  Of course we'll have to dig your car out because my Road Runner is in the middle of a snow field in someone's attic thanks to your short cut directions."  His sentence ending in a loud whisper.

"Don't start on me Steve I don't want to hurt you.  "I'm so worried about my sage."  Magie picks up her phone receiver again, "There was no answer when I called him before and now no answer this time. And Mau Mau--"

"Don't start that baby talk again.  It really bugs--

"That's  Pamolamouse's organ grinder, moron.  Mau Mau doesn't wear a parachute.  At least I don't think he does?"

"Sorry Magie.  Why don't you try the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital?  Or the church steeples in town."

"You're so comforting like listening to that idiot  Goombah Wong and his never ending search for invisible apes."  Magie hangs up the phone. "All the lines are busy."

"Look, I'd drive there but it'll take real daylight to find your car let alone dig it out."

"Thanks Steve, it is a strangely very dark afternoon but all roads are closed.  Look out the window at Morning street.  I mean it was hard enough to find Pamplamousse even when we saw where he landed from the window."

"Yeah.  It wasn't for the flames of his chute he'd still be out there.  Listen Magie, we're both exhausted.  Lets sit down have sip of this Christian Brothers Brandy, relax and I'll tell you about the mission."

"You know I don't imbibe  except for medicinal purposes.  You know that Steve."

"Yeah, I know that," Steve sighed. "I wish I didn't know but..I know."

 "I suppose.  Pamplemousse is sleeping. I'll heat up the coffee and make some green tea with my honey."

A few minutes later Magie was lying on the couch with a big fluffy pillow, her tea cup next to her on the small tea table.

Steve was sitting across from her on that big old comfortable chair his coffee cup on the coffee table.

"Well any way Steve said.  "This mission involves...  Well you've heard of--"

"Magie sighed, "Oh, to be back on the pato fields of Argentina chucking the..."

"Potato fields?"  Steve asked looking over at Magie.  Then realizing she's someplace else in her dreams.  Getting up with effort he takes a small white-lemon comforter, with blades of light brown Pampas grass drawn on bedclothes by the artist Paul Gaugin,  off an old New England reading chair next to the kitchen and covers her.  Then checks that the front door to see if anyone is doing pushups on the other side and that it is secured hits the lamp switches falls back into his high wing chair.  The last thing he says before entering 'Dodo'  (Pronounced doedoe) land is, "Potato fields?  Wha the...?"
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

THURSDAY
17 FEBRUARY 1994
4:15 PM

Steve Ptah's Hotel Patriot 127 Morning Street almost opposite Magie Carousel's Apartment house.  Steve's hotel is still in the process of being restored to it's original 1617 style when it was a halfway house for Dutch explorers heading to and returning from the unknown west, from parts east long before 'The Big C.' was settled.

'Owls on the roof.'

Magie and Steve are seated a wee bit to the side of the massive ancient fireplace that lauds over his hotel lobby.  This leaves them with a vnniew of four floor length front windows and two large front doors.  The dark snow laden clouds that cover the Schoharie valley are about to give birth to snow again, after a brief respite, as the below freezing winds wait impatiently.

"Can't believe we slept over 11 hours," Magie stated in that soft, disarming, serene, duel-to-the-death timbre of hers.   "And that they're all safe.  My sage, Sir Doo Doo, that idiot Goombah Wong, Phibbs my sages manservant and professional wine snob, Ganadage Frau Puckarber, the Nazi chef, even Pamplamousse the monkey and Mau Mau the organ grinder and several unknowns all recovering in the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital,"  Magie said, looking out on to Morning street from one of the floor length windows.

 Wind driven hurling snow causes the large ancient double doors that enter one into the massive warm, friendly log cabin and field stone first floor to shudder. The aroma of apple wood burning in the large lobby stone cauldron give s one the feeling they should be skipping through a magic summer forest.  Or at least playing games of 'Ring Around the Rosie.'

"Yeah I didn't know they had a monkey ward.  For that matter a cow ward.  Don't forget Moo Moo."

"Swine.  Dummkopf.  The poor souls name is Mau Mau."

"Cut the fancy embroidery Magie.  I'm immune to compliments."

"Embroidery?  I don't even know what that's supposed to mean.  Why do you babble like--"

"And don't forget that guy they found in the rubble with the...  what do they call that musical instrument they found fused in his mouth?"  Steve asked.  "Who was that?

"An ocarina,"  Magie said.  "  And I don't know who it was.  One of the unknowns, I never saw him before.  He must stay in some other part of my Sir Doo Doo's mansion.  Maybe he was the off key piccolo player in disguise? The doctors say they should all be released in a day or two.  "Steve... why do you have owls on your roof?"

"Owls?  Oh you mean the owl statues.  Er, ah... to keep the pigeons off.  There were so many pigeons on the roof part of it began to sag.  I won't tell you how much that cost me.  You know how much a cooing pigeon weighs?"

"I'm wondering if you are violating any parts of the 'Lacy Lucy' Pigeon Protection act of 1919?"  Magie questioned.  "I'd hate to make a citizen's arrest of you Steve.  I suppose I could turn a blind eye to--"

"Amazing," Steve said, looking at the politicians daily worker newspaper the Cyprus Mail.  "The Cyprus Mail's banner headline reads  'TERRORIST STRIKE IN THE HEART OF SIR DOO DOO 'continued on page two' FAZOO'S SPRAWLING MANSION.'

"Cyprus Mail?" Magie interrogated in a soft, sweet whiplashing voice. "Terrorist?"
 
  "Huh,"  Steve whispered.  "Amazing, the world thinks the explosion was caused by a terrorist attack. 'A mysterious circus train was seen by a benevolent group of gandy dancers checking snow covered icy rails until they were blown over.  No injuries to the gandy dancers'   Glowing circus train?"  Steve questioned "What Glowing Cirus train?  In the middle of winter?  What the blue--  They still have gandy dancers?"

"Oh,"  Magie sighed one of her soft immobilizing sighs.  "Steve, the 'Gandy Dancers Ball' every Spring at the old railroad station off Addition Street. All 'The Big C.' areas residents dress up as Gandy Dancers and--".
 around Valetines day
"Of course," Steve frowns accompanied by an eye roll. "How could I have forgotten?  Magie, where is it held again?"

"Anyway, we still don't factually know what caused the explosion,"  Magie said, leaving Steve to eat trail dust.  "Could it be... That must be the  'Woo Woo Chew Chew.' "

"Will you 'pleeeeese' stop talking baby talk," Steved begged. "It's embarrassing.  'Woo Woo Choo Choo.' You, my dear, have been hanging around your sage too long."

"Not Choo Choo dummkopff.  Chew Chew. C-H-E-W   C-H-E-W. Everyone in the county knows the ghostly legend of the disappearance of the great 'Woo Woo Chew Chew' circus train in 1942 around Valentines day between Richmondville and Deep Woods Warnerville speeding on its way to 'The Big C,' in 1942."

"That must have been in 1942."  Steve teased.  "Please Magie, no more.   Magie, er I truly believe I'm gonna crack up if you don't stop that..."  Steve pleaded as his eyes searched the lobby.  "What did I do with that loaded pistol?"

"Woo Woo was the name of that extremely large Siberian tiger belonging to the Woo's famous International Circus.  The Woo's were noted for there big--"

"If you say 'feet,'  Steve interrupted.  "I will... Oh I will.  And no court martial in the world will convict me."

"Animals you moron.  Animals.  Giant Lions and Tigers and Bears.  The whole train just vanished that one night in 42.  Everyone knows that.  Woo Woo was the Woo's giant tiger that stood over 15 feet tall when he stood on his back legs.  Weighed over 1200 pounds.  "Momma's Historical Circus Train facts' writes that Woo Woo was the smallest of the Lions and Tigers and Bears.  The only reason the maneater got top billing is that he had the uncanny ability to chew through the iron bars of his cage. Thus the 'Chew Chew part of his name"

  "Disappeared huh," Steve thought out loud, his voice carrying about 16 tons of wisdom.  "You know Magie, as amazingly stupid as that sounds... I recall Mort Plopp vanished about that time.  I think you solved the mystery of what happened to Mort Plopp."

"Who?"

"The disappearance of Mort Plopp, the official calendar page turner for the county at Molly's Irish Tavern.  I think Molly's was known by some other name back then.  Something to do with a rodent?"

"Oh, the case that idiot Goombah Wong has been trying to solve for years but no one would tell him what year 1942 was...  Steve, don't take this the wrong way but I think it is most urgent you make an appointment with my Psychcogonist, Doctor Ba'athouse Dipp and enter her Tutel program.  I'm sure she can squeeze you in.  My sage will pull a few strings."

"Huh?  Oh, yeah, that's all I need.  A homicidal maniac pulling a few strings for me. Putting that aside for an eternity, even more amazing than your 'glowing circus train' paranoia is 'The Noggin's'... I mean your sage's mansion is okay to return to.  Most of the damage was in the subterranean area's of the East Wing.  And that moat kept those fires from spreading."

"Yes," Magie agreed.  "The moat still covered in ice. My sage just stocked the moat last Spring with a special winter bred miniature sailfish that I developed especially for my sage."

"That is one massive moat,"  Steve said, shaking his head. "Sail...wha--?"

 "I wonder what really caused the  catastrophe?" The whole mansion is made out of stone, brick, reinforced steel,  'papiermache.' "  Magie bragged.

"Papermache," Steve said.  "Never mind, don't start one of your soliloquy's on--" 

"Walls 16 feet thick in most places," Magie went on ignoring him.  "Granted some walls only a foot thick.  "Roof Luftwaffe, degraded plutonium bomb proof. Absorbs any explosion and turns away the explosive energy whether the blast is from the inside or outside, Missile silo--"

"Missile silo?"

  "Thus the extensive damage to the East Wing of the mansion."

"Yeah, yeah I know all that... missile silo?. Isn't that the wing of the mansion the town folk call the...
 'Nut Wing?' "

"Nut Wing indeed.  The village folk call it 'The House of Doo Doo.' "

 "Same  thing," Steve coughed under his breath.  "And all those tunnels leading away from the mansion I'm sure channeled the detonation through Warnerville and into 'The Big C.'  I'm surprised there wasn't more window glass damage.  I bet ya the mass of the explosion must have been funneled into the underground caves that are threaded throughout the county. Your apartment windows are fine And," Steve continued in a voice only champion pole vault winners would use.  "My hotel here... not one broken window."

"You must be so proud," Magie said in a molasses flowing, iron melting sardonic tone.  "Now that I've taken my vacation time from the Institute, and all are accounted for except that one guy that always looks as if his jacket is on fire at that... Tavern in town... Molly's?--"

"Yeah," Steve cut in,  "this guy they call 'Reentry.'   They have search parties out.  They are looking for anything smoldering.  You know Magie, an explosion like that, if it wasn't muffled by those underground caves could have damaged our eardrums and pulled the air out of our lungs."

"This is no time to be thinking what could have happened to us.  I hope they find him soon," Magie moaned as she made the Sign of the Cross.  "I'll say a prayer for him.  It's starting to snow again.  I hope it stays that no one was seriously injured.  Well anyway you can fill me in on this adventure you're planning.  I have all this vacation time backlogged."

"Mission," Steve said bluntly.    "It's called a 'mission.'  No vacation.  No adventure. Mission. Okay, lets go in my office next to the lobby.  I have all the info locked away in an explosion /water proof safe in the  upper cave extension under the hotel."

"Good.  Right after you show me that mysterious, ghostly third floor of yours."

"I can't take it anymore,'  Steve said in a demure but frustrated tone running the palms of his hands over the front of his face.  "June will be here before you know it and there is a lotta prep work.  Anyway you don't want so see the third floor.  Besides it's getting darker and the few lights up there are not fully functioning yet.""

"Afraid,"   Magie taunted.   "Tell me about the ghost of what's his name?  The British Major  Lamb Stew?"

"Sir Evelyn Ewe,  the Lord of Mutton." Steve corrected.  "He haunts the top floor of my hotel."

"Ooooo," I'm scared," Magie said doing a fake-shivering moment.  "Or should I say 'Ewe'... I'm scared."

"Evidently,"  Steve said getting up from the totally comfy couch and stretching, " he used this place as a military headquarters before he and his troops were routed by French, Huron, a few surviving Eriee and American fighters.  Unable to find his way downstairs to escape due to his obsession with camouflage...  it's said at night he opens the door of each hotel room on the top floor looking for the exit to the stairs.  And laments in a heavy British accent 'Is there no way out of this accursed structure?' "

"Camouflage," Magie snickered.

A loud bang coming from the somewhere on the upper floors of the ancient hotel.

"What was that?"  Magie said in a concerned but controlled voice.  "Maybe we should start with the caves beneath the hotel."

"A loose shutter no doubt." Steve snickered back.

After the short tour of a cave or two and the hotel minus the third floor, Magie said, she wanted to get down to business on the mission and that she'll tour the third floor when thy return form wherever.  Then Magie noted:  "This is quite a place you have here.  Thanks for the tour.  Thirty-one rooms, colonial style.  How many on that third floor?"

"I've found 8 so far.  I believe there are 12 or 14 more.  Blast that camouflage.  It took me weeks to find the third floor.  The attics up there are not fully explored.  Only the parts the pigeons caved in.

  "So authentic.  It looks like you're all set to open."

"Still have some work to do especially on the third floor.  You sure you don't want to see that now?  I have some flashlights."

A door from the upper floors slammed again.  Steve knew Magie, as he, did not believe in ghosts but he as she like to kid each other."

"Later,"  Magie said, looking up the dim lighted staircase to the second floor landing.  "The second floor was enough for me right now.  Plus your cellar and... I mean we were lost in those caves of yours down below for what, two hours?"

"Hardly," Steve smiled. "Fifteen minutes at the most.  The whole county is floating on a giant limestone and granite corralled lake.  I hope your sage's faux pas, I mean a real foul up not your definition of 'faux pas.' didn't upset the balance of nature."

"True," Magie agreed,"  This valley would make a wonderful reservoir. Limestone doesn't usually
 co-insides with granite  You have more caves down there than my sage has tunnels under  'The House of Doo Doo.' "

"Please don't use that phrase,  I still have to have dinner." Steve demanded in a low yucky tone.  "I could have sworn I left bread crumbs as we explored to find our way back."

"You're such a child," Magie chimed.  "Now about this mission?"  Magie asked leading Steve back to the couch in front of the warming fireplace.  "But first, do you know how to make a hot buttered cider, Steve?"

A sorrowful wail could be heard throughout the hotel.  No doubt Sir Evelyn Ewe, the Lord of Mutton. Or maybe it was Steve?
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

THURSDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
 5:36P.M.

Molly's  (Friendly) Irish Tavern, Icelickers Mall, east end of 'The Big C.'New York.

"Call me Horst."

"And what...I. er mean who are you?"  A red, bulging boo boo on her forehead with a pounding pulse of its own, Molly asked, standing where the front door should have been, in the semi-neat rubble of her tavern.

"Why I am Blum der Laden the Baa Baa, The man said, in a scratchy car engine trying to turn over voice, as the gusts of wind wrapped his white silk World War 1 airplane scarf around his face only occasionally hiding his flowing beard, noble broad nose, saucer sized pinkish eyes. He was wearing a cargo bale of World War 2 goodies jacket, the kind the Allies (those are the good guys)  dropped over the jungles of New Guinea to support the liberating troops.  He also donned Yak Fur Pants that complemented his very expensive Yenta Yoiks utra fashionable 'Pujie-Pujie' boots.  "I am surprised you do not recognize a man of my considerable  esoteric philosophy but you may call me Horst."

"Huh?"  Molly, proprietress of Molly's Irish Tavern, before being interrupted was having a very angry, vocal argument with herself if she should add the word 'Friendly' between 'Molly's and Irish Tavern and was about to come to blows with herself.   Wearing a tight mohair garish pink glittering sweater with the words 'Shut Up & Get Out' on the front, grunted. On the backside of her form fitting Ice Pick Vinnie designer jeans were the words 'Crime Scene' also in glittering gold sequins.

  She has changed her cowgirl boots and is now wearing Russian designer Swat 'Team Gulag' boots with Russian sleigh bells tingling as she moves aggressively forward like a tidal wave, not tsunami, coming toward one for its every 12 hour, tide fluctuation, look around a harbor.  "Look ya lug, I'm trying to put my business back together And I don't need goof-ball sightseers steppin' all over my ceiling ya--"

"Ya want me to throw the bum out," An army blanket and a train conductors hat and bird-feet slippers wearing Acid shrieks in her primordial  wounded peacock voice as the blindfolded master chef Carnarge, attired in burnt and still smoking master chef uniform stumbles in to the door missing tavern screaming  "My kitchen.  My kitchen."  Then ordering,  "Will one of you miserable heathens show me to my kitchen."

Molly gives him a kick in the backside propelling him back to the dimly lit with two flickering lights darkened, frost encased tavern at the pace approaching the speed of sound.  Only breakage tones could be heard  then silence."

