The Black Fossil

  Chapter XXII – A Gremlin Drive to the Prize

  "That was pointless," Jack said as he drove the Gremlin, "So where are we going?"

  "It’s time to try to get the Black Fossil before Adam and Reizvolle do," Jim said, "I’m sick of getting shot at. Aren’t you?"

  "And why would getting the black fossil actually stop that?" Jack wondered, "Won’t it give them even more reason to chase us?"

  "Keep using logic like that and you won’t last the last 11636 words," Jim reminded him, "We’re not quite done yet, you know that?"

  "I keep trying to endure," Jack sighed, "Ok, so where are we going?"

  "Well," Jim said, thinking about that, "We’ve been to an island, been to Paris, we’ve been to a snow covered mountain."

  "Only place we haven’t been is Washington D.C.," Jack said, "Should we go spoof a political novel?"

  "Please," Jim said, "We can only take so much crap. Let’s leave politics out of this, shall we?"

  "So where are we going?" Jack asked again, "I mean the author actually told you something, didn’t he because I didn’t learn a damned thing from him."

  "What makes you think I know what you’re doing?" the author asked them, "I don’t have any more idea on what to do with you two idiots than I do on how to cure Michael Jackson’s pedophilia. The last section should have taught you that."

  "So what is this chapter here for?" Jim wondered, "I mean you have to be writing it for some reason."

  "I’m trying to brainstorm the rest of the book," the author shrugged, "That means that talking to you is part of it. Beats describing a tuna sandwich in detail. So I’m talking to you while I watch the Patriots beat the Chiefs."

  "Lovely," Jack said, "You really have no clue, do you?"

  "No clue," the author agreed, "No plot, no real exit strategy. I probably should run for office. This seemed to work for President Bush."

  "Well," Jim said, being reasonable for once, "Send us somewhere that will make some sense to find the Black Fossil."

  "You mean there is such a place?" Jack asked cynically, "I don’t see why you don’t just pack it in right now. This is such a piece of crap that…"

  "That it could be made into a Leslie Neilson movie," Jim finished, "I personally want my chance to kill Adam Dirtpassion. Surely you can’t deny me that."

  "True," the author said, "Sorry Jack, but you’ve still got nearly 11000 words to go before this is over. Let’s get you back on your way."

  "Fine," Jack said, "Let’s do it. Just promise me that you won’t make us sing anymore?"

  "Not right now," the author promised, "I can’t honestly make that promise for the rest of the book. Depends on how desperate I get."

  "So where are we going?" Jim asked him, "You never got around to saying that."

  "You’re driving straight ahead thirty miles," the author said, "I’ll figure out where that is by the time you get there. So keep driving."

  So drive they did. Emboldened by the wise words from the author our heroes drove quickly towards their unknown destination. And even as the author keeps writing this paragraph as a way to avoid having to decide where they are actually going they are getting closer and closer to actually being there. By the time they get there, which will be eventually when I get around to it, they will know exactly what they were looking for.

  "We’re here!" Jim exclaimed, "See it?"

  "No," Jack said, "Where are we?"

  "The lair of the black fossil," Jim said, pointing at a large sign that was made by the Artifact Synthesis Syndicate, "That’s what it says in very poorly aged letters in a language that I shouldn’t understand but for some odd reason I do. It’s rather cool really when you think about just how silly this is."

  "So we’re here and not Adam and Reizvolle?" Jack wondered, "This is really messed up."

  "There’s nearly 11000 words to go," Jim said, "I have a feeling they will be back, don’t you?"

  "Good point," Jack agreed, "I also have a feeling we’ll be experiencing some crap inside the old cave that the black fossil is hidden in. Shall we park the Gremlin and go inside?"

  "Beats driving the Gremlin inside," Jim nodded, "Though that could be a bit funny."

  "True," Jack nodded, "Let’s do it."

  Jack Wack drove the dilapidated Gremlin into the cave and though there was barely enough room to use it, they did it anyway. It was amusing to watch the car go through the cave as the two men in it ducked stalactites and stalagmites driving through an improbably insane course. They wondered just where in fact they would be able to find the Black Fossil in such a massively immense and ugly group of caves.

  "How the hell are we supposed to find anything in here?" Jim wondered, "This is an old and damp cave that hasn’t been traveled in about five hundred years."

  "Sounds like it’s promising," Jack said, "All we need to do though is follow the corpses."

  "Right," Jim agreed.

  It was as easy as that. Jack drove and took a turn every time he found a new corpse anywhere along the route. Of course, the corpses are hundreds of years old and have bits of mummified flesh hanging off of them which made the place really disgusting to look at. Of course, since the author was eating dinner and actually watching a comedy movie the corpses won’t be described in all their glory.

  "Where the hell did all the dead people come from?" Jack wondered, "Did the Black Fossil get this many people killed?"

  "Nah," Jim said, "They probably broke the crematorium and needed a place to dump the bodies. Same as that dickwad in Georgia a few years back."

  "Nice image, Jimbo," Jack said, shaking his head, "Can we just finish this ridiculous thing. The sooner we find it, the sooner we get to finish."

