Chapter Eleven

wherein the author begins to show signs he's enjoying himself again, though it's all still very touch-and-go

You stand betwixt bride and groom, attempting a look of pompous solemnity.

Why, it’s just like Paint Your Wagon! you think, recalling details from the Paddy Chayefsky-penned musical western your grandad always lauded as a favorite. Soon after the old man’s honeymoon, the other remnants will no doubt begin to look on his new bride with lust in their hearts. He’ll come to the decision that the only way to protect her is to form a party to hijack a truckload of blow-up women so that every man in the gold-mining colony oops I mean the post-apocalypse at least has someone who might potentially become a wife. He’ll no doubt put you in charge of looking after his own wife, since you’re partners in everything and he trusts you more than any human alive. But once he’s gone, you and Jean Seberg I mean Blow-Up Seberg are bound to develop feelings for one another, though neither one of you would dare act on them. And when he returns, you’ll tell him about your feelings and tell him you have to go away, but he’ll say, “Nothin’ doin’,” and then his wife will interject and say she loves you both equally, and how come you can’t come to an arrangement. From there it’s just wife-swappin’ city, baby! Until the missionaries set up camp, make her feel guilty, and then the whole town falls into a cave-in for some reason.

The old man produces the glove and begins struggling to put it on his bride’s closest semblance to a hand. “With this ol‘ eavnin’ glove, I thee O HOLY SHIT SHE’S MEYILTIN’ SHE’S MEYILTIN’!”

He ought to have been more careful with the bracelet clasp. A wispy sound I can’t be bothered to describe heralds a rapid loss of air.

Without spending more time on this than it deserves, Blow-Up Seberg withers away in the old man’s arms, you stuff her into the dinner glove, throw her into where the river or lake or whatever body of water used to be, and watch as young lovers come by to enjoy the view of her and make out.

You’re secretly glad you can get a second use out of your stolen Roman collar dickey.

“A reading from the back of the box, chapter twelve, verse nine,” you say reverently. “‘And yea though you walk through the valley of the shadow of deflation, thou shalt not getteth a refund. Thou breaketh, thou boughteth. Even though thou, as they sayeth in Rhymoton, most likely already boughteth. Verily shalt all sales be final.’ Amen. Now would anyone care to say a few words about the deflated?”

The old man raises a hand.

“Would anyone whose accent I can understand care to say a few words about the deflated? Nobody? Very well. Let us bow our heads, not in prayer, but because I think those young lovers have taken their make-out session to the next level, and we should probably give them their privacy.”

The old man takes a step forward. All the lights dim, but for a single spotlight affixed to the farthing’s rear gunnery seat. Bathed in a beam of artificial moonlight, the man breaks into a tear-laden chorus of Is This Love by Whitesnake, his impeccable diction surprising even the young lovers, who stop mid-coitus to stare agape as he gives it his all.

When it gets to the guitar solo, he does the whole thing via mouth sounds.

“Biddle-eaw-weawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, diddle-oweeeoweeoweeoweeowow, boodoobooboodiddle-weowPEOW-wuh, deiwiwiw, Riririri, Wowow, doodoodinging weooew...”

Well, you get the point. The author was actually using the transcription feature of his writing software to capture it note-by-note, but it started going too fast to transcribe, and because he chose to string loads of letters together for all the wacky finger work, it did little to help the overall word count, so he entreats the reader to go listen for themselves and come back once they feel they’ve imagined the old man singing the part to their satisfaction.

The song ends, the man sheds a final tear, hangs his head, and the spotlight goes out.

You clap excitedly. “Now do Kokomo! And let me be John Stamos!”

But when your eyes adjust, the man isn’t there anymore. For you see, he was taken up, yes, taken up in the rapture. Aren’t we a bit late for taking people up in the rapture, post-apocalypse, you ask? This was a very special exclusive rapture prophesied by a very special exclusive cult. The White Servants of the White Serpent barely survived the apocalypse; today you could count their remaining adherents on one hand, owing to the fact that their name sounded racist, when in reality it was just limited to people with the last name White, though let’s face it, if you’re going to be refused entry to something on an arbitrary basis, an 80s hair band-worshipping doomsday suicide cult ranks up there with volcano on the list of things you won’t be picketing too hard to gain admittance to. Yet few though their numbers may have been, great was their devotion, and their ancient seers foretold a gripping mouth sound rendition of the Is This Love solo so powerful, Tawny Kitaen and David Whitesnake or whatever his name is, you know, the founder and CEO of the band, would come down from above and reprise their roles from the Is This Love video, at least the bedroom scenes where she’s dancing around for him in a revealing white dress, and assume the singer of this cover song among cover songs into the heavens, where he will reign with them and receive a small percentage of Gary Whitesnake or whatever his name is’s performance royalties. The young lovers, who at first were just like any other idiot couple who comes to make out by rusted cars, had been possessed by the ascended spirits of Tawny Kitaen and Ricky Whitesnake or whatever his name is, just like the keymaster and gatekeeper in that ghost movie your grandad loved, and the music so pleased them, they took the old man up to heaven to reign forevermore.