As Acid makes peacock maddening faces and bleeding ear shrieks at Blum der Laden (call me Horst) the Baa Baa as he peeks deeper into Molly's:  "Would 20 dollars buy me a moment of your time?"

"Hold it Acid," Molly bellows.  "Twenty dollars American?"

"Yes.  Yes," Blum der Laden the Baa Baa forks over the mullah."

Molly stuffs the cold bill behind her right ear.  "Okay Bum Yer Lazy  Ma Ma.  Ya got 2 minutes, it's freezing in here."

"I told you... you horrible woman...you can call me Horst."

"Ya used up 20 seconds already Horse."

"I am looking for our New Age leader, we believe in the Assassins and Druses of  the 'Put Down That Phone' nobility.  Our leader Urk from Brooklyn.  He is known to frequent your establishment.  He is our New Age 'Shape Shifter.' "

"Hey, watch it flea bag.  I don't care if you think you're a horse I don't  allow language like that in my tavern... or what's left of it."

"I said 'Shifter' you beastly woman.  Urk is a 'Shape Shifter.'

"Jerk?"  Molly asked.  "What are you nuts? What kind of name is that?  All my valued patrons are 'jerks.'  Lovable to be sure, but 'jerks.'  What kind a name is jerk, ya--"

"Not 'jerk' you stupid, stupid person.  It is Urk from Brooklyn.  You may know him as 'Reentry.'  Urk always wears a smoking jacket due to his-ending fever.  Our New Age leader has operatic aspirations."

"Reentry,"  Molly blares.  "That brainless  weasel is your leader?  Well you were right the first time with 'Jerk.'   And that's being kind."

Acid goes into a crazed peacock  fire dance only seen in Zombie rituals held in the highest corporate offices of the Bilderbergers in Luxembourg.

"The last time anyone saw that screwball he was blasted over the railroad tracks catching a fast freight to Funny Farmville.  Now get out of here ya miserable--":

  "There'll be an inquiry of course how you acquired ownership of the 'Wombat Bar and Grill.'  I find it most interesting you have no towels.  Where are they?   May a thousand khedives set up camp on your head during a milk bottle strike," Blum der Laden the Baa Baa shouts as he vanishes in a puff of smoke or maybe it was a swirl of snow immediately followed by a loud crashing and a deafening roar from deep within the darken bowls of Molly's 'Friendly' Irish Tavern.  A projectile flies out between Molly and Acid that closely resembles master chef Carnage whimpering what strangely sounded like "Let me off at Syracuse's conductor."

" 'Wombat Bar and Grill, indeed.' Acid," Molly Growls.  "You stand guard .anybody comes lookin' for this 'Urk The Jerk' guy or that fugitive, 'call me a horse,' guy from the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital's Doo Doo Fazoo's lockdown ward or Reentry, scratch rubble at them. I'm a goin' in to see what's happenin' in my tavern."  Molly, still wearing her fawn skin leather holster, gunfighter style pats her holstered bullhorn.

The telephone rings from someplace back in the dim kitchen  It takes Molly a while to zero in on the ringing.  Watching for any signs of who fired master chef Carnarge out through where the front door of her establishment should have been  She was listening for any more deep roaring sounds sniffs the air as she puts the phone to her aural facility and hear's a familiar scratchy car engine trying to turn over voice inserting itself into Molly's ear.  "This is Urk, any messages for me."

As Molly, retaliated with her ear piecing whistle she keeps tied to the phone to destroy annoying callers eardrums, she is picked up noogied and flung out where the front door should have been from the back kitchen area at superhuman speed, hitting Acid standing peacock guard and taking them into a snow bank a few yards from the tavern. This time, from within the tavern the roars are headed toward them.  Even the falling snow seems frightened-fluttered as the invisible vibrating noogie-rage roars exited the tavern.
***


JOURNAL ENTRY

THURSDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
 8:00P.M.

Steve Ptah's Patriot Hotel's Lobby
127 Morning Street almost across from Magie Carousel's apartment
'The Big C.'  New York.

"To understand  one must understand the doer not the deed."


"Okay, " Magie said, after she made a toe-curd roast beef salad and toe food excesories.in Steve's Massive stainless steel hotel kitchen. Then returning to the lobby's fireplace and sitting on the large comfy 1940's red pastel flowers on white decorated couch with whitish/beige background sipping her mug of hot buttered cider with a pinch of cinnamon. ginger and nutmeg in front of the roaring now ironwood and apple wood fire.  It was winter dark now outside and the snow had picked up although the wind stop blowing with occasional rude slaps.

  Only the lobby was lighted and the immense front porch.  The cozy restaurant area off  to the right and the vast kitchen area had dimmers on as did the second floor hallway.  The third  floor, Sir Evelyn Lamb the Lord of Mutton's expansive 1775 camoflague area and the attic area Steve had dedicated with a plaque to the demise of the passenger pigeon were left in shadows so deep only owls and vampire bats could find their way.  After awhile Magie became use to the limey accented   intermittent wail and soft expletives finding its way to the lobby.

"So we are going to Panama to find out if this Martin Bormann, Hitler's second in command is still alive and functioning in Central America under the name of Herr Schitzstaffel--"

"What in the name of  laughing hyenas did I just eat. A pound of shredded cardboard?"  Steve asked in a gasping for air sound as he dropped the mission folder he acquired from his office safe earlier on the always inviting couch.

"My health special you ungrateful mulligan.  I will never cook dinner for you again?"

"Please emblaze that on your forehead.  How can anyone turn a beautiful cut of roast beef into cardboard.  I could have used a box-cutter. Toe-cured mashed potatoes.  Toe-cured creamed corn.  Toe-cured biscuits  Toe-cured--"

"It's toe-curd, not cured you moron and I'm sure it's the healthiest dinner meal you ever had."

"And, my last meal," Steve said in a voice reeking gastronomical deviancy as he rolled on the polished wooden floor between the comfy couch and hearth. "Where'd I put that stomach pump,  or even that revolver?"

"Get use to it wimp," Magie said in a caring voice.  "Now this Herr Schutzstaffel character--"

"Herr Herr Schutzstaffel," Steve interjected, climbing back onto the large comfy couch.  "Remember his first name is 'Herr' also."

"Yeah,' Magie said shaking her head.  I'll be sure to remember that.  Lets just use one Herr for now.  Shutzstaffel means 'elite troops' the Third Reich used to protect Hitler if my German is correct and of course it always is.  You know that Steve."

"Yeah...  I know that Magie."  Steve said, rolloing his eyes, moaning soft and low and holding his  flat stomach heavenly-help style.

  Magie continued.  "Now one of the reasons you want me to take charge of this mission is--"

"Not to take charge you....  I'm in charge."  Steve pointed out in a command voice still massaging his six pack stomach. "Let get this straight from the beginning."

"Okay, you're in charge," Magie stipulated in a sly honey dripping on steel emerging from a fiery furnace.  As long as I'm the boss."

"Okay then,"  Steve said proudly in that command voice that the Captain of the Titanic used when he said, 'Full steam ahead.  There are no icebergs in these waters, by granny.'  "I'm glad that's settled."

"Now," Magie continued, "one of the reason you want me to accompany you on this mission, now that I'm the boss is because of my expertise in 'telomere research.'

"Right. Well one of the reasons. As you know telomeres are those two little stingy thing on the end of our chromosomes.  As these strings shrink as we age.  They control the aging rate in us.  The people in Washington and Hohokus New Jersey who have been studying Nazi medical research in concentration camps believe that Nazi doctors and scientist found ways to keep telomeres from shrinking and Bormann had not only access to this information but had the top Nazi scientist use it on him."

"Well," Magie said, "There have been experiments and we know that cancer stops the cells from aging.  But one would have to have hundreds of thousands... maybe millions of individuals to experiment on including thousands of twins--"

"Like concentration camps,"  Steve said.

"Hmmmm, yes Steve like concentration camps.  In my spare time when I want to take a break from theoretical physics and nuclear--"

"Just get to the point please," Steve said gunsel style.  "June is coming up on us fast."

You are such a swine," Magie said in a voice that made it sound like a compliment. "I've been working on a nanosent inserted into the olfactory system by--"

"What old factory?" Steve interrupted.  "What has that to do with slowing down the aging process?"

"Not an old factory bean brain.  Olfactory, the nose, by scent.  "let me try to explain it to you as I would explain it to a tree stump.   Think of a human cell that contains many thing including  chromosomes.  And on this chromosome there is a little tail.  As we get older the tail begins to get shorter causing our skin, body everything to change  fade away until the tails are gone.  As soon as they disappear we die... from old age.  Now imagine if we could slow the tails from shrinking or reverse them into growing longer by just sniffing a special aromatic substance.  One could possibly live for 1200 years or more barring an accidents or death from anything else but old age."

"Didn't I just say that in English," Steve moans.

"Of course", Magie continued, "the downside would be overcrowding of the planet.  We would have to come up with a sensible way to travel in space and grow more food, better water and environment control etc...  We humans could never do that on such a large scale."

"True," Steve said sadly. "Evil.  Pure Evil. First we would have to increase the murdering of infants, the disabled and the-elderly, Steve said in a low tone.  "I mean those who have reached their 1200 year limit."

"Sad to say," Magie agreed.  "I found that this organization in Luxembourg, the ones that make those delicious Bilderberger hamburgers, of course I don't eat them, that my sage always brags about is sponsoring my research through the Government via a front in Panama  They plan to keep this aging slowdown, by olfactory means thanks to me, for themselves so the world won't have any such overcrowding problems.  I have intentionally not been reporting all my findings until I deal with these dilemma's that keep arising within me."

"I think you're right," Steve said in a supporting tone. "And I can understand the dilemma's.  Ya can't touch one thing without causing major disturbances somewhere down the line. But really, who in their right mind would want to live 1200 years on this planet?  I mean I would like to see the face of God before that length of time.

"Then we are in accord--."

Steve eyes Magie suspiciously as a Viking about to be attacked by an Orca.  "If you say so but I don't know how to play the accordion--"

 "So do we-- accordion?  Never mind.  We infiltrate or just observe?"  Magie asked taking a sip of her hot buttered cinnamon/ginger/nutmeg cider.

"Huh?  Oh... well as I see it the only way to find out if this is really Martin Bormann is to get inside his 'in' group... that's were you come in."

"Naturally, but how? Magie asked suspiciously in that voice that can mesmerize 40 thousand charging horsemen into the Valley of Death with the same results.  "Wait a minute.  You're planning to use me as a human shield."

"Interesting thought," Steve said in a voice oozing with almost wisdom. "But no... well not right away.  Now, as I mentioned Bormann was born in 1900 and--"

"That would make him ninety-four years old and that photo your contact took of this guy Martin Bormann allegedly posing as this Herr Schutzstaffel in no way resembles a ninety-four year old man.  That is... unless your contact is right and he was able to find a way to keep his telomeres from shrinking.  I mean he looks like a man in his mid-forties.  When did this criminal Bormann disappear from, what did you say... Berlin?"
 
"Nineteen forty-five. He is not quite ninety-four yet.  Magie, to understand Herr Schutzstaffel one must understand the doer not the deeds no matter how reprehensible they are.  Guess the month and day he was born?"  Steve asked then answered his own question.  "Seventeen June."

"My Birthday," Magie herald.  "Interesting but I doubt that would be enough to get us in this inner circle."

"True,"  Steve said still rubbing his stomach. "Now take a look at this picture of his girlfriend taken about 1942."  Steve reaches into his folder and passes it face down to Magie.  The official Nazi seal on the back. She flips it over like a gunsel's moll flipping over a flapjack hot from the frying pan.  Silence kicked her teeth in.

"I can't believe this," Magie said in a gut punched voice.  "It's me."
***

Entry Journal

THURSDAY
16 FEBRUARY 1994
8:09P.M.

Private Emergency Receiving Hospital
Bull Weed Road just a tiny bit outside 'The Big C.'
Secured Doo Doo Fazoo parking lot for those who might be incurably insane:

'I hate ferbonies that try to make their goombah problems 'The Noggin's' goombah problems.'

  "Now listen up ya febonies," 'The Noggin' bellowed,  loading his ivory handled six guns with cork bullets, as the last of 'The Noggins' staff was loaded into the ambulance including the unknowns and Goombah Wong tries to goombah slid into the drivers seat.  "I got us all discharged early so we can get back to 'The Noggin's' mansion and get things back to goombah normal and--"

The ambulance's sirens and flashing lights went on causing all those in the ambulance to cringe with ear and eye pain.

"Knock that off ya ferbonie and listen up."

"It wasn't me 'Noggin.'  It was my buddy the driver Pamplamouuse the monkey.  He's just figuring out how to drive this thing."

"I told ya, ya ferbonie you drive this ambulance and drive it goombah fast.  I gotta get back to 'The Noggins' mansion.  And keep that febonie ape away from the controls ya ferbonie.  Where is that ferbonie Mau Mau?  He's supposed to handle that ferbonie ape "

"Still unconscious, Sir Doo Doo." Phibbs said in that long British drawn out patter 'Your Lordship your bath is ready,' voice.  "The doctors said he shouldn't be moved yet."

"What a those ferbonie bone mechanics know?  'The Noggin' knows what's best ya ferbonie. Okay, you ferbonies probably all goombah wondering why I got Magie's boss Myron Insolentt over here ya ferbonies.  Well 'The Noggin' will tell ya  Now help that walrus-lookin' ferbonie Insolentt in the back of this ferbonie paddy wagon ambulance.

 As a 6th of a ton Myron Insolentt squezzes into the packed ambulance with the help of a fork lift the front wheels of the vehicle lift up off the ground about a half  a foot.

"Okay ya ferbonies" 'The Noggin's' voice is mostly absorbed by all the bodies jammed together. "Okay ya febonies, the smoking goombah lamp is lit.  Light em up if ya got em."

"I can't close the back door of the ambulance," the orderly, Desolation Smithba who was helping with the forklift shouted. "There's too many people in here."

"Ah shud up ya ferbonie," 'The Noggin' retorts.  "There's plenty of goombah room by the front of the stretcher up here by me ya ferbonie.  You ferbonies help squeeze Insolent up here."

"I don't understand 'Sir Noggin'  why you want me here--"

"It's the way of  'The Noggin,'  Goombah Wong shouts back through the little partition that separates the  driver and shotgun seat from the back of the ambulance.  "No one knows why a 'Noggin' does what a 'Noggin does--"

"Shadup ya ferbonie.  I told ya to get that ape out of the drivers seat and you ya ferbonie get in the drivers seat and get this ferbonie cattle car movin'."

"But the partition is shoved up against us we can't move  'Noggin.' "

Just then Insolent is shoved forward a bit, gasping for breath, as the ambulance front wheels rudely plummet to the ground. jarring the siren and flashing lights to become alive. The orderly trying to close the back door of the ambulance succeeds with the help of three other orderlies including Desolation Smithba and a shove from the forklift.

With siren blazing and lights flashing it was almost impossible to hear inside the ambulance.

"I told ya ya ferbonie get in the drives seat," 'The Noggin' commands in a voice that resembles a person being slowly crushed by a tired leaning elephant.

"I can't move 'Noggin."  Besides Pamplamousse is wearing the official goombah ambulance driver's hat.  I can't interfere with the chain of  goombah comm--"

"Shad up a ya ferbonie and don't bother 'The Noggin' with ya petty goomah  problems.  I hate ferbonies that try to make their ferbonie goombah problems 'The Noggin's' goombah problems.   Get this meat wagon movin' ya febonie and keep that ferbonie partition open so ya can hear my goombah plans ya febonie. Now burn rubber ya ferbonies."

"You mean that idiot tranny-clod Karoke- singing-nitwit-GoGo dancer from that Molly's Irish Tavern is driving us?"  Insolentt asked in a scream of terror tone.  Then adding, "I can't breathe. I need air."

"Naw," 'The Noggin' whispers out of the side of his mouth in a garbled voice.  "It's not that ferbonie idiot.  It's the ferbonie ape Pamplamousse that was in the drivers seat.  I'm sure that ferbonie Goombah Wong has everything under goombah control now listen up ya ferbonies.  Here, ya ferbone Insolentt take some whiffs out my ferbonie hydrogen tank.

"I can't move in this thing," Ganadage Frau Puckarber gasped in an extremely high pitched voice that has been know to crack bullet proof glass as she took breaths out of her portable carry-on helium tank.

"Ah, shut-up ya febonie.  I told you to fill ya tank up with hydrogen like me."

"Really Sir 'Noggin,' "  Phibbs said in a British Royal sardine can squeezed voice, "the doctors said to the nurses to make sure you and Ganadage Frau Puckarber had oxygen in your tanks."

"I switched them ya febonie but 'The Noggin' used up all the available hydrogen so I goombah guess that  ferbonie Ganadage Frau Puckarber got the helium in her tank--"

"Danke Mister Norwegian for nothin' ya big--"

" 'Noggin...'  Noggin..'  ya kraut ferbonie.  How many time do I gots to tell ya, it's 'Noggin.' "

"Ya callin' yaself  'Noggin,' "  Goombah Wong yelled back, still in the passenger seat, through the partition.  "That's tops in goombah 'Noggin' efficiency.  Any more monkeys back there?"