  "That’s what your last boyfriend said," Jim grinned, "Anyway, we have to have some stupid banter before we actually find this crap."

  "Yeah," Jack nodded, "But if you keep with this idiotic banter you’re going to annoy everyone."

  "You already have," the author told them, "Move on."

  "What’s that up ahead?" Jim asked, "Looks weird whatever it is."

  "I wonder what the hell it is," Jack asked, "Should we go to it?"

  "Hell yes," Jim nodded, "This could be the culmination of all our hopes and desires for this book."

  "No it’s not," Jack said, "We still have over ten thousand words to kill you idiot. You don’t think it’s going to be that easy do you?"

  "We’ll never know until we go up there," Jim said, "Onward Gremlin!"

  "Right," Jack sighed, "I swear, us gay Jewish black dudes just get no respect man."

  "Yeah," Jim nodded, "You’re the real inheritors of Rodney Dangerfield’s legacy. Now drive this idiotic Gremlin to that weird thing ahead of us."

  The cracked headlights from the Gremlin lent a pale and eerie glow to the surroundings adding to the oddness that looked like it came from a movie that was designed by the bastard stepchild of Steven Cojocaru and Elton John’s gay lover. This is to say that it was indescribable and stupid to the max.

  "Why would anyone build a thing like this?" Jim wondered, "This is ugly as sin."

  "This coming from the man who would wear a leisure suit to a funeral," Jack said, "I swear man, leave the fashion judgments to us gay Jewish black dudes."

  "Hey!" Jim exclaimed, "That leisure suit was in perfectly good taste for Admiral Sackenbrenner’s brother’s funeral. It fit Larry’s style perfectly."

  "I can’t argue that point," Jack shuddered, "At least the funeral home had good enough taste to hide the comb over."

  "I guess you should park this thing," Jim said, "Let’s go the last forty yards on foot, shall we?"

  "Let’s," Jack nodded, "I’m sick of this car."

  The two of them walked up the hill to the modern edifice of bad taste that was the final home of the black fossil. It was a mix of architectural styles that managed to change like underwear at a Rocky Horror film festival. The oddest thing about the thing was the two figures sitt
ing at the makeshift table at the edge of the edifice.

  "Who the hell are you?" Jim asked the two figures, "You look like men, sort of, but nothing I’ve ever seen before…"

  "Well I may have seen something like this at a Hollywood party," Jack shuddered, "But I think that was Keith Richards."

  "Keith Richards should look so good," Jim said, "Who are you? What are you?"

  The two figures looked up, finally realizing that they were not alone. They were seriously old men. Not Joan Rivers old, not Supreme Court Justice old, not even George Burns old. These men looked like they had been there to see Moses part the red sea or even Jesus part Mary Magdalene. They looked at Jim and Jack in wonder like they hadn’t seen a human being in eons.

  "What are you?" the generically named man said, "How did you get here?"

  "It is them!" his odd friend said, "Our salvation has come at last!"

  "Now I’ve had a few women calling for god in my time," Jim said, "But your salvation?"

  "Jim is no messiah," Jack agreed, "A pain in the ass, usually, but nobody’s messiah."

  "Not the messiah you idiot!" the generically named man exclaimed, "I’m old enough to realize that those stories are bull. No, you’re the one who is the reason we are all here."

  "Start making sense," Jim suggested, "It’s been a long day and I’ve been shot at a few too many times to think this is funny."

  "Let us introduce ourselves," his odd friend said, "He is the generically named man and I am his odd friend. We are the guardians of the Black Fossil."

  "The guardians of the black fossil?" Jack asked incredulously, "The black fossil has been missing for hundreds of years. You can’t possibly have been here that long."

  "Sure we can," the generically named man said, "If you can survive repeated attempts on your life and drive that Gremlin around the world we can have been here for six hundred and thirty seven years. Not a problem."

  "So why are you guarding the black fossil?" Jim wondered, "I mean is it that valuable?"

  "Is it that valuable?" his odd friend said, "Is it bloody valuable? You think we would spend six hundred and thirty seven years guarding an artifact that is not bloody valuable? Come now, we’ve been sitting here for that long. We were only outside this cave until we were twenty six years old. Six hundred and eleven years we’ve been trading the same stories and playing a bit of backgammon. Is it valuable… yeah… what a question?"

  His odd friend spat down on the ground. The generically named man shook his head and looked around, scratching his excessively aged head before he started talking again.

  "Is it valuable?" the generically named man asked his odd friend, "You know, ever since that weird guy told us to die six hundred and eleven years ago we haven’t set foot out of this cave. I don’t know what we’re guarding anymore, let alone its value."

  "Of course it is valuable!" his odd friend exclaimed, "It would have to be! It’s right up there, why don’t we look at it and see!"

  "Let’s have a look," Jim agreed, "I want to see what I’ve been risking my neck on for just a shade over forty thousand words."

  "Yes," Jack nodded, "Let’s see what it is."

  Jim and Jack followed the generically named man and his odd friend up onto the platform. The Generically named man tried to open the ornate box that had been sitting not ten feet from their backgammon table for six hundred and eleven years, but his frail fingers broke and poured out a little sand.