But how could you know any of that? You only know that your buddy is gone. First the woman you loved, or hoped you might love once he left you alone with her, and now him. This is the moment in your hero’s journey when Gandalf is thought lost to the Balrog, when you watch Darth Vader stab Obi Wan with a glowstick, when Pickering runs to the home office the minute you discover Eliza has fled, when Devon Miles gets a tummy ache and steers the 18-wheeler off the road, right into a gas pump that engulfs the whole thing in a ball of flames, when Mr. Belding falls off the top of the Bayside High goal post and makes a person-shaped indentation in the end zone about four feet deep, etc. etc.

This is the moment you’ll have to reach within, trust that your mentor has trained you well, even though the old man wasn’t your mentor and he didn’t remotely train you, and take on the challenge… ALONE.

You click on the spotlight and break into Papa, Can You Hear Me? from the Barbara Streisand written-and-directed Yentl, starring Barbara Streisand as a woman who has to dress up like Mr. Belding in order that the school staff allow her to climb up to the top of the Bayside High goal post and fall down the way she always dreamed she could fall down.

Since you have nobody to cut the spotlight when you sing the final resounding note, you just step out of the illuminated circle of earth. All you can hear are the young couple sporting the young couple while they may, so to speak.

Then you hear it—clap, clap, clap—a lone appreciator of romantic musical drama. A figure walks into the light. Billy Mitchell VII, bruised, bleeding and tattered, his great-great-to-the-power-of-great grandad’s American flag tie severed just below the knot, his mullet matted and tousled, claps emphatically as the ragged scraps of his sleeves flutter at his elbows.

“Thanks, person of whom I have no idea the identity.”

“Usurper.”

“Funny name, Usurper. Is that your forename or surname?”

“No. I’m calling you a usurper.”

“Well if it’s my name, I’m putting it in the middle. Pretty sure I already have both first and last ones.”

“Look it’s not a name! It’s more of an accusation.”

“You’re accusing me of a middle name? Guilty as charged, I suppose, now that you’ve named me. What’s the penalty?”

“This is turning into an Abbot and Costello routine. Let’s start again. I’m trying to accuse you of usurping my audience, back at the arcade.”

“I didn’t do any usurping back there. I was too busy eating summer sausage and hiding behind a monstera.”

“After that. You went around telling everyone there was a Tedious Governmental Survey kill screen. It cost me my audience, and ultimately my world record. For I cannot perform without legions of adorers lavishing worship upon me. As I see it, you owe me. You owe me big.”

“Well if you’re headed back into the mall, I can give you enough spirit gum to last you the rest of your—.”

“Spirit gum means nothing to me!”

“By the way, the author forgot we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m whatever-my-first-name-is Usurper whatever-my-last-name-is. And you?”

“Billy Mitchell. Billy Mitchell the Seventh.”

“Well the only reason I brought up spirit gum is that your beard looks as though it was applied with it.”

“Don’t you dare mention my beard. I’m trying to drive the plot forward here, and you’re drawing attention to this beard I hope nobody notices is colored by the post-apocalyptic version of Just For Men. I came to tell you I hate you. And given the chance, you’re bound to hate me.”

“Oh, you can’t be all that bad.”

“Yes, yes, I’m all that bad. Look, everyone hates me. Everyone except my legions of adorers. Don’t worry. I’m good with it. In fact, I lean into it. It’s kinda my shtick.”

“Fine. You hate me, I hate you. Who cares?”

“Because I’m proposing an alliance. A reluctant alliance. It’s the least you can do after all the usurping. To spare everyone the tedium of you asking, ‘Like what?’ I’ll just keep explaining: that post office assassin. He’s your enemy. He’s my enemy. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Together, we can’t stop him, but alone…”

“I think you have that wrong. Alone we can’t stop him, but together… something about being friends forever.”

“Look, all I’m proposin’ is, we team up and take this guy down.”

Then the two of you have one of those They Live fights where he’s Rowdy Roddy Piper trying to get you to put the glasses on, and you’re Keith David, managing to be fairly convincing, despite not having a wrestling background, thanks to everything you learned from Roddy and the stunt coordinator in rehearsals. The author is allergic to action scenes, so just imagine a really good one for yourself. And then, just as it’s getting good,

Do you:

A. Lose, cry uncle like a little ninny baby, and let Billy Mitchell VII team up with you to take down the post-sassin? (Sometimes portmanteaus don’t work, and this is one of those times.)

B. Win, kick the crap out of Billy Mitchell VII and go it alone, focusing more on the race to get your letter from special guest star Kevin Costner as the postman before the assassin is able to carry out the hit?

C. Since you’re Keith David, break out into lines from Gargoyles or Halo or Justice League or The Princess and the Frog while Billy Mitchell punches you again and again in the face?

The voting period for this chapter has ended.