"Shut up and get this sardine can movin' ya ferbonie and ya all listen up 'The Noggin' has to work fast to get his roller derby plan goombah workin' ya ferbonies. I told ya, ya ferbonie get us back to "The Noggin's' mansion.  Burn rubber ya ferbonie goombah moron. Slap leather-- 23 goombah  skidoo. whatever ya ferbonies got to do to get this ferbonie telephone booth on wheels haulin' goombah priority ferbonie freight."

"But the monkey is still--"  Goombah Wong tried to mouth back.

"I don't want ta hear about ya ferbonie apes.  Move.  If I could reach my six shooter you'd be dancing the goombah Tanglefoot.

"Then turning a bit to the slumped over body of Insolent, 'The Noggin' said, "Now listen up ya bloated ferbonie here's what 'The Noggin' wants done about Magie and 'The Noggin's' roller skating plan before 'The Noggin's' sweetie gets to Panama.  Insolennt are ya listening to 'The Noggin' ya ferbonie?"

"Air, please air..." Myron Insolentt pleads to unhearing ears.

As the ambulance peeled out of the secured parking lot at goombah speed with siren blaring and lights flashing; a squashed voice sounding like Ganadage Frau Puckarber bleated, "I smell something burning."
***

Journal Entry

THURSDAY
17 FEBRUARY 1994
 9:48P.M.

Magie Carousel's  third floor apartment
100 Morning Street
'The Big C.' New York

'Magie diagnosis Steve with a severe case of Epistemophobia.'

"Then tell me Steve," Magie asked, taking off her snow laden boots and going to the large closet to hang up her short sleeved red and gray ski vest then brushing off the snow from her hair and deep violet sweater.  "If all we need to find out is about telomeres to see if this nut, Herr Shutzstaffel is Martin Bormann and I look like his old, beautiful I might add, girlfriend as she looked as a young woman in 1942 ... what did you say her name was...  Manja Behrens?  I can see why you need me but why do I need you to tag along?  Here let me hang your jacket in the closet to dry."

"Closet," Steve said suspiciously looking around the apartment with just his eyes, not moving his head.  "Since when did this world start substituting closets for cloakrooms?"

"Don't start 'that' again." Magie ordered.

"First of all 'street smarts' I have them don't."

"Like what?" Magie challenged in stern, oozing honey voice.

"Like if we come across of male and female bad guys, terrorist or whatever we kill the woman first.  They have more to prove to their male colleagues. That makes them more dangerous. But lets hope it doesn't come to that.  I'll acquaint you with the art work he stole.  And then there's 'The Amber Room' among other things. And remember the most important thing I told you at our first mission meeting at O'Tannenbaum's the night we were shot up?"

"I remember Steve." She only heard that tone of his on one occasion before.  The whisper of a hunting Anaconda makes as he moves through swamp grass preying on a deadly enemy, like a giant crocodile or a fully grown panther also on the hunt.

"Herr Shutzstaffel has been diagnosed by Washington as psychologically toxic... ah, much like your sage 'The Noggin'--"

"Nothing worse than a jealous swine--" Magie started to say.

"Washington also diagnosed him as clinically insane a homicidal maniac exaggerated with bouts of Folie a Deux homicidal avatar compulsions, delusions,  claims to be a uiligotis--"

"Has ancestorial memory," Magie said.

 "And that's the upside.  On the downside are  megalomania, love to slam doors in peoples face, persecution complex, master of Rune yodeling believes he can mesmerize women and red panda's  by humming sweet, exuberant  verses from the Horst Wessel song  and basically an all around fun guy."

"Well except possibly for this Horst Wessel song you just described everyone in Washington." Magie countered.

"That's beside the point," Steve counter-counters attacked.  "I know you you're an expert in Dim-mak and you can kill anyone if you can touch them--"

'I prefer to think of Dim-mak as a healing art," Magie said, in syrupy sweet voice.

"Look Magie, I'm just a guy from Brooklyn who doesn't quite know what goin' on around him  and I like it that way.  But, you could get hurt or worse on this mission... which means I could get hurt or worse so--"

"That's sweet Steve.  And I know you don't like to know what's going on around you even though you profess to be a 'situational awareness man.'  Speaking of diagnosing. I have diagnosed you with extreme Epistemophobia.  In fact you may be a carrier.  I may have even lost a few IQ points just being around you."

"Will you forget about your stupid IQ.  I told you I'd get it up to number you'd be proud of... no matter how long it takes.  An as far as this Epstein stuff you know I'm not interested in botany and how plants reproduce."

"What?" Magie asked squinting in pain.  It means 'Fear of knowledge.'

"Huh? I thought botany was the study of plants. Never mind that static stuff.  One doesn't just walk up to a lunatic... Herr Shutzstaffel and start interrogating  him.  That's why you need me.  There is a rumor that he had 'The Amber Room taken apart in Berlin before the Russians got there and it is now on his mega-yacht in the Panama canal.

 There are 'works of art' that are missing and possibly on his yacht. It is impossible to get on his yacht unless one is invited.  And there is other info I have to go over with you so you know what to look for and what to ask and how to answer questions.  I plan to infiltrate his finger unit by you and I becoming the best merengue dancers in the world.  We start training with Datu Turko Lefty tomorrow," Steve said walking over to one of the main street windows and peering out to see if it was still snowing.  "What the--?"

"What?" Magie asked.  "Oh, another siren?"

"I  just saw an ambulance  that was on fire go by," Steve started to say turning back toward Magie.  "I could swear it was that idiot parachuting monkey driving."

"Pamplemousse?" Magie said uncaringly, sure that Steve was looking at his reflection in the glass window..  "Pamplemousse  doesn't know how to drive."
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

FRIDAY
18 FEBRUARY 1994
8:00A.M.

Datu Turko Lefty's Bait & Tackle shop.                                                         
28 Underpass Street
'The Big C.' New York.

Datu's  abode is is sparingly decorated.  A few worm farms,  several harpoons fully loaded and ready to fire whaling guns with numerous harpoons with exploding heads. Words of wisdom written in crayon on his walls and old rickety gangplank leading to a ships steel front door with a porthole and 8 broken bells.

'Here we go gathering nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May.  here we go gathering....'

"Magie, please Datu is the greatest merengue dancer in the world.  We have to be good enough to challenge Herr Shutzstaffel in the Panamanian World Merengue contest.  We're going to attack him on several levels to enter his verboten circle."

"The World of  'The Grinning Lunatic.'  I know all that Steve.  But, this Datu guy is the town nut," Magie said in a low warning but sweet growl wearing her custom made jeans by Spitch und Druule,  Yenta Yoiks pastel-night sneakers and a lavender Woolsy Who matching sweater and scarf.

"I thought your sage 'The Noggin' was the town nut," Steve responded in kind in his white shirt by 'Mole's Underground Cheapie Market' and black army sweater by 'The U.S. Army' with dungarees by 'Garage Sale Emporium' and black bargain basement sneakers called 'snakers (cc)' especially made for merengue dancing by 'Recycled Dumpster.'

"Look pea brain this... Datu Turko Lefty guy has a whaling gun on his front porch and another pointing directly at us and the front door with a harpoon loaded and I believe ready to fire."

"Static," Steve said brushing aside Magie's remark like a street cleaner cleaning up after a ticker-tape parade and waiting to be piped aboard..  "So he's eccentric.  All the great ones are."

"Eccentric?" Magie questioned.  "Look at the wall over there.  'I Hate Whales' scribbled in crayon.' "

"So he's afraid to be swallowed by a whale.  Who isn't."

"You know, Steve," Magie said shaking her head.  "Don't I have enough to be concerned about... I mean  I look like this Manja Behrins my targets only true love, I have the same  birthday as Martin Bormann 17 June except he or this Herr Schutzstaffel was born in 1900 and all this other stuff I have to learn about them while becoming a merengue expert dancer... and  my sage back in the hospital with his... his--"

"Band of merry nitwits," Steve inserted.  "Look on the bright side.  You were right about that idiot ape not being able to drive."

"I know the hypothermia is under control for all of them when Pamplemousse took that shortcut over Dormitory lake.  But, I don't understand how they all came down with nitrogen and hydrogen narcosis.  And the report stated they all reeked of pot... like this den of nicompoopery reeks of whale oil.  It's my idiot boss at the Institute, Insolentt. Since they made him political officer over all experiments we are doing he became a pot chain smoker."

"It's okay Magie, there will be no charges against any of the brain trust. They'll be fine.  You have to concentrate on our mission. Which reminds me 'Broken Chain Towing' is still trying to figure out how to get my Road Runner out of that Attic.  I told them to send you the bill."

"I know.  I've contacted them to send the bill back to you. What are those yellow oil slickers doing hanging on the wall with those black rain hoods and knee high boots?  I got to get outside for a moment the smell of whale oil is--"

"Here we go gathering nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in... Ahoy there you are," Datu, said blowing into his smoking pipe exploding ashes all over as he piped Magie and Steve aboard his residence then ringing a happy tune doorbell he always carries with him under his arm army British bugler style.  Dressed in the same outfit, created by 'Lusitania,' as is on the wall that Magie questioned.  "Ah, that must be highly placed  'In' people at my gangway."  Datu Turko Lefty appeared, as stated, in a yellow rain slicker with black rain hat.  The slicker covered his gray turtleneck woolly brown oilskin trouser and black galoshes neatly buckled for action. A clear glass eye patch over his one glass eye.

"Now what hideous den of stupidity have you gotten me into?" Magie fired at Steve.

"Huh?" Steve asked most elegantly.  "Send the bill back to me?"

"This Datu Turko Lefty guy is carrying around a doorbell like a British bugler under arm style, ringing it then going to his door to meet with the 'In' people and you ask me 'Huh.' "

"C'mon Magie, don't let this preoccupation with detail get in the way of learning from the greatest merengue dancer the world ever produced.  It's vital for our mission.  Besides," Steve said in a softer tone,  "He's Datu."

"Datu?  This guy is nuts."  Then Magie said in  a whisper, "On the bright side he's probably not as nuts as you are.  See Steve, I can look on the bright side too."

"Okay, you blithering land lovers," Datu Turko Lefty said in a nautical tone.  "No one was on the Bridge... or as you  miserable fascist would blather 'no one was at the door.  Now jump up on--"

"Fascist," Magie said."

"Silence dummkopf," Datu  ordered in a  musical seagoing voice that sounded as if someone was singing 'Fifteen Men on a Dead Mans Chest.'   "When 8 bells sounds your lesson  begins.  I, the greatest Datu in the world have only less than 3 full moons to turn you into the 2nd greatest merengue dancers in the world."

"Second greatest", Magie mused."

 "Jawol Fraulien schweinhund.   I Datu Turko Lefty am the greatest merngue dancer on this pathetic planet I must share with you puny humans.  The only reason I am training you is that Steve here has told me you want to go up against my arch nemesis  that idiot Herr Schutzstaffel.  He merengues as if he is slipping in pig slop during an earthquake, the dummkopf.  And it will not be easy training fathead minnows like you two.  Now jump up on your backless bar stools I confiscated from a local establishment.  They will be your starting position 'Lilly pads.'

 There are two main creatures you must become to be champion merengue dancer.   One is the noble raninian the other is--"

"Frogs," Magie exploded in a sweet low detonation voice.  We must become frogs?  Okay Steve, I've had it."

"Magie he's Datu.  Trust me."

"As I was saying before this... this assassin  interrupted me... Datu... well we will approach the other one later.  Now up on your 'Lilly  pad' bar stools and let me see how far you miserable boneheads can jump.  Ahh,.. did any of you mallet-heads bring any silver bullets with you?"

"Silver bullets," Magie winces as she gives Steve a 'death-hold' stare that would crush any normal persons windpipe.

"Werefrogs you clueless sissy-girl."  Datu Turko Lefty accidentally rings the doorbell he carries with him British bugler under arm style, frog-hops over to the front door and flings it open.   Only icy gales and frigid snow enter.  "Where are these 'In' people who dare ring the doorbell of Datu Turko Lefty? Am I not part of the 'In' crowd.  Tell me. I must know.  Where are you 'in crowd?' Ahoy there?"

Out of nowhere appears a violent snowman that begins strangling Datu Turko Lefty.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
10:00A.M.

Private Emergency Receiving Hospital
Mental Oasis Secured Ward The Sir Doo Doo Fazooo section.
Bull Weed Road just a wee bit out of 'The Big C.'

"Toot Toot  Tootsie Goodbye"


"I have to discharge all of them, again Nurse Tight," Doctor Totoot, dressed in white Turban with a flawed ruby in the center, and hospital whites said in an exasperated voice his eyes blinking rapidly.

"But your the head man on this wing for the hopelessly doomed."  An out of breath Nurse Tight was also wearing hospital whites sans Turban but had a white hospital nylon stocking stretched over her head and 12 cartons of Pall Mall cigarettes under her arm as she looked around nervously.

"Mental Health Oasis Secured Ward, Nurse Tight, I know, I know none of them should be left out on their own but I've been straight-jacketed by Sir Doo Doo's lawyers and Sir Doo Doo's Charity has made this ward possible.  And I have patients that I can actually help.  And Sir Doo Doo's solicitors from London have paid for all damages in town, rescue squads, fire departments and we are getting a new ambulance.  There is a bus waiting for them to take them back to Sir Doo Doo's mansion, or what's left of it.  Also I signed the release for that deranged smoldering  individual they call 'Reentry.'   He left earlier. His hearing in his right ear should return shortly but he must keep it bandaged.. What kind of nut would blow a whistle in his ear?"

You haven't seen any Johnny Law up her looking for me... I mean anyone?"  Nurse Tight whispered in Esperanto

"Did you say something?  Anyway, release Sir Doo Doo Fazoo's 'Finger Unit' out of chute four." Doctor Totoot commanded as if he was ordering a torpedo to be fired at an innocent waterfront village.

"With or without straight jackets Doctor Totoot."

 Without, Nurse Tight.  I'm not going to release Sir Doo Doo's group wearing straight jackets into the streets of 'The Big C."

"I doubt if anyone would notice," Nurse Tight said.  "After all just about everyone is wearing the latest French fad around here, Faux Jacket de Straight."

"I know, but the people outside can take them off anytime they want,  I don't think they have to be untied."

Okay, but on your head be it Doctor Totoot.  Oh, by the by Doctor Totoot, Sir Doo Doo insist on serenading you for your fine work as they file by... as they are being discharged to reek stupidity on the world."

"Now now, Nurse Tight.  Keep a stiff warm growl.  And take that nylon stocking off your head."

"Here they come," Nurse Tight said, her voice sounding danger.  "What a gruesome bevy of violent nincompoopery."

"Poor souls," Dr. Totoot said, as he waved and smiled.  "I've switched all their hydrogen and helium air tanks that 'The Noggin' demanded and put regular oxygen in them Nurse Tight. Don't be strangers," he called out as they sang their hearts out, bandaged, limping, using walkers, crutches, stretchers, a muzzled ape,  unknowns and a huge sledge on rollers for Insolent being pulled by them all with a ships docking rope, modified goose-step marching single file all led by 'The Nogin' getting into an elevator that had a sign on it 'Not In Service.'

"Toot Toot Tootsie, Good byeeeeee."    Short screams and  sickening-thuds followed.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
!0:22 AM

Molly's Irish Tavern
Icelickers Mall, 'The Big C,' New York

'Stampede Insurance.'

"Why didn't you finesse that queen of diamonds?"  Stampede Insurance inspector Loyd de Dyoll dressed in what looked like a horse blanket made into a gray smart suit with the name 'Dobin' in faint letters showing on the back of his tailored jacket, and one grain bag each  of chicken feed over each shoulder under his jacket to give him a presence of command, just like his old boss Joe Stalin wore on his shoulders demanded to know from Molly.

"Whata ya  greenhorn cyote yappin about now?"  Molly flared, her nuggied head bump still standing out on her bean proud and belligerent.

"Oh, er nothing, I'm back now. Shadowy ghost riders in the sky always brings out the whimsy in me. I thought I was playing bridge for a moment instead of inspecting your stampede insurance claim."

"Ya don't want to slap leather with me ya fuzzy beard whippersnapper. "I'm packin' an East Indian blather ferocious Brahma Bull and swine bullhorn in a unborn fawn leather holster," Molly grimaced.

 "You were very lucky to take out stampede insurance, most people never think their gonna be caught in a stampede in this part of the country."

"Listen ya tenderfoot scalawag just fork over my insurance money so I can--"  A shivering, vibrating roar that wasn't human or animal emanated from the rear of Molly's friendly but, freakishly angry, depraved damaged Irish Tavern.

"What in the name of a Russian squat dance raid blasting ceremony was that ghastly--"

"Never you mind about my meditation music wise guy," Molly bellowed   "Suppose you tell me when your idiot insurance company is gonna hit me with the mullah."

"Well, it's obvious there was a stampede to get out of your place caused by an unknown force.  Of course your policy doesn't allow Clod Dancing.  I see what's left of the signs prohibiting the nefarious  movement so your okay on that.  And your full name is Mesquite Molly?  Weren't you on a radio show in the forties with an Injun named Broken Arrow?'  Never mind.  I just need to find the heavy object with bloodstains on it and you will get your check in a few days."

" 'Broken Arrow?' Indeed. Try 'Cracked Arrow' you... Okay ya sniveling wimp I'm sure you'll find it inside someplace.  It's staring to snow again. Get a move on ya little doggie.  It's freezing out here."

"Yo Yo, Molly. I won't stop till I kill you all."  Lloyd de Dyoll said as he does an abbreviated Russian sitting down dance.

"Good. And stop quoting your hero Joseph Stalin's insurance company motto around here  Now find that thing your looking for and get back to your home office and write me a big check.

 Acid, get over here.  Listen 'The Tongan' escaped and is roaming the streets of 'The Big C,' probably dressed like a snowman so if she turns full frontal no one will recognize her.  Remember she almost disappears if you see her from the side. When ya find her shoot her with this tranquilizer gun then get her in my 3/4 ton truck.  It has a hydraulic lift on the back with a heavy rope and winch.  And bring here in the back. I'll help you unload her.  I want her to kill our treasonous Irish target in the most gruesome manner.  Just like the Leprechaun ordered.  It's time to execute."

 Molly begins to laugh the laugh of the 'thousand cackling jackals.'  Then starts coughing with extreme prejudice  falling to her knees, her eyes cross  her nuggie pulsating violently as she  passes out landing with a snow-thud.  A few moments later she leaps to her feet, spinning a full 360 drawing her East Indian blather ferocious  Brahma Bull and swine bullhorn, holds it to her lips and burps."

 Acid, ignoring what just happened asked.  "But how do you know 'The Tongan' will be disguised as a snowman?  And what about the undercover shoe salesman assassin that was supposed to--"  Acid Peacock gurgled.

"Forget the idiot Cuban shoe salesman that moron Castro sent us in his convertible. I just found out from Nurse Tight, my discount 'ciggy poo' contact that clumsy moron... he'll be in the hospital for months with broken bones. The clumsy fool fell down at least three flights of stairs.  Now, 'The Tongan,' I read her profile, bird brain. My guess is it doesn't snow in the Irish part of Tonga, so she has this thing about becoming a functioning snowman. Also, she is drawn to the scent of whale oil.  As a student of new math what happens when ya add 2 and 6 ya get five-hundred and twelve... But before you do that I have a job for you here.  This idiot stampede insurance adjuster is looking for  some heavy blood stained object before he gives final approval and releases my mullah."

"Why would he be looking for a heavy blood stained--"

"Because he's a nut, you seed peckin' moron.  Now find some heavy object, whack him over the head just enough to draw blood.  I'll revive him, send him on his way with his heavy blood stained object  and I get my mullah."

"You're the greatest Molly."

"Of course I am the greatest."

"Now I know why they all call you a few pickles shy a barrel behind your back."

"You got it...  huh?"
***


JOURNAL ENTRY

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
11:53A.M.

DATU TURKO LEFTY Bait & Tackle Shop
28 Underpass Street
'The Big C.' New York.

'Last minute advice to the Captain of the Edmund Fitzgerald.'


"That was weird" Steve said, in a low whisper as he and Magie take their first unexpected break from their merengue lesson when Datu, Turko Lefty had to retrieve one of his live harpoons  Datu fired accidently, while demonstrating a winning modified Baharata Natyam merengue move, into a house a few blocks away.

"Weird? What that idiot firing off a harpoon gun in the house or the snowman strangling this madman,"  Magie gasped in a stunned but controlled honey dripping voice.  "Try lunacy, madness.  I mean what kind of idiot would dress up in a snowman and attack this idiot you got us involved with as a dance instructor."

"Hey we tried to figure this out last night after the lesson but you had to run off to see how 'The Noggin' and his Section 8 crew were doing?"

"I asked you to refer to my sage as Sir Doo Doo.  And Doctor Totoot insisted I sign some papers as my sages 'Release' guardian"

"Doctor Totoot?  Yeah, right."

"Steve, that snowman had herculean strength, then to let go of this jerks neck and slink to the ground as if it was shot by something..."

"You saved Datu's life by striking a Dim-Mak nerve 'the door of the period' to the snowman strangling him."

"You noticed that did you," Magie said in a curious timbre.  "I'll probably live to regret it."

"You destroyed one of the most feared assassins in the world... 'The Tongan.' "

"Oh yes, 'The Tongan?'  And the body looked liked  was dragged away in the snow.  Then the drag tracks just disappeared in the middle of the snow covered street?  I'm not so sure that I saved this Datu creatures  life. The attacker went limp almost too fast?  Are you sure it was this semi-fictitious  character you call 'The Tongan?' "

"It's old Irish Tongan folklore,"  Steve sneezed.  "When a great 'Tongan' whale arose out of the Pacific ocean off the cost of Tonga and proclaimed she was looking for a good Irish pub that doesn't serve half-pints to sissies, or, something like that."

"God bless you.  I know it's Irish Folklore. God Bless you and help you regain sanity or a semblance of sanity."

"Thanks, but there is no time for sanity.  There really is a demented international assassin called 'The Tongan' from the beautiful island of Tonga.  Not all Tongans are assassins but, all assassins are Tongans. It is a great tourist draw.  I love Tonga."

 "Is the commercial over?  Yes,  I've heard of 'The Tongan' a self-hating Irish lass from the island of Tonga, who rose out of the sea to sell shoes, not to find a pint of Irish beer you... but if it was 'The Tongan' it was fortunate she was wearing a cheap snowman's costume.  If it was a thicker costume my almost death strike might not have had the desired effect.  And not even a thank you from Datu, even after you revived Datu with a Dim-mak move... which reminds me--"

"You have to understand Magie, for some...reason people try to kill Datu the first time they meet him.  To him its no big deal.  He lives a charmed life.  He's Datu."

"If that idiot calls me a sissy girl fascist once more I'll take his charm life and wrap it around his--"

"Magie hush.  You forget he's Datu."

"Datu, my baked lasagna"

"Lets hope the Tongan's sister is out of commission also.  She's locked up in some nut house in Northern Ireland I believe... I hope."

"Sister," Magie said politely before she began to strangle Steve.  "A sister that may or may not be locked up in a nut house?"  Releasing Steve's neck Magie said in that tea party finger cake voice.  "I mean a Mental Health Oasis.  A sister?" 

The door is flung open and Datu's explodes into the dancing room"  "I have my harpoon  back it is on my foredeck.  Before you go to lunch I wan t you two to merengue dance it back in place here.  Now your dancing is almost okay for amateur civilians but not for competition.  Up on your Lilly pads and we will practice one of the most essential things to becoming a World Class merengue dancer."

Steve whispers to Magie, "For lunch lets go to that Pee Wee's Diner you're always talking about."

"Steve, you are so naive.  Everyone knows Pee Wee's Diner is closed during lunch time.  That's what they're noted for.  Honestly, Steve sometimes I think you know nothing about our beautiful and historic Schoharie County."

"Whispering?  Did I hear whispering you... you bean brained Fifth Columnists."

"Okay, that's it for this fruit cup,"  Magie said her voice on fire.  'That's all I can stand  I can 't stands no more.  It's dodo (pronounced: doe doe.) time for you clam breath."

"Hey," Datu said in a surprised whelp.  "You sound like my hero Popeye the Sailor man.  No demerit for your cockatoo outburst.    Now become the frog. Eyes closed?"

"Look you idiot," Magie said panting.  "We don't want to become frogs just learn about them if you are sure that's what it takes in your demented world to become champion merengue dancers."

"Don't call me idiot.  I am Datu.  Fifteen years in a row I have been world champion merengue dancer in all underground, unauthorized merengue contests held in Panama.  Listen you... you criminal sissy wearing guchi-guchi girl.  The only way to  become merengue dancers is to know the frog.  Become the frog 

The merengue is a dance celebrating  life, fun, excitement.  The movements of the hips and the limp.  Not like that morose, depressing, prune face tango.  And what better stately animal to teach the merengue than the frog.  To Study the mind and spirit of the wretched hopper to think liked one.  To become frog is to become Datu.  Master of the merengue.  Want to see how far I can jump before I roll and live fire merengue moves across the swamp... er, I mean dance floor?"

"No,"  Magie yelled in her disarming combative voice.  "Please no.  You've already shown us a zillion times."

 "I am showing what the drill will be for you two gulag loving communists before you depart for Panama in June.  Before you start even dancing the merengue you must become one with the frog.  Get inside the proud steed of the amphibian worlds mind."

"Mind," Magie said in Joropo time.  "Frogs don't have minds you... insidious... and we are not communists you--"

"I cannot work with this legwarmer wearing sissy girl."

"Datu," Steve barked sounding like a biting wolf that has his foreleg trapped in a muskrat snare.  "You must remember the oath of the 'Datu.' 'I'm sending you up for a nice long stretch.' "

"Yes Steve,"  Datu delivered.  "That is the oath we Datu's take before assuming the awesome responsibility of taking command and becoming 'Datu.'

"What kind of stupid oath--"  Magie began to say before Steve cut her off."

"And you must admit Datu, Magie has the fire of your beloved merengue partner Sally Scow had before the, er... incident."

"What incident and who is this Sally Scow?"

""Yes, yes Datu picking up Magie's scarf and begins to polish one of his harpoon guns with it."  You see Magie," Datu said in a softening,  annoying, sad flashback timbre."

  "Hey you idiot.  That's my scarf your polishing your harpoon gun with.  Now it's going to smell like whale blubber."

But Datu didn't hear a word she said.  He was somewhere on Lake Superior aboard the Edmund Fitzgerald. 

"When he tells this story, Magie... it will explain everything," Steve said in a low growling whisper.

"My scarf you idiot."

"Don't call me idiot," Datu said in a strange melancholy sea going accent.  "You have been practicing all this time and you still don't know my name is 'Datu' not idiot.    Datu picks up an old yellowing picture stuck under some loose fishhooks lying on a ivory whale oil lit epergne table. 

"This is I," Datu said mournfully sounding like his timbers were shivering.  "on the phone giving the Captain of the Edmund Fitzgerald  last minute instructions to save time crossing Lake Superior as my  Sally Scow mustn't be late for our merengue contest.  It came to me in a vision, the shortest sea route last night during a ptomaine poisoning attack.  The captain altered his original navigation plans to accommodate my new routing.  The ungrateful wretch.  Never heard from him or my Sally Scow again.  Not even a 'Thank You.' I know he absconded with my only love. He's probably holding her prisoner someplace.  I have scoured the earth looking for--"

"The Edmund Fitzgerald,"  Magie crunched the words out between her teeth.  Turning to Steve, "That explains all I need to know?  You... you...  All it explains he's as nutty as you are."

"Kindness Magie," Steve whispered in a low voice sounding like hymn.  Have mercy."

Steve had a way of making Magie's anger dissipate as she ran to the front door, flung it open leaped out onto the foredeck and screamed.  As she stepped back inside, her anger completely gone except for the urge to attack... attack... attack... she said in that soft melodious voice. "That ship was lost at sea with all hands during a storm that frequented that one particular routing along Lake Superior.  The marine inquiry report I read in the paper said: 'For some unknown reason the captain altered his course.  If the captain stayed on his original planned course the tragedy may have been averted.' "

"Lies...  All lies.  Listen you...  hysterical, sissy-gossip girl,  never mind those rag sheet bully whales gossip columns... I hate whales.   The only way to become a merengue master is to know not only the majestic frog but also to become frog and... ah, those things that er, fly around in the dark and get caught in a woman's hair--"

"What in ... what are blathering about now?  Things that fly around in the dark?  You don't mean...  no of course you don't that would be...stupid.  Or should I say even more stupid if that's possible"  Magie's voice ends in a crescendo that sounded as if a large crystal chandelier, dripping honey, sweetness and screaming inmates from a medieval torture cell, fell from a great height on top of the heads of a roaring lion pride after a big kill.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
11:59A.M.

Herr Schutzstaffel's  Palatial Suite  717
Caesar Park Hotel
Panama City, Panama.

"Do you not think you should begin practice for the international Espumilla contest you win every year my new beloved Fuhrer?" The sent of heavy tobacco makes a break for it after every word.  "June 17th will be here before June 18th."  Herr Ludwig Stumpfegger, physician and surgeon plastique to all escaped and hiding Nazi survivors said adjusting his fez to inquisitive style, while wearing a ankle length white tunic designed by that notorious designer 'Faddy Vagon.'  Open toe suede sandals by 'Agh.' His voice sounding like a cat walking across a court appointed psychiatrist couch.

"Very observant. Ah, Stumpfegger, you ist saying it yourself.  I win every year."  Herr Shutzstaffel, his timbre  that of a 16 pound bowling ball racing down lane with the speed of the 7th Avenue New York City subway during rush hour.  Calm with profound grumbles. The flames from his monstrous
 imported fireplace burning brightly in the hot, humid noontime Panama sun.

 Herr Schutzstaffel's attire consist of a white military jacket with red and black embroidered epaulets, white trousers with a red stripe on the side from his black opal belt to his black faux jackboots all designed by the famous Argentina designer 'Dolph.'  A gold riding whip with the knob on the top layered in flawless diamonds spelling out in teeny letters 'Ach, du lieber' lay on the marble table that had only a picture of a woman next to him

"That is why I ist throwing myself a victory party the day before the contest every year.  I ist calling it mein 'Intimidation Day.'   No one will challenge the sword of Herr Schutzstaffel.  Oh there will be contestants but after my pre contest victory party their minds ist going to be full of Herr Shutzstaffel fear.  Unt besides I,  the beloved new Fuhrer Herr Schutzstaffel must again dance the merengue by myself.  As being usual, no partner ist being good enough to dance with  the beloved new Fuhrer Herr Shutzstaffel.  Unt Stumpfegger, the Espumilla ist being called the merengue internationally.  Remember that.  Now hand me mein fuhrer mirror so I ist admiring myself again unt mien Aufpassen! cologne. Women cannot resist.  But, more to the point I cannot resist it. Mirror mirror on zee wall whose--"

Jawohl mein new beloved Fuhrer. Ah, the scent of 'danger unt fried onions' " Herr Stumpfegger  relates as he gets a whiff of Aufpassen!"    May I have Fuhrer permission to ask unt question mein beloved new Fuhrer?"

"Ja ja, what ist it being Stumpfegger?"

"Why ist it we always have to speak that schweinhund English instead of the language of the
 fatherland, mein beloved fuhrer?"

"I have told you a thousand Fuhrer times before Stumpfegger, everyone believes we ist being Irish."

"Then, mein beloved new Fuhrer everyone must be being Fuhrer idiots."

"Luck ist being for us huh, Stumpfegger.  The cunning Nazi mind working at full speed again. I must go poolside in unt hour to do my daily relax unt watch these insignificant women audition for me again."

"But mein new beloved Fuhrer, why?  No one can dance as beautifully as you dancing with yourself.  No one ist rising to your level of merengue dancing.  You merengue with yourself wunderbar.  Like a warthog struggling to free itself from the claws of an enraged lion while all are trapped in a walk-in freezer."

"Ah, Stumpfegger you ist having a way with words.  Perhaps you should have been a poet.  Nien.  This ist being true.  I dance wunderbar with myself while holding a mirror unt admiring myself, the new beloved Fuher. But you must be remembering it is politically correct, Stumpfegger.  Now you ist going.  I ist needing Fuhrer time to admire myself unt be looking at the Gestapo photo of mein only true love besides mein self of course Manja Behrins."  Herr Stumpfegger gives her photo a kissy-kissy-poo.  Then looking in his mirror, gives himself numerous kissy-kissy- poos.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
12:03P.M.

Doo Doo 'The Nogin' Fazoo's Modified Victorian Mansion
Spirit Road, West 'The Big C.' New York.

"No more goombah surprises  ya--"

"Some guy sellin' hot sweet potatoes from a pushcart with skis on it outside Mr. Nobbish,"  Frau Puckarber yelled, wearing a modified body cast designed by 'Le Professor,' reeking of 3rd hand pot, in her familiar Prussian Army accent.

" 'Noggin,' 'Noggin,'  'Noggin,' ya ferbonie goose-stepping...  Ignore that stuff going on outside ya ferbonies,"  "The Noggin' shouts, his voice still carrying the effects of a hydrogen overdose.  Wearing mental patient hospital greens also designed by 'Le Professor.'  "The ferbonie National Safety boys found a Barrage Balloon still full of hydrogen that wasn't destroyed in the explosion on the damaged side of the mansion.  Like somethings gonna happen.

 Now ya febonies, lets get down to business.  You ferbonies are all well enough to set 'The Noggin's' plan into action.  The Date is 17 June, Magie's birthday when she'll be deep in Panama with that ferbonie idiot Ptah and my ferboneie Roller Skating team.  And  'The Noggin' has a little goombah surprise of his own for everyone--"

"A goombah surprise,"  Goombah Wong, wearing official goombah hospital fatigues not designed by 'Le professor,' shouts in a high-pitched hydrogen  plastered song.  "That's the best kind a surprise."

"Shad up ya ferbonie," 'The Noggin leans forward, the West Wing submersed ceiling lights reflecting off 'The Noggin's' bean temporarily blinding everyone there.  "This has to do with the notorious 'The Jackass' of international terrorist fame ya ferbonies."

"Ya mean it has to do with you 'Noggin?'  Goombah Wong spits out with his gyrating tongue searching the air for the scent of things swinging from trees.

"Not me ya ferbonie.  I'm surrounded by ferbonies.  Does the name Ilich  Ramirez Sanchez mean anything to ya, ya ferbonie--"

"Sir Doo Doo," Myron Insolent said also with a hydrogen sounding bellow and also wearing hospital mental patient XXX greens designed by 'Aunt Nila's Hospital Duds.'  "With all due goombah respect I can't take anymore of your stupid goombah surprises.  I'm the political officer in charge of the most secure United States research facility in the world.  What do  I know about goombah surprises other than they keep putting us all in the nut wing of the Private Emergency Receiving Hospital."

"No one interrupts 'The Noggin' in mid-sentence," Phibbs, decked out in his penguin duds, designed by Psychopathic Ward INC., also a Government think tank, pointed out in his Barrister-Solicitor 'J'accusse' voice almost back to normal.  "without dire consequences."

'The Noggin' draws his famous fly & duck shooting pea shooter and fires.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY;

SATURDAY
19  FEBRUARY 1994
12:04P.M.

'Breaking News Live at Noon outside 'The Noggin's' immense mansion'
Spirit Road, West 'The Big C.' New York.

"This is Ugona  Ga, for Pointwell news.  We are going directly to Mangan  Werami ace investigative reporter for our exclusive  breaking news report.  Mangan, take it away."  There is a horrifying scream.

"Does my head look okay?  I just saw myself in the camera."

A whisper from off camera. "Idiot, you're on the air."

"Oh... Ah, this is Managan Werami ace reporter for Pointless news."

The same voice whispers of camera more heavily this time.  "Pointwell ya goofus.  Pointwell News."

:"Yes, Pointwell News the only channel that serves up junk news so our watchers don't have to think too hard.  Remember other news channels claim they serve up junk news but, we prove our news is incomplete, bias and relaxingly useless to anyone that has an inquisitive mind.  We prove this every day. 

We are outside the enormous mansion of Sir Doo Doo 'The Noggin' Fazoo, noted philanthropist and businessman on Spirit road, West Village New York  Only a pumped up steroid disc throwers throw from the famous 'Big C.'.    Ugona, we are watching one of the most bizarre news  event we have ever covered unfold.  Part of Sir Doo Doo's mansion has been heavily damaged to an explosion that rocked the surrounding countryside that is still being investigated.  Er, not the countryside the explosion.  As you can see the West side of the enormous mansion seems to have escaped the brunt of the 'boom boom.'  While the East side is in pretty bad shape.  In fact, I understand Sir Doo Doo is inside in a puddle with his crack team of advisers now."

"Huddle,  not puddle ya, aw what's the use?"  a dispirited voice says off camera.

"I am with Chief Mort Chief, National Security Agency chief directly from the Office of Intelligent Liaison, Washington D.C, with an exclusive Pointwell News hoedown."

A heavy voice off camera screams,  .Low down ya bleep."

"Chief Chief can you tell us why you're here."

"Yeah.  What's wrong with your voice?  This Doo Doo guy... can I say Doo Doo on TV?"  Well anyway this Doo Doo guy has been collecting Barrage balloons over the years, since Mort Plopp, official calendar page turner for the county disappeared from Molly's Irish Tavern in1942.  Instead of filling them with helium he uses hydrogen.  Evidently he lives in morbid fear of helium and Willy Messerschmidt, the creator of the Me-109 attack.  Fortunately, Sir Doo Doo Fazoo had his live bullets taken away from him and court ordered  to use only loads his weapons with soft cork from Portugal rounds. Our Section 8 file on this Fazoo guy is bulging--"

"As  is our Section 8 file on you Chief Chief and the Office of Intelligent Liaison,"  Managan Werami tweaks,

"Huh?  Earlier this morning we found another Barrage balloon filed with hydrogen covered with rubble from the first explosion.  We're bringing in an expert  from a British Company call 'Thumbs'  that has been defusing hydrogen balloons since the Blitz.  Soon as 'Granny' arrives with her translator we'll put her to work.""

"Translator?"

"Granny's British.  No one can understand what she's sayin'.   Now get outa my way."

"Interesting,  Chief Chief.  I'll be back in a while with some news tidbits on Sir Doo Doo 'The Noggin' Fazoo and... Chief Chief... and an update while we wait for Granny to somehow get this highly explosive hydrogen out of the Barge balloon and--"

An ear-splitting cry of an enrage Peacock splits the air.  "An unexploded Barrage balloon found in this idiots rubble  and I'm not called.  I have to find out about it on this doofus news channel.  Am I the air raid warden or not.  Everyone stand back."  Acid gives the obligatory terror-scream of a charging rabid prehistoric Pterodactyl peacock.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
12:06P.M.

Datu Turko Lefty Bait & Tackle shop
28 Underpass Ave.  'The Big C' New York.

"Plets?'

 "You hear that awful cry?'  Steve asked Magie as they prepared to do a roll and  live fire merengue sequence across the dance floor."

"Steve, on my off time I try to create the natural cry of prehistoric terror-beast by studying the beasts absence of fossilized voice boxes, computer generated of course, for 'The Museum of Prehistoric Noises in New York City. You know that Steve."

""Yes Magie, I know that," Steve does a shaking head sigh that sounded like the puncture of the fangs of a sabre tooth tiger into the soft underbelly of a pronghorn.  "I wish I didn't know that but I do.

  "It's part of the prehistoric sounds revival of  the Museum of Natural--"

"Like metal garbage cans clanking at five in the morning.  Magie, I just asked a simple question.  Please no testimonials on  noises no humans have ever heard."

"Steve, You know I'm an expert on the probable sounds prehistoric animals made.  You know that."

"Yes Magie," Steve sighs while doing a backward eye roll.  "Please, like I just said,  I truly do know that."

"I can't be sure because of all the wind and background noise but that sounded like the cry of a tormented  Pterodactyl terror-beast."

"You silly goose," Datu hysterically screams at Magie as it begins to snow again and the cold wind begins to whip the historically sane streets of the 'Big C.'  "You must dance the merengue without the use of your eyes.  Fly through the  dark caverns the dance of the  merengue will thrust you in.  I will teach you how to send out little beep-beep noises that will bounce back off obstructions and you will be able to alter course.   Your lives depends on it."

"Lives depend on it,"  Magie, drawled in that sweet manner that big cats have just before a clawing.  "Are you really talking about bats?  No one said anything about bats."

"Like I said, I didn't want to lay to much on you at one time,"  Steve mused.  "Some of the merengue dance contest is done in complete darkness, a blackout  only some parts of  our clothes and our eyebrows will be dipped in phosphorus so the judges will be able to judge.  I know how excited you get about ... minor details."

 Datu stares at the ceiling with wrinkled forehead and rubbing his stubby chin hairs.  "Of course, that's what they are called.  How blind could I be."

"Radio active phosphorus?  Okay Steve, Magie softly said out of the side of her mouth.  "This man is insane.  We'll have to tie him up with those snow tire chains he has on his porch and send him--"

"Starboard deck Magie."

"What?"

"It's the starboard deck not a porch."

"You're as nuts as he is,"  Magie said her voice ringing Quasi Moto's church bells of concern.   "I'm hungry. I wonder if I'll have enough tire chains for the two of you."

"Magie, you're getting bogged down with minor detail of no import," Steve whispered, his voice ringing with  Saint Mary's church bells of righteous wisdom.  "You gotta look at the big picture.  Remember he is 'Datu.' "

"Remind me to call Julian Roland in the morning," Datu said, still with wrinkled forehead, staring with his cracked glass eye patched into oblivion and rubbing his chin whiskers again with vigor.  His voice sounding like a sac of rocks being shaken.

"Call who?" Steve asked.

"Those monsters," Datu shouts, breaking into the Wolf dance of the Munchkin people and howling until Magie put the slug on him.

Dazed but not shaken Datu said, " I've always suspected those miscreants of animal cruelty.  And now thanks to this leg warmer wearing sissy I can prove it.  Did I just have an Epiphany moment of  a wisdom blackout  Fifth columnist sissy girl?"

"Call me that again and I'll--"

"Animal cruelty," Steve said cutting off Magie.

"What are blabbing about now?" Magie bitingly said looking around.

"Baseball players," Datu shrieks in semi controlled glee.

"I have to lay this guy out now,"  Magie said preparing her right fist for a Dim-mak strike.

"Please Magie," Steve said. "he's Datu."

"Datu my...  I'm not talking about that type of bat you--"

"How dare you... you Fascist creature.  I am Datu. I am an expert in everything."

"So is Magie," Steve said smiling. "You two should get along famously."

"What?"  Magie and Datu yelled in unison.

"I didn't mean--"  Steve started to prepare a defense.

:Look you whining wimps," Datu began his short sermon.  :"Stop fighting me.  There are many different makes of those things that fly around at night.  Leave it to us astute Datu's who have been schooled in ancient wisdom."

"Species, " Magie said.  "Many species.  Not many things."

"Magie," Steve said in a low whisper.  "I'm sure you don't realize it but you are arguing with Datu."

"Whispering,"  Datu said.  "Datu does not permit whispering.  You Yanqui imperialist swine."

"Sorry Datu," Steve said.

"And her," Datu said pointing at Magie.

"Bite me you--"

"Of course my partner apologizes," Steve said putting his hand over her mouth.

"Goody," Datu said ringing his doorbell he carries under his arm British bugler style.  "Always interruptions. Probably someone famous but I shall ignore them.  Obviously they have no appointment."  Datu looks over at the ships clock hanging on the indoor yardarm.   And now before we consider our study of the merengue frog step and the... the...plet--"

"Bat you moron."  Magie chirped back to her sweet molasses song.  "Bats."

"I know what the... the plet is called.  You don't have to tell me you pagan fools. Of course it would be easier if you had webbed toes.  Anyone up for an operation.  Never mind we don't have time.  When I'm finished with you, you both will be the best suicidal dancers in the Royal Imperial Army."

"Suicidal," Magie said in her sweet but low growling voice that can strke fear into a charging tiger as she turned to Steve.  "Frogs, then bats now we have to join some suicidal army?  Steve you know what a Dim-mak death strike is.  It won't hurt. I promise."
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
12:08P.M.

Molly's Irish Tavern
Icelickers Mall East 'The Big C.' New York.

"You were hit by my Molly's Irish Tavern famous fallin' tile."

"Now where did Acid go,"  Molly asked a daze and bleeding from the head stampede insurance guy Lloyd de Dyoll.

"I... I, don't know.  Something hit me on the head, I was knocked aboot."

"Aboot?" Molly challenges. Her nuggied forehead cringed  to understand.

"Da, aboot.  Then this gibbering peacock revived me and I swear on Dzerzhinsky Street it said, 'Here's the stupid rock you're lookin' for Ivan with bloodstains.  Wait. I just got the whiff of hydrogen.  Leakin' hydrogen and no one calls me.  I am Acid the official Air Raid warden for Molly's Irish tavern.  'Aye Gavotte.'  then the peacock was gone.  You people have a peacock for an Air Raid warden?  Why do you people need an Air Raid Warden?  Who is Ivan? And why am I bleeding."

"Aw, you're just dazed a big galoot.  You're not bleedin' it just one of those fig neutrons of ya pathetic 'salutations' ya havin'..  Ya just got hit with a piece of my Molly's Irish Tavern famous fallin' ceiling tile. That'll be fifty bucks. You're an official member of Molly's Chicken Little club.  Ah, we'll do the dance later.  Now ya got that heavy bloodstained object you were lookin' for.  Now after ya fork over the fifty clams take your bloodstained heavy object and get out."

"Huh?  Dance?  Clams?"  Lloyd de Dyoll moans in a West Moscow tenor chirp.

"Sacre blue," a blindfolded Savage stumbled out of the kitchen area moaned with a mouth full of dust and debris.  "What was that roar that hit me like a bulldozer blowing le kisses."

"Shut up ya dweeb.  Now dig up some dry ice slap it on this insurance jamokes head and toss him out into the snow  After ya get fifty bucks from him.  And you ya Russian sissy get my insurance payment to me processed right away.  And don't forget you're dealing with Molly ah...er I can't remember my last name right now but, remember  you are dealing with me, the ruler of the universe."

"What is it with everyone around here?"  Lloyd de Dyoll moaned.  "Everyone I run into here thinks they are the ruler of the universe."

Lloyd de Doyll screams as  blindfolded ace chef Carnage sporting muffin man mittens applies a piece of dry ice to the stampede insurance investigator."  "On my head you idiot.  Wait.  That's dry ice you moronski"  Another scream rises from Molly's rubble.  This time human.

"Wait,"  Molly said assuming the nonverbal fencing position of  a 'Parry of Despair' in a hushed out of control ripsaw voice.  Her reddened nuggie bump seemed to be keeping rhythm.   "I hear drums."

"Stick 'em up."  A voice from an almost shambled  a tranny bathroom  announced. 
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
12:16 P.M.

Caesar Palace Hotel, Palatial Suite 717 concierge level.
Panama City, Panama.

'Rumors.'

"Ja ja, who ist it?"  Herr Schutzstaffel voice booms in a East Munich accent.  I ist in my mirror time."

"Herr Doctor Professor Stumpfegger, my new beloved Fuhrer, I just received--"

"Ja Ja, ist there no getting rid of you Herr Doctor Stumpfeeger.  You is knowing how much I ist valuing my mirror alone time with myself unt mien Aufpassen! cologne."

But my new Fuhrer I, I--"

"Ja ja..  "New Beloved  Stumpfegger, New Beloved Fuhrer.'  Lets not forget 'Beloved' Stumpfegger.  Now what ist it being?"

"My new beloved Fuhrer I ist just reading in the latest addition of the Wiemar Republic Dancing News, there ist  being a new sensation  Merengue Dance team sweeping the world,  It ist being said they have never been beaten in any contest.  It is being unt Steve unt Magie.  They have moves no one has ever seen on the merengue dance floor."

"Rumors Stumpfegger, rumors.  What would the dance world of the merengue be without rumors.  Besides I ist never hearing of them before."

 "Neither has anyone, my new beloved Fuhrer."

"Then Stumpfegger, tell your new beloved Fuhrer me, ist no one is hearing of them before how ist they winning all these merengue contest Dummkopf?"

"Stealth,   Goblins,  Storm Trooper Magic my new beloved Fuhrer?"

"Ah, Stumpfegger, you ist as stupid as the old beloved Fuhrer...what was his name?  Never mind such nonsense have you heard from the roving group of elephant troubadours.  Have they been able to confirm the date I want reserved for mein pre-victory party. on mein Fuhrer yacht 'The Thirteen Ordinance.' "

"Not a word my new beloved Fuhrer."

"Then get on it.  It is an integral part of mein Fuhrer-plan.  I ist been in communication with the 'Leprechaun.'  You ist being surprised how much I Herr Schutzstaffel the new beloved Fuhrer ist knowing what ist going on a mere mortal like you would not know.  I ist getting a full report on this new merengue dance team you is so Fuhrer-worried about.  Now out.  I must go back to spending my mirror time with myself.  Unt find those roving troubadour elephants. Unt be remembering Stumpfegger I ist knowing more about buttons than anyone in the world."

"Jawohl, my new beloved Fuhrer.  Buttons?" 

A pigeon flies through a partially opened window that looks out on the veranda and preens itself  on top of Herr Shutzstaffel head.  But the heat from the roaring fireplace combined with the humid hot air from outside is even too much for the feathery intruder and flies out again scolding the resident.. "Schwien Pigeon," Herr Schutzstaffel mumbles in Munich slang.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
12:21P.M.

Datu Turko Lefty's Bait & Tackle shop
28 Underpass Street, 'The Big C.' New York.

'One of the Ten Commandments saves Steve's life.'


"It's not as deadly as it sounds, Magie."  Steve pleads.  "Remember you're the one that wanted to saddle up with me on a mission?"

"A mission yes.  A 'run-a-muck' barmiest.  No."

Steve and Datu look at each other.  Steve shrugs.

"Look Magie you can't quit now before we even start.  If the Herr Schutzstaffel is Martin Bormann he's responsible for the death of millions men, women and children including a lot of American and allied crews that parachuted safely into Germany after their planes were destroyed in the air.  And as far as this misty bar no one is forcing you to go to a misty bar.  I don't know where you get these--"

"Misty bar?  what are you talk--  Okay I just, as you say, I left for awhile but I'm back now.  I think.  But what about this suicidal, Royal Imperial Army merengue you got me into.  If you think--"

"No no,  Magie, let me explain," Steve asked.

"Lunch."  Datu explodes.  "Smole if you have them.  And don't forget to merengue my harpoon gun back in before you go to lunch.. Every one back at one and a half bells as he leaps race/skips out the front door dives overboard.  There is a crunching sound and professional moaning.

"Smole?"  Magie asked.

"I'm sure Datu meant smoke, Magie."

"I don't think so," Magie  sweet-growled a growl that a hungry wolf growls toward another predator eyeing the same meal.  "I'm not going to get a cheap tattoo, or, any other kind for that matter.

"It'll only takes us a moment to get that harpoon back into Datu's studio," Steve said in a happy tone trying to perk up Magie.

"Yeah right. that's gonna happen."

"Okay grouchy, lets go to your precious Pee Wee's between Warnerville and Richmondville.  I don't think the snow will get heavy again until tonight."

"Pee Wee's restaurant always closes during lunchtime, " Magie reminded Steve as school ma' rm
 chastises a child for not wiping his muddy feet before coming into her classroom.  "You know that."

"Oh er, right.  Of course."

"Lets walk up the block to my place and I'll make us some lunch," Magie suggested.

"There must be a restaurant open,"  Steve countered.  "They can't all close at lunch time."

"Steve. even after all this time here you still don't know, they all close at lunchtime, It's  historical tradition. Tourist flock here just to see our restaurants close at lunch time.  Look what happen when your favorite den of iniquity stayed open at lunch time, Molly's Irish Tavern..  It was destroyed."

"Yeah, well I think your sage, 'The Noggin'  and his Barrage balloons had something to do with that.?

"Look, your sore and you want to take out your 'Sir Doo Doo rage' on someone and I'm it."

" 'Doo Doo rage'?   Give me a break.  It's just that, now don't take this the wrong way Magie, but I can't eat any of that cooked cardboard health food you serve up."

"How could anyone take your insult the wrong way.  Your just ignorant of the human immune system.  But don't despair.  I was thinking of peanut butter sandwiches."

"You mean real peanut butter not cardboard peanuts Magie?  The kind I can buy off the Blossac in Chatellerault, France from Monsieur Cacahuetes?"

"Oui mon petit. Lets go,"  Magie ordered, as they changed their dancing sneaks and snakes and put on more appropriate trace falling snow winter gear.  "You realize Steve, there are two reasons I don't kill you.  One I am Roman Catholic as you are and I try to follow the Blessed Lords Ten Commandments.  The Fifth commandment is:  Thou shall not kill."

As they step out onto the deck into a temporary, cold wind clearing sky Steve asked, "And the second?"

"I know you're keeping a diary."

"Log, Magie.  Men keep logs."

"Do you hear moaning?"  Magie asked as they climbed down Datu Turko Lefty's deck into the deepening snow."

"Don't try and change the subject, my dear.  Men keep logs."

As they lean forward, into the whip-snapping wind and the stings of the trace white bee-bees, toward Magie's apartment Magie said, "What does 'men' keeping logs have to do with you?"

Steve starts to say something and stops.  "As you said I'm Roman Catholic too and the only thing saving you from the lash of the tongue is I try to follow the second commandment:  'Thou shall not take the Lord God's name in vain."

"Yeah, well see you at confession.  Now what about this Suicidal, Royal Imperial Army this nitwit Datu you got me mixed up with and what in the name of  the Molly McGuire's has this have to do with becoming merengue champions?"

"And what is this mist bar you want to visit," Steve asked.  "You're not gonna start the 'pretty fog' business again."

"What is this obsession with mist and fogs?"  Magie asked.  "And don't try to avoid my question you... bozo.  And I used a small 'b'.  Not a capital 'B' denoting  my friends the Bozo tribe in Senegal.

Steve lets out a moan.

As they fight their way to lunch they don't hear another moan coming from one of Datu's lifeboats he has surrounded his front porch/deck.  A slight movement under the snow and a scratchy damaged foghorn whimper, "Shiver me timbers.   Ahoy?  Anyone?"  then silence.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
12:30P.M.

Doo Doo 'The Noggin' Fazoo's enormous mansion.
West Spirit Road, 'The Big C.'  New York.

"You could  a suffocated me, shooting two peas into my nostrils, Sir Doo Doo."  Myron Insolentt pointed out. "I mean no offence to you 'Noggin.' "

"Shad up a ferbonie.  You're just lucky ya had a ferbonie sneeze comin.' Now listen up.  All ya ferbonies got your roller derby assignments and acquisitions straight?  Goombah good. And remember ya ferbonies this has to work like goombah clock work.  All ya ferbonies know how to tell time?  Goombah Good.

 Now  I was given a goombah boon assignment from the Goombah Council in Sicily.  I pull this off beating Barney Bongos, the biggest goombah in the whole world his ferbonie Piggy Banks roller derby menagerie and getting the job done the Goombah Council gave me as a goombah boon, 'The Noggin' will be not only become  the biggest Goombah in the whole  ferbonie world but the greatest goombah on the whole ferbonie planet."

"Isn't that the same th--" Myron Insolentt started to say.

"Aw,"  Goombah Wong said in a  voice that sounded like wind  blowing through a lonely willow tree during an F-1 tornado.  "I thought you would be the biggest goombah in the world once we accomplished this goombah gig."

"It is "The Noggin' ya ferbonie.  "I'm 'The Noggin.' "

"Oh,"  Goombah Wong said, this time in a voice shooting suspicion.

"Now shaaaad up and listen ya ferbonies."  'The Noggin' holding his wingless flies and ducks pea shooter at the ready.  'The Noggin's gonna fill you in."

A ferbonie judge in New York City, is on the goombah payroll.  The ferbonie is also on the payroll of the Koreans, Russians, Dominicans, The Old Doll's Rest Home on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn and a half a dozen other ferbonie crime groups--"

"Yumpin Yiminey, 'Noggin,'  what judge is it this time?'

"Which one of ya ferbonies said that?"

"It was the monkey,"  Goombah Wong shouted out in glee.  "Pamplamousse.  I always new apes could yap.  It's a goombah miracle."

A pea is fired.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
12:31P.M.

Outside Sir Doo Doo 'The Noggin' Fazoo's vast mansion.
West Spirit road,  'The Big C.' New York.

'A gunshot is heard off camera.'

"This is Ugona Ga, back again with a Pointwell News live update with what's happening in the
'Big C' with a potentially explosive situation.  Mangan Werami is alive on the scene.  Mangan are you there?

"I sure am Ugona and it's exciting here at 'The Noggin's' mansion.  As those bad gray clouds begin to dissipate more TV news crews are arriving from various news outlets but, I,  Mangan Werami and Pointless News was the first to break this story.  Oh there's that know-it-all , Tish Dela Roux from Test Pattern News.  "Hi Tickie.... Oh I could scratch her hair out,"

A gaging, heavy breathing voice off camera said,"Pointwell news ya... Somebody give me a gun."

"Werami, this is Anchor news woman Ugona back at Pointwell News station.  We just received news that TV stations worldwide are picking us up covering this strange story.  So we are International."

"Goody, goody gumdrop,"  Mangan yells as she jumps for joy and slips on the snowy ice.

Off camera there is a cry of heaving breathing sandwich between bouts of gaging anguish.

"Manga,"  Ugona said,  "There is more than just goody goody news.  All the French news media is calling your story 'Le Mansion de Foo,' story.  And NORAD just definitely confirmed a missile was launched from Sir Doo Doo Fazoo's mansion during the explosion the other night.  Where it landed is being kept top secret due to the possibility of retaliation."

Again, the off camera voice is heard breathing heavily saying,  "More goody goody news?"

"For you TV watchers who are not able to understand French,"  Manga said, her voice now snooty style, "Le Mansion de Foo'... It means the Stockholm Syndrome is taking effect on all the hostages aboard the train. That's when the hostages become the terrorists and the terrorists become the hostages."

A gun shot is heard off camera and a thud.

"What was that?"  Mangan Werami said in a wanna-be Anchor news  ballistic scream demanding voice as people are rushing to and fro. From off camera can be heard the cry of a lunatic peacock in the throws of doing the emergency aid peacock I-know-nothing strut.

"Did something happen?" Mangan's voice sings in panic.  "Should I run? Why is that crazy bird woman dancing like that?  Somebody tell me what to do."
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
12:33P.M.

Molly's Irish Tavern
Icelickers Mall 'The Big C.' New York

'Don't shoot.'

"Okay Mr. Big Shot insurance investigator... you see whose stickin' us up in what's left of the tranny bathroom?"  Molly yammered.  "Don't worry Carnarge 'The Tongan' is partly frozen in my walk-in freezer near the back loading dock."

" 'Tongan?'  Listen Molly I'm having trouble standing after that whack on the head," A cross-eyed Lloyd de Dyoll, seeing double,  groan-moaned.  "You haven't introduced me to your twin sister." 

"I don't have a sister, twin or any other kind you demented Ruskie. Did you get those fifty clams from his pocket of this cattle rustling red leg insurance creep for joining my 'Chicken Little Club'?"  Molly growls.

"Yeah Molly," A blindfolded  Carnarge barks back. "I can sense some idiot wrote the word Ruble all over his money.  But Molly I'm a master chef not a--"

"Any first name on it?"  Molly's voice demands an immediate answer.

"'Naw,  I think I can sense there might be a picture with a guy with a beard lookin' like he's gonna hit someone with a hammer and--"

"Never mind... Forget the phony funny-money. Just take his shoes.  I like them.  That'll pay for his club fee."

"Club?  I don't want a join a club," A still dazed and disoriented Lloyd de Dyoll said still twang-moaning.  "Listen you  'Boobinski' don't you think if we were being held up someone would have come out of this tranny bathroom by now?"

"Haven't you ever heard of the 'Bashful Bandit of Schoharie County' knucklehead?"  Molly twanged back.  "Now you and Carnarge get in there and disarm him... her... it, whatever."

"Bashful Bandit of--"  Lloyd de Dyoll started to ask.

"All county woman want to be robbed by it."  Molly said in a timbre of molasses blowing kisses toward an out of control freight train carrying tranny bathrooms.

"You mean he's what we Russian Stampede Insurance investigators on Dzerzhinsky Street call a 'Boiychick' meaning fruitpie?"

"Cake ya... fruitcake."  Molly corrects without mercy.

 "Hey Molly," Carnage yells, his blindfold snugly in place.  In fact it seemed to be cutting off the blood supply to anything over his eyebrows.  "I hear other voices in there.  Like there's a crowd in there arguing."

"Drums, does any of you morons hear the drums I'm hearing.  The drumbeats like a gentle violence of a  flamingo dancer upon stretched piece of South China sea rubber in the rhythm of a Mallard duck doing a hard soft shoe on a briny--"

"Will you please shut up and let me out a here."  Lloyd de Dyoll demands, his Russian accent showing signs of a Brighton Beach Mohel.

Molly, picks up Lloyd de Dyoll by the gruff of his neck and grabs Carnarge by the back of his neck and throws them through the tranny bathroom door. Only Carnage makes it through the tranny bathroom door.  Lloyd de Dyoll hit the steel door frame with a head shot and bounced back into Molly.

"Machine gun fire erupts as Molly flings herself on the floor followed by Lloyd de Doyll.  Then a pause.  "Are you wearing Buster Brown shoes?  You better be."
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
12:34P.M.

Magie Carousels third floor apartment
100 Morning Street
'The Big C.' New York.

'A guy named Shmoe.'

"You make great peanut butter sandwiches," Steve managed to say.  "And my old favorite Pennsylvania Dutch peanut candy.  And cold or warm they taste great.  And this chocolate chaud you made doesn't taste like cardboard at all."

"Thanks...  Glad you like them Steve.  I used a special ingredient I came across while I was in--"

"Magie, we don't have a lot of time for your perverted trips down memory lane.  We have to be back to Datu place in about  a half hour."

"You are such a swine. Yes, which reminds me what is this suicidal winning merengue position that nut wants us to use?"

"Magie, it's a minor merengue move.  No more than a few untrained dancers were injured.  It starts with 'The Pampas Stumble Step' then without notice we go into 'The Reverse Triple Tricorn Jaunt.'  You have nothing to concern yourself about."

"Yeah, of course. I don't think I want to do that.  Whatever  it is you're blabbing about. I don't put anything past that nut.  What's this stuff about some Royal Army?

"Look, what I'm going to tell you is off the record.  It's above 'Above Top Secret."

Above 'Above Top Secret?' "  Magie questions.  "That only leaves 'Stupid Secret.'

"Very funny.  Datu was a quadruple secret agent for the Turko-Mongol's Royal Army when India invaded Turkey.  Even Datu didn't know whose side he was on."

  "Now that I can believe, " Magie said shaking her head.  "And for your info, India never invaded Turkey."

Magie, Magie, Magie. That is of no importance that Bashied 'HoHoHo' Petel barged across the Turkish border holding a revolver and yelled 'this is a stickup.  Nobody in Turkey move for the next two hours.' "

"Steve, you do realize when this is over I will have to put you out of your misery.  It's the only merciful think I can do."

  "Misery? What did I tell you about this preoccupation you have with details. We believe that Bashied 'HoHoHo' Petel was Datu. Mongolia is where Datu first learned to dance the merengue while dancing over the hot coals fire walk. Which by the way is something we'll have to learn. Those Mongols really know how to shoot pool."

"Shoot pool?  Now what are you babbling about...again?  The merengue is a Dominican and Haitian Creole."  Magie holds her right hand up in a 'stop' fashion.  "I know I'm too preoccupied with details.
Are you sure we have to go through all this malarkey to become champion merengue dancers?"

"Look Magie, this Herr Schutzstaffel new Fuhrer guy--"

"You said his title he gave himself is 'New Beloved Fuhrer.' The same that screwball Insolentt and all those PC politicians in DC call themselves.   Remember Steve details are important when one is dealing with nuts."

"Yeah, yeah, I guess you're the one that would know that PC stuff.  Okay 'New Beloved Fuhrer.'  This bozo , not the tribe in Mali West Africa, are you happy I clarified that?"

"Je suis content. Mais il etait Senegal."

"Good... I think?  Did you just insult me again?"

"Steve you speak French almost better than I do.  I mean; Tu parlez Francais comme une vache Espagnole."

"Oh, yeah.  I forgot.  Listen, this nut has more handles than seed in a bird feeder.  His nickname is 'The Harbinger,'  'The Grinning Lunatic,'  'A Guy Named Shmoe.'   If we're going to infiltrate his Fuhrer group we better get a fast tap routine going before we ankle up to Herr Schutzstaffel,  oh yes, the New Beloved Fuhrer. Now remember this bozo, small b, uses the Iranian principle of 'Takiyah.'  Lie and cheat while hiding ones true intentions."

"Like we are going to do to him," Magie said.  "And you don't have to translate Persian for me.  I speak Farsi and several of their dialects.among other languages.  You know that Steve."

"Yeah,"  Steve said, his deep soft voice having a whiff of exasperation.  "I know that.  I don't want to know that, but I do know that."

"Come on, Steve, lets get back to Datu Turko Lefty's insane asylum.  Did you say something about dancing over hot coals?"

"Huh? Well...er...aahhhh... You're in a hurry all of a sudden Magie," Steve said in almost understandable English as he stuffed the last piece of his peanut butter sandwich in his mouth, topped off by the last piece of of Pennsylvania Dutch candy, washed down by he last drop of chocolate chaud.

"I just want to get this nightmare over," Magie pondered out loud.  "Are all your missions as stupid as this one?  I mean I never know...  Something has been bothering me for a while.  If we find this Herr Shutzstaffel is really Martin Bormann... I mean what are we going to do with him?  You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know Magie.  I've wrestled  with that too.  I know you try to say the Rosary every day as I try to do.  Just make sure you bring your Rosary with you.  We're gonna need all the help we can get. And the Rosary is extremely powerful, we will be up against a great evil   Our orders are--"

Before Steve can finish his sentence the front door and hall way explodes as both he and Magie dive for the floor, Steve throwing his body over her.  A huge black shadow-cloud passes over them at tremendous speed screaming the words 'Eufa Eufa Poi Aufa.'

  Another wall on the far side explodes then another.  Finally, a window of the outside wall facing South Petit Mal street disintegrates in a deafening glass shattering crash.  And then what sounds like a scream of someone falling and a crater making thud.  The angry scent of a harpooned whale blubber engulf Magie and Steve as they break, Steve to the left and Magie to the right.  Then the cold wind followed by whiffs of blowing snow visit them as an uninvited guest would crash a party..
***

JOURNAL ENTRY

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
2:00P.M.

Sir Doo Doo 'The Noggin' Fazoo's vast mansion
West Spirit Road, 'The Big C.'  New York.

'Eat hot cork.'

"That was no monkey you idiot,"  Myron Insolentt  honked as he kipped himself up from the floor, leaving his 6th of a ton body outline on 'The Noggin's' deep ogre red flame cashmere rug and began to walrus walk toward Goombah Wong getting into position to give Goombah Wong a tusk bite.  "It was this organ grinder Mau the Mau speaking with a phony Swedish accent.  What kind of nuts am I involved with?"

"Not Mau the Mau, I'm just plain Mau Mau,"  Mau Mau said, his tone now reflecting Cobus -Cobus-Cobus cow calling back to the barn for milking time.

"Okay ya ferbonies, I see 'The "Noggin' has to restore order to 'The Noggin's' 'Pastafazzooo'  or as the village folk call it Le Maison de Foo."  'The Noggin' reaches into a draw of his large Victorian desk, as his other antique desk was damaged in the hydrogen Barrage Balloon blast, and pulls out his six shooters, straps them on his waist, 'Noggin' style,' which is barrels 'up for quick draws.  "Okay ya ferbonies any more outburst of ferbonieness and 'The Noggin' is fillin' the room with hot cork.  So ya ferbonies shut up and sit down  and that goes for any ferbonie walrus lovers or look-a-likes and ape lovers or snake look-a-likes."

Goombah Wong, trying to get a 'Noggin' fired a special goombah-pea out of one of his nostrils and Myron Insolentt look at each other giving each other respectively goombah political-snit growls but  both  plop down.  Goombah Wong in goombah-Sumo attack style and Myron Insolentt in PhD doctorial lunge mode.

"But 'Noggin' Walrus boy here gave me a goombah snit and he ain't no goombah."

"That's right ya ferbonie, this other ferbonie Goombah Wong has a goombah-point."

"But Sir Doo Doo, you said I would be connected if I did favors for you... I mean 'The Noggin.' Satellite photos of  Panama Cities famous roller derby spots. Astrolite, the worlds most powerful non-nuclear explosive waiting down there for you and all that other special stuff  and less than honorable socks and underwear element of society.

"Ya 'The Noggin' will make it goombah-be ya ferbonie but it takes 'Noggin' time plus goombah time ya ferbonie.."

"Yeah,"  Goombah Wong said sticking his tongue out at Myron Insolentt.  "And any real goombah, not a want-a-be goombah knows 'The Noggin' can't tell time."

'The Noggin' puts down his still smoking, from a special type of goombah hot pea jumpin' bean, peashooter, draws one of his six guns. A shot rings out the cork bullet ricocheting off Goombah Wong's 'mental' plate in Goombah Wong's head, with a slight trace-noise of hitting an empty metal barrel, and knocking Frau Puckarber sending her goombah-launch style out one of the French doors and out onto the cold snow-gusting massive Poopalardie (named after 'The Noggin's' favorite goombah meal (Chicken Poopalardie .) West Wing verenda as Goombah Wong slowly sinks to the floor still holding his Sumo attack style pose. 'The Noggin' goombah belches "Eat hot cork.'

One of ya ferbonies close those ferbonie veranda doors

Ya ferbonies, listen up, you all been briefed on how 'The Noggin' is gonna pull together the best roller derby team out of Panama."

Still laying outside in a prone position, Ganadage Frau Puckarber crawls back to one of the doors and bangs deliriously on one of the bottom door windows.  "Let me back in Mister Soggin' I'm freezin'
my--"

  "And ya all know all your ferbonie parts ya gonna play in 'The Noggin's Goombah Master Goombah Plan.  Now 'The Noggins' gonna fill you in on how ya ferbonies are going to accomplish the goombah-boon 'The Really Big Goombah Sicily Council' gave 'The Noggin' and 'The Noggin...' goombah knows you ferbonies will be goombah-surprised. Now this judge in New York City, Judge Quackers, who's on the goombah payroll found out--"

"Excuse me 'Sir Doo Doo,'  Phibbs said in his unruffled British butler voice.  "I believe someone is shooting at us."
***

Journal Entry:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
2:14P.M.

Outside Sir Doo Doo' The Noggin' Fazoo's vast mansion.
West Wing  Spirit Road, 'The Big C.'  New York.

'Air Raid Warden Acid Burns is on the roof of the mansion flashing, disorientating laser lights into to the sky blinding any errant Messerschmidt pilots.'


"How do I stop shooting this gun?"  Mangan Werami, who picked up the weapon off the ground and chirped "Look what I found." cries out in a tone resembling a singing female soprano opera singer backing into a hot stove as bullets blaze fire trajectories in all directions.  "It won't stop shooting."

"It's an automatic pistol with a hair trigger, you doofus.  Let go of the trigger."  Chief Chief roared from the ground covering his head.

'Chief,' Chief Chief's assistant, Pas Importante said in a whimsical panicky banter, diving next to Chief Chief.  "We're getting distress calls from commercial and military airline pilots being temporarily blinded by someone flashing industrial strength lasers beams into the sky from this location."

"What's happening here," Chief Chief blurts out to the skies pounding his fists and kicking his feet as he lies on the ground.  "Someone shoot that nitwit TV news caster before she wipes us all out."

"I think the shooting stopped," Pas Importante frightened-giggled."

"Mangan, are you there?"  Ugona Ga, asked, her tone was that of a panicked  rabbit being chased by a lynx in a snowstorm.  "We have dead air Mangan and the advertisers are watching sweetie."

"It's me Ugona,  Mangan, live on scene can you see me?" Mangan breathing was like a steam locomotive starting to slow down as it approaches a station that shouldn't be there.

"Yes, Mangan, our audience can see you now," Ugona bleated.

"If we have an audience," a voice in pain off camera said then cried,  "Medic.  Medic."

"We all saw you firing that gun.  did you shoot anyone?"

"We're on?  How do I look? Is my camera man able to get me in the frame."

"I'm okay Mangan, you only got me in the foot."

"Just don't mess up my profile.  Ugona you won't believe what's happening here.  Some idiot left a hand gun lying around.  I picked it up and the gun wouldn't stop firing."

"Magan, all the other stations got the story of your producer attempting to shoot himself... missing and hitting--"

"Small potatoes, Ugona.  There's breaking news.  Look it's a... giant peacock that is on top of the East Wing roof scheduled for replacement.  The peacock is  making what sounds like angry bird calls and shooting rockets into the sky.  Chief Chief  can you get up?  can you fill us in on what's happening?"

"I'm gonna have you arrested for unlawful discharges of a firearm you lamebrain nit--"

"Never mind that Chief Chief.  What about that giant bird on the roof that the fire personnel and National Safety people are yelling for the bird to get off the roof.  That it may collapse at any moment."

"Medic.  Medic." cries can be heard in the background.

"I have men down in the field thanks to you and your shooting rampage you miserable nitwit.  Wait. That's no bird, you skull of numb.  That's the animal waitress from what's left at Molly's Irish Tavern. She's the 'Big C's' Air Raid Warden and Barrage Balloon aficionado trying to blind any Messerschmidt aircraft attacking.  Get off the roof ya nut.  That roof could collapse at anytime."

""I'm going up there Ugona," Mangan screams.  "That story is my ticket to your News-Anchor seat on evening Pointless news."

Off camera weak voice can be heard. "Pointwell news ya miserable--"

"Easy Mister Producer, your shot only creased the side of your skull but we have to stop the bleeding. there is always the possibility of infection if we don't clean it very--"

"Shut up ya stupid Medic.  If you pull me through so I have to hear that idiot Mengan Werami again i'll...  Oh yes I will."

"Mangan don't it's too dangerous," Ugona Ga yells.  "That evening news anchor seat is mine.  Perhaps it's not too dangerous for you.  Go ahead.  Get us that story you old fire-horse.  And it's Pointwell News and--"

"Here... you'll need this mule to lead you to the roof," Assistant chief Pas Importante said. "Rumor around the 'Big C' is that he lives on the mansion roof. He knows how to get up there. He's a Ninja."

"Mule?"  Mangan Werami gasps.  "Where did that come--  What is that awful smell?"

"Get off the roof," Chief Chief yells up at Acid with his 'bad karma' bullhorn.  "It was an accidental inflation then a slow deflation of the last remaining Barrage Balloon.  There's no planes attack--"

"Morning Street pizza delivery," a hardy voice with that sounded like a clap of thunder yelled.  "Which one of you morons ordered a Morning Street pizza?"  The hardy voice with a clap of thunder was dressed in a Armonk. brown oilskin knee length coat simulated rubber goulashes with clips open cool guy style.  The snow around the mansion was trampled down panic style. But the deciding high fashion factor was his hat. A pirate hat made from newspaper. "Which one of you bean brains ordered a Morning Street Calliope Melt pizza?  What is this a costume party?"

"Will someone get this mule atta my way,  What is that horrible odor it stinks like methane.  No one light a match."  Chief Chief yelled into his bad karma bullhorn."

"Easy Chief Chief, the word on the Arab and 'Big C' streets is Vito is super sensitive about his methane-intolerant disability. And he's connected"

"Vito?  Who's Vito?  And connected to what?"  Chief Chief bellows.  "I don't have time for this.  I gotta get that feathered nut off that roof before it collapses or she succumbs  to frost bite or hypothermia. Where's  'The Granny' she has to deflate that highly combustible hydrogen before we all go bye-bye."

"Hey, I got a hot Morning Street Calliope Melt pizza here."

"Acid Melts this is Chief Chief.  I order you down from the roof.  There is no air raid.  The Barrage Balloon explosion was an accident.  get down the whole thing may collapse at any--"

"There's no melts here Chief Chief," Acid yells down.  Sure, an accident--"

"The peacock's name is 'Burns' Chief Chief, not 'Melts.'"  Pas Importante  bleated.  "Acid Burns."

 "I know acid burns you dope.  This is no time for a chemistry lesson."

"No Chief Chief.  The peacock's name is Acid Burns not Melt ya--"

"Huh?"  Chief Chief responds in a United Nations diplomatic tone.  Dumbfounded but non-committal.

"'Sure an accident you civilian stuup."  Acid peacock shrills down while doing a peacock vigilance strut.  "Sure an accident just like the 'Charge of the Light Brigade' was an accident.  And like the Peninsular Wars' was an accident. "

" 'Charge of the... what?"  Chief Chief cries out while doing an 8 point synchronized baton leader Olympic games twirl.  "Peninsular Wars"  Pas Importante get the nut house people up here.  Tell them to bring straight jackets, assorted sizes and one for you too."

"Toute suite Chief Chief," Pas Imortante salutes.  "But I believe the politically correct term is Mental Health Oasis.   Do you want me to check with Myron Insolentt, the political correctness officer for  the 'Institutes and the 'Big C?'   He's in the West Wing campfire-'ing'  with 'The Noggin' I er... mean Sir Doo Doo."

"Hey, yah saps, yah Morning Street Calliope Melt pizza is gonna get cold.  Some body owes me twenty-two bucks."

"Hey pizza guy get out of my secured no-go area ya... Where did that mule and that nutty TV reporter go?"  Chief Chief bellowed.  "I can't have a mule a screwball gun-slinging dipso-doodle news nut reporter wandering around at my secured site. Where did  Pas Importante go just when I need that dunce-twaddle?  What happened to my National Security Agency secured site?"

"Hey, down below," Acid screams in pigeon-peacock.  "Didpa thatpa screwballpa pizzapa guypa comepa yetpa?"

"Hey Chief Chief it's me Irkmer,  remember me when I accidently started that fire last time me and my ISI boys were passing through the 'Big C?' "  Irkmer and some of the Pakistani ISI intelligence guys on the way to make a surprise courtesy call and bathroom stopover to 'The Noggin's' yelled from the lead large bus caravan tour buses that pulled up in Chief Chief's no-go secured area; all 32 buses each pulling a 30 foot heavy trailers of aspirins, blue jeans and 1980 stereo's and is now slipping and sliding in the snow in Chief Chief's secured no-go area.

 "Hey Chief Chief," Irkmer cried out. We can see someone riding, what looks to be a mule and carrying one of those delicious Morning Street Calliope Melt pizza up the stairs as they passed by that large window. Hey, are you guys under a methane attack? Hey driver get us out a here fast.  We will visit 'The Noggin' on our next trip through the 'Big C.'  Buses Yo... I mean Ho," Irkmer yells in Urdu with a smidgen of a Punjabi brogue.
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
2:15P.M.

Molly's Irish Tavern
Icelickers Mall  'The Big C.' New York.

'I'm a professional I never take my blindfold off.'

"What's takin' you so long in the tranny restroom?"  Molly yaks, still gripping the floor rubble that hasn't been swept up yet after the explosion.  "How many of those roscoe-tottin' creeps are in there with you?"

"I ain't knowin' Molly,"  Carnarge belts out like he was yelling to a waitress that their 'Fluty-Balootys kohl powdered antimony used for eye make-up for his famous pattern-pending  'Big C' Halloween onion cake on two flatbed rail cars were smoking and ready.  "It's really dark in here.  A lot of shootin' and screamin' but I ain't seen no one yet."

"If you not wearing your Buster Brown shoes  then It's time to plunk your magic twanger, Froggy"

"That idiot has to see who's doing all the shooting and screaming in there," Lloyd de Dyoll, Stampede insurance investigator for Dzerzhinsky Street Insurance Company said in a purge praising voice.  "I can see light under the door crack and the tranny restroom is only the size of a telephone booth you morons.  How did you idiots ever win the Cold War?"

"Shut up ya big sissy girl before I draw my bullhorn and read the no clod dancing riot act in ya ear," Molly war-hoops without looking up.  "You'll be the first to go if ya ain't wearin' Buster Brown shoes.  Evidently these mugs don't like people who ain't wearin' their Buster Browns."

"Buster what?  Stop talking that-hysterical talk,"  Lloyd de Doyll slugs his words out.

"Molly, I ain't wearin' my Buster Brown shoes," Carnage girly-screams.  I don't even  know if I own a pair of Buster Browns.  Some guy named Frogy is gonna plunk his magic twanger at me.  Get me atta here.  Throw me a pair of your Buster Browns."

More Machinegun fire, topped off by the sound of a few grenades exploding, someone yelling "We give up."  and a voice ordering everyone who is still single to take Rhumba lessons by following footprint on papers.

"Give up my Buster Browns the best pair of shoes ever made?  Ya gotta be...Wait a tavern minute," Molly yells, this time looking at the tranny door.  "Carnarge, do you still have your blindfold on?"

"I'm a professional Molly.  I never take my blindfold off even when I'm driving.  Professional and religious reasons.  Attica.  Attica.  Attica.  No justice without peace."

"I can't take this anymore,"  Lloyd de Doyll cries as he hammers the ground with his fists.  It's like I'm watching a train crash in slow motion.  I want to run but my legs won't move and I can't look away."

Molly takes action as she does back rolls over rubble until she smashes into the tranny door.

"Occupido," Carnarge whispers.  "Who is it?"

"Mollys 'fist de ham' smashes through the door knocking Carnarge and the upper part of the door through the clapboard wall an into the lady's room and out the dork room.  The only rooms aside from the tranny room only slightly damaged in the explosion.

"A radio,"  Molly roars.   'I remember now.  Those tranny's  insisted on having a radio in their rest room so they can keep up with the latest news concerning their situation on the Russian Front.."

"The Russian Front?  World War Two has been over for almost 50 years ya...  These are radio detective  programs from the 1940's you--"  Lloyd de Doyll announces.

"So what's ya point Ruskie?"  Molly said, drop kicking her words into his big wazoo mouth.

"My point?  My point you imbeci...  Hey where are my shoes?"

"Yeah," Molly bellowed.  "I was surprised when you first came in without shoes in this weather.'
***

JOURNAL ENTRY:

SATURDAY
19 FEBRUARY 1994
2:17 P.M.

Datu Turko Lefty's Bait & Tackle shop.
28 Underpass Street. 'The Big C.' New York.

'Datu bestows the limp.'

"I have been freezing out there in my life boat's while you two sea-softies have been having a nice warm 24 course meal in a nice warm Wickiup," Datu said, his timbers still shivering. his glass eye, glass eye-patch sporting thick glazed ice.. "If it wasn't for errant crows attacking me I would still be there. Did you not hear my salty whimpers for aidez moi?"

"Errant crows--"  Steve started to say.

"I told you, you big dope I heard something as we were leaving for lunch," Magie yelled at Steve.  "And you. you... frozen Datu popsicle don't tell me about your little life and death problems.  My front door is missing.  I have giant holes in my walls, including my window overlooking South Petit Mal street.  Most of my apartment is decorated in snow and cold, because some two-ton mad woman ran through my apartment wrecking my furniture and doilies and stuff almost killing me--"

"Us,"  Steve interrupted, a smile in his voice. "Almost killing us--"

"What were you doing out there in a lifeboat in this freezing weather?"  Magie asked Datu, ignoring Steve's attempt at a grammatical correction.

"A Datu's prerogative,"  Datu mouthed the words in silence accompanied by a disturbing series of rapid, possibly rabid eye-blinks similar to Doc Totoot  but like silent Morse code.

"Us," Steve said talking aloud to himself and shaking his head in the affirmative.

"No doubt one of your jealous 'full figured women' you seem to admire that--"

"Will you please stop with that full figured baloney," Steve said, the smile in his tone was gone.  "That clipping at O'Tannenbaums 'Top of the Hill' restaurant wasn't mine."

"I enjoy their Trout Scrambolli," Datu chimed in his voice still feeling the effect of not having lunch in a life boat. "Since they stopped serving whale blubber I cannot patronize their establishment."

"Butt out, Popeye,"  Magie's  Irish-French temper simmering at 211 degrees.

"That's the rage I Datu is looking for.  Fire in your belfry"  Datu said skipping until he forgot why he was skipping.

"Magie," Steve said raising his voice too almost a deep whisper.  "That was 'The Tongan.' The Irish assassin,  Mac  Eo'la Afu Anga. But. I can't figure out why she tried to kill us.  I mean I annoy a lot of people but I don't think I--"

"Oh please Steve, don't tell me you believe that Tongan-Irish fairytale you were handing me before.  I was just putting you on the other day. 'The Tongan' a one ton woman climbing three flights of stairs and if she turns sideways one can hardly see her?"

"Steroids, Magie.  You've heard of 'Roid' rage.  And a flash crash diet that last only a few seconds... Or, or. or... Maybe 'The Tongan' can cloud our minds.  I mean it was like a shadow passing through your apartment. Remember,lengend has it she rose out of the Pacific ocean to sell shoes."

"You really are insane in a, a lovable sort of way.  This mission should just be called, 'The Doomed Mission of Steve and Magie.'  What a way to find out I'm just as nuts as you are for... as you say, 'saddling up with you.'   Anyway, to me she is just one of your insane 'full figured women' you seem to attract--"

"Will you 'paleseeees' stop with the rotund obsession you carry like a railroad tie on your shoulder. No Magie, there's something else going on here that... first she tries to strangle Datu here--"

"You said yourself Steve, everyone that meets this nut Datu tries to strangle him."

"Well yes," Steve admits. "This is true but... did you hear her say something as she cannon balled through your apartment?  It sounded like something in Tongan?"

"Well yes, I have to give you that Steve.  'Eufa Eufa Poi Aufa' "  Magie engaged her extremely high IQ voice sounding like a sweet gooey serenade to some indistinct formula.

"It made no sense to me," Steve said his voice sounding thoughtful but stupid,

"It doesn't make sense to you Steve.  You're an idiot with hope," Magie said still in her problem solving sweet syrupy timbre.  "It's an ancient slang Tongan that hasn't been heard spoken on earth for over a thousand years.  You know of course to secure my morning calm I study the sounds of ancient languages that have become extinct on this planet by--"

"Studying the absence of fossilized voice boxes of--"  Steve said interrupting an upcoming lecture on sounds of extinct languages."

"Steve, you may be an idiot with now fading hope but you're still a swine.  Her words translate to ancient pigeon Tongan--"

"Pigeon Tongan," Steve said in his low disapproving voice.  "You know my opinion on pigeons, they are the--"

"Monsieur Cacahuetes ist Blossac Annie," Magie went on in her 'problem solved' French salad dressing soft and sweet voice yet a little 'Bo Peep' hint of tanginess tone.

"Mister Peanuts is Blossac Annie?" Steve whispered questioned. "What does that even mean?"

"It's either a clue that has to do with our upcoming mission, or, it has to do with one of your full figured women.  Or, Datu, is disguised as Mister Peanut who is disguised as Blossac Annie.  Or, it means what it means.  Your favorite Peanut seller in Chatellerault, France has a dual personality, as you would say a tranny."

"You dogs of the sea, stop talking about me the great Datu as if I wasn't here.  I am here am I not? Tell me.  I must know."

"And where am I supposed to stay while my apartment is being repaired?"  Magie asked, stamping her foot in 3/4 time.

"I told you Magie on the way back here from lunch. I have most of the rooms on the first and second floor finished.  There is one off the lobby that's a Colonial style handicapped suite-efficiency apartment.  You remember I showed it to you when you were over making me that cardboard... I mean  delicious dinner you prepared.  Everyone should have their stomach pumped out once-in-a-while.

"You really are a swine's swine," Magie hissed.

 "It's called the 'Wigwam' room,"  Steve smiled like a cautious cavalier..

"I will not stay in a politically incorrect named room."  Magie belts her words in spitfire.  "I repeat anyone who even accidentally meets this poor soul Datu wants to  kill him.

"Bilge water," Datu attacks.  "This is not the Datu time or the Datu place to discuss in detail the signature of the Optional Clause in 1929 and the acceptance of the General Act of Arbitration of 1930 you legwarmer wearing sissy,  You must keep that rage it's necessary for the merengue.  Rage.  Rage.  Rage.  now back on your bar stools... I er mean toad stools. Think frog.  Frog  Frog.  Think er... ah  Plet.  Plet.  Plet.  now you must--"

"Bat's you--  What?  Why are you bringing up the 'The League of Nations' document that calls for peace full  settlements of all International disputes you blithering blather...  Of course when Japan invaded Manchuria that was the end of that.  I'm reminded of--"

"Please Magie, I beg you, no lectures on "On The League of Nations.' Remember Magie, the second of the Two Great Commandments that precede the Ten Commandments .  Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.  And for all we know Datu may have given us a clue."

"I thought you didn't believe in clues?"

"Quite right, Magie. "Quite right."

"And you're right of course Steve...  Thou shat love thy neighbor as thyself.  But right now it's getting difficult to--"

"Are you two finished saying your prayers,"  Datu  yells in his 'Ship Ahoy' voice as he turns on his record player to the sound level of annoyingly maniacal.    This is no time for prayers.  It's time to merengue."  Datu begins the merengue pretzel jiggle as if there were a thousand ants crawling on his back.

"Prayers are the only thing keeping you alive," Magie mumbles under her breath from her toad stool as she said an Act of Contrition.

"Now that I have your attention what championship merengue contest do you intend to penetrate my sworn enemy.... er, ah... what's his name?  Tululu Bankhead... er, that's not right."

"Herr Schutzstaffel," Steve said before Magie could attack.  And it's the International merengue contest in Panama City, Panama."

"I know that you, you fool  I was pausing for dramatic effect you...  This Maurice Shavelhavel is my sworn enemy--"

"Who?"  Magie asked stiletto style.  "I thought your  mortal enemy was this Herr Schutzstaffel?"

"That's what I just said," Datu Turko Lefty said unloading a  seven round voice clip of sounds that resemble hungry guards dogs barking at an intruder.  Now listen here you two 'salty dogs of the sea' better stop asking asinine question and pay attention.  Do I hear growling?"

"Ah, Magie was just clearing her throat, right Magie?'

"Steve, after I take care of this idiot I'm going to come after you then go to confession," Magie smiles the way a viper would smile just before a strike if a viper could smile.

Datu begins to give them an outline what the next few months are going to be like learning championship merengue by singing the following 1920's hit song in a deranged merengue beat.

" 'Every Little Movement Has A Meaning All It's Own'   Now you two landlubbers join in as you merengue pretzel jiggle, like me.."

After hours of singing and merengue pretzel jiggling  Datu moves them to the merengue frog stance of retracting their eyeballs while sticking out their tongues at the same time.

"We can't retract our eyeballs you moron," Magie announces.

"That's because you miserable swabs are not sticking your tongues out far enough," Datu counters with a broadside volley of ancient sea going terms ending with calling them both 'Cecil's The Sea Sick Sea Serpents.'  "Now watch me."  Datu reaches into his pocket withdrawing the Datu pouch of magic 'portions' flips a cold mini-meatball into the air sucks in his eyeballs and shoot his tongue out snatching the mini meatball on the rise.

"You see that?" Steve is astonished.

"I'm going to be sick," Magie said.  "What in Newton's plummeting apple has that to do with dancing the merengue you sick--"

"Now by the time we finish and you are ready to take on my arch faux-merengue enemy er, ah...
 Melvin Shoescheller--"

"Who?"  Magie asked again shaking her head.

"Steve nudges her and shakes his head in the negative and whispers, "When  Datu gets excited he gets things mixed up with fraudulent shoe sellers, rabid dogs and--"

Datu continues without losing a beat.  "Ah, yes my arch enemy Mad Dog Boiton in Panama I expect you to accomplish what I just did with aplomb.   Do either of you sea sick swabees  wish to hazard a guess what I Datu just did snatching meat balls out of the air with my ranine mind is called?"

"Disgusting," Magie said as if she just licked a sour lemon..  "Mad who?"

"Coordination," Datu ballyhooed doing a backward somersault in frustration, his glass eye patch, over his glass eye still frozen to his eye socket. If the merengue is anything it is coordination.  Have you ever seen a clumsy frog or a... ah, Plet thing that flies around in the dark catching bugs?  The answer is neyt, nine, non, no. nashwallie-Walloon--"

"Nashwallie-Walloo--?"  Steve asked.

"It translates into the  word 'no,' used by a small almost extinct culture of Welsh Whalers that settled in a remote corner of--"  Magie was cut off by Steve starting to gag.

"Please," Steve said, shaking his head in the negative.  "No Welch history lessons. I can't stand your perverted reminiscences "

"I don't have perverted--"

"Now hop closer and I will tell you a most outstanding tale...  Anyone want to see my baby pictures?"

"No you fruitcake,"  Magie said, and followed up by saying,  "I can't believe I'm doing this."

"The clumsy the awkward do not survive in the world of merengue championship dancing and neither will you two.  The world of championship merengue dancing is the most savage, extreme dancing in the world. One has to be part French Apache dancer, which is why we will be intermingling the brutal and yet beautiful Parisian 1930's Apache dance with the merengue.

  The Quasi Moto head-bell-bang back-step swirl will become such a natural part of you. So natural in fact you will be banging heads with people on line at the  'Who's Not Here' supermarket dropping them like flies.  You must also become part Sumo wrestlers, part rodeo steer wrestler and hazer, part ballet dancer and yet must be able to skip and swing those obbligatos around.  I have arranged for you two cloud-headed pirates to meet experts of each of the above as your lessons advance."

"What are talking about?" Magie asked.  her voice showing the charm of tiger etiquette.  "Hazer?"

"It's a term spelt various ways Magie," Steve said ready to leap off  his toad stool-bar stool.  "A hazer is a cowboy that rides along side a steer that another cowboy on the opposite side is attempting to wrestle to the ground while being chased.  It's the most dangerous job in the rodeo."

"Now I can't stand it," Magie said her voice beginning to simmer in the pre-boiling range again.  "And besides, isn't a rodeo clown the most dangerous job."

"What are you all wishy-washy sissy people talking about?"  Datu, yells in a 'there she blows' timbre.
"Now you yellow hounds of the stagnant puddles of brine."

"You know Steve," Magie whispered "I owe you a lot. You have given me a chance to practice humility and be very humble, as the Lord teaches."

"Our Dear Lord is always using 'out of the box' methods to bring us closer to him," Steve said in a voice that was kind and happy that she never heard him use before."

"Now," Datu continues his synopsis of what duo will be expected to execute to perfection over the next few months to prepare to infiltrate Herr Schutzstaffel's stable of unstable but nefarious machinations company of *drift.  "After you begin to think and act like frogs and er... ah, those pelt thing that fly in the dark and hit baseballs and absorb 'Every Little Movement Has a Meaning All It's Own' we will proceed to this, now watch carefully you broomstick riding fancy pants.  You must learn to bend your knees in the opposite direction when the merengue calls for it like the ... the things that stick their heads in holes in the ground   And learn how to strut like they do.".

"Do you mean  by any chance 'Ostriches, you flaming lunatic of--"  Magie began to say with fire bites.

"I know what they are called.  You don't have to tell me.  I am Datu.  I know everything about everything."

Magie turns to Steve.  "Don't--"

"Now these er... 'oranges' things knees are on backwards now watch.  You will have to learn how to bend your knees like those things that stick their heads in holes."  Datu, begins to Ostrich Strut.  Magie and Steve hear bones crack and tendons stretch.

"You must be double jointed," Steve grimaces.

A gasp of  'ya freakin' me out' escapes her lips.  "Double jointed?  He's got to be quadrupled jointed to achieve that.  I'm limber and have no trouble stretching but that's impossible for... for any human to do."

"Magie, you forget he's Datu."

"How sickening,"  Magie matches Steve's grimaces and raises him a grimace."

"You will become the mind of an er... ah... orange thing, a frog and er pelts."       

"Ostriches, Ostriches, Ostriches.  Bats.  Bats. Bats," Magie shouts as she pulls her hair. "you fruitcake bearing pinhead."

"Magie," Steve whispers.  "Remember love thy neighbor as thyself--"

A most horrible decibel splitting scream of frustration  erupts from Magie as she accomplishes the most difficult gymnastic back vault over Datu's head, using his head as a vaulting table.

Steve was stunned at Magie's defiance of gravity. His face took on the sculptured look of bewilderment and stupidity that made him so successful in the past for finding missing persons.

"Now that's the fire I want to see in er. those plets things in your belfry where those er, plet things fly," Datu said with hope fox-fires burning in his one seeing eye and behind his glass eye seeming to melt his frozen glass eye patch.

"You have accomplished 'the perfect Yurchenko 3.5 vault.'  Only a handful of women can do 'the Yurchenko.' "  Datu burst into that Russian dance they do sitting down without a chair.

"Yeah, yeah," Magie said nonchalantly.  "Listen 'Tattoo,' it's Saturday afternoon, I have shopping to do, can we bring this torture to an end for this weekend."

"It's Datu, you capitalist swine.  Yes you may go in just a few moments.  Your idiocy has drained me.  We will start bright and early tomorrow--"

"No,"  Magie said with finality.  "Tomorrow, is Sunday. There is Church. It is a day of rest that I always try to follow."

"We'll pick up Monday,"  Steve said, his low tone carrying an order,

"Then I must leave you with your work assignment for tonight," Datu said. ringing his doorbell he always carries with him British bugler style under arm style.  "I have no time for more 'In' crowd landlubbers.  Hips.  Hips.  Hips.  The merengue is movement of the hips.  I will tell you what you have learned today.  Frogs hop."

"If you think I'm going to attempt to develop a raninian chiropterous brain like Steve... although I'm sure the osmosis by proximity is already having an effect on me, otherwise, I wouldn't be here.  You are one delusional Datu."

"And you learned about those things... you know that fly around in the  dark and get tangled in women's hair.  What do you call them sissy-girly and hit baseballs... oh, yes, er, ah plets.  On the way to your miserable adobes I want you to keep sticking your heads in snow banks so you get the mindset also of those great.... er... oranges which will help when we get to bending your knees backwards.

  And now  tonight when it's cold and dark you will learn timing is everything.  You will travel to the railroad tracks next to Addition Street by the old railroad station blindfolded practice your balance by walking on the rails. When you hear the various speeding freight trains bearing down on you two wimps see if you can jump out of the way at the last minute.  In championship merengue dancing, timing is everything also.  Timing and the limp."

"If you think I'm going to stand on those railroad tracks wearing a blindfold waiting for a freight train to... Limp?"  Magie asked impatiently  "What limp?"

"Now there is one more thing I want you to do before you leave tonight it will just take two seconds.
And it's another most essential part of becoming world class championship merengue dancers.  Now close your eyes.  Eyes closed?"

"Yes yes Magie discharged off two word rounds her vocabulary is set on automatic fire.  Will you hurry up we want to get out of here."

"Such enthusiasm, Datu said  slowly raising a wooden mallet in his hand. "I know you're both anxious to get down to the railroad tracks tonight to begin your duels with the passing freight trains. But don't forget your blindfolds. You must rely on your other senses besides sight."

"Will you please stop and tell us why we have our eyes closed you--"

"The limp differentiates the champion dancer from just a good merengue dancer.  The correct limp gives the truly great merengue dancer the correct balance.  The merengue is about coordination, hips. timing, balance, Sumo wrestling moves, hazer moves, er, ah orange strutting, er... plets and frogs--"

"Yes, yes and plets... I mean bats... now you have me calling them... never mind, and French Apache dance and please get this torture over you miserable--"

"None of this is possible without the 'Datu' limp.

Datu brings the mallet down hard twice in quick succession. The first on Steve's left foot the second on Magie's left foot.

Screams reverberate throughout the 'Big C's' cold darkening afternoon sky.  Then there is a momentary silence the maligned duo get their second breath.  A plethora of profanity explodes.
*** 
 End of 'Journal One' submitted for your approval and requested to be entered into the record.

Information for above compiled from Logs, Diaries, Notes, KGB files released in2009, Old Man Grunt's Dairy Barn, Lost CIA files found the IRT subway Nevins Street Brooklyn, various other sources that wish not to be  named.  And The Brawn Mansion Institute for the 'Criminally Insane and Just Plain Nuts' obtained under the Northern Ireland Chatter-Chatter Laws.
                                                      
                                                             
                                          JOURNAL TWO OF TWO JOURNALS    
                                                         
                                                              'INFILTRATE'
                                                          MISSION TWITCH
                                                        coming for Spring 2014