  "Damned osteoporosis," the generically named man grumbled, "Would one of you two young men care to open the box?"

  "Why don’t you do it, Jack?" Jim said, suddenly fearful of his life.

  "No way, white bread," Jack told him, "I’m the gay Jewish black dude sidekick. You get to do all the dumb ass box opening. I’m frankly happy to be keeping my black ass over to the side."

  "Come now," his odd friend said, "Hurry it up. I can’t remember what this thing is either!"

  "Fine!" Jim said, "I’ll open it. Just be glad we have about ten thousand more words to go, otherwise I wouldn’t touch this damned thing with a ten foot pole."

  Jim went over to the ornate box and brushed off the bits of the generically named man’s hand off it. He pulled some really cool looking gloves from his pocket and put them on to try to protect his hands from the really nasty looking thing that he was sure was going to be inside the box.

  And a nasty thing was there. It was so awful that it was repulsive yet they could not help but look. It was amazing and disgusting all at once. No one knew exactly what it was except for Jack Wack, who had seen it at a show some twenty years earlier.

  "I always knew he was a freak of nature!" Jack exclaimed, "Now we have proof of it!"

  "What?" Jim said, "It’s a nose…"

  "Not just any nose my white friend," Jack said, letting the tension build, "It’s the black fossilized nose of someone we all know…"

  "Alexander the Great?" the generically named man asked, "Julius Caesar?"

  "How about King Arthur?" his odd friend put in.

  "I don’t know if any of them were black," Jim said, "Get to it, Jack. What the hell is this thing."

  "It is the holy grail of the black community," Jack explained, "Even us gay Jewish black dudes have been looking for signs of this for years."

  "What?" Jim asked.

  "It’s Michael Jackson’s original nose," Jack said, almost in awe, "Here in all it’s black, beautiful, pre-pedophilic glory!"

  "You’re kidding me," Jim said, his expression going flat, "You mean to tell me that I’ve been shot at, chased, beaten and nearly killed just to find the nose of a third rate pedophilic entertainer who has looked more like Diana Ross than his brothers for better than fifteen years?"

  "And how did it get into this holy place?" the generically named man asked, "We have been guarding this for six hundred and eleven years! It can’t be that old!"

  "This book has been a contradictory piece of stupidity for over forty thousand words now," Jack told them, "You expect logic to creep into the piece now?"

  "So why does Reizvolle want it so much?" Jim wondered, "I mean, it’s just Michael Jackson’s nose."

  "It’s the thing people have been looking for," Jack explained, "It’s the proof that everything is all screwed up. I mean where else but in an idiotic book like this would Michael Jackson’s original nose be the central plot piece bringing everything together. Now it all makes sense, I mean I feel like we have meaning in life!"

  "Really?" Jim asked him.

  "No," Jack admitted, "I just said it because it sounded good. I mean I’m as pissed as you. We went through all this for Michael Jackson’s nose?"

  "Would you rather it have been a big fossilized dick?" the author asked them, "I mean really…"

  "Yes," Jack said, "That would have been funny."

  "This book hasn’t been funny yet," Jim reminded his partner, "Why should he change now?"

  "True," Jack admitted, "But how did it get here?"

  "How did you get here?" the author asked them, "How did they get here?"

  "I don’t know how we got here!" the generically named man exclaimed, "I thought you killed us nearly forty thousand words ago!"

  "I thought we killed each other," his odd friend nodded, "And died in a puff of futility."

  "If Jason Voorhees can be resurrected in a dozen or so movies," the author told them, "I can bring back two moderately humorous characters that I killed off at the beginning of the book. I can’t believe you idiots are ganging up on me now."

  "Right," Jim said, "So where are we going now?"

  "You’re bringing the black fossil back to DC," the author told them, "You’ll find out why when you get to Admiral Sackenbrenner’s office."

  "You mean we have to ride with that thing?" Jack asked, "Yuck."

  "What about us?" the generically named man asked, "Do we get to go too?"

  "Yeah," his odd friend nodded, "We’ve been playing backgammon for six hundred and elev
en years. I’m ready for a party!’

  "Sorry guys," the author said, "Two six hundred year old mooks don’t exactly fit their style. It’s time for you guys to either die in another puff of futility or play some more backgammon."

  "I’m up for another round of backgammon," the generically named man said, "How about you odd friend?"

  "Sounds good to me," his odd friend nodded, "I’ll deal while you repair your hand."

  "So that leaves us," Jim nodded, "I have no idea how to get to DC, you know that?"

  "Neither do I," Jack said, "Going to tell us, author dude?"

  "Yep," the author nodded, "Backtrack out of this cave and take a right at the end of the chapter. Drive straight for one chapter while I deal with Adam and Reizvolle and create a semi-plot for the last nine thousand words and you’ll be right at Admiral Sackenbrenner’s parking space."

  "Sweet," Jim nodded, "Ready Jack Wack?"

  "Ready Jim Stalin," Jack nodded, "See you in two chapters!"

  And so they went, taking Michael Jackson’s original nose in a doggy bag to serve as a plot for later. As for the generically named man and his odd friend they went back to their game of backgammon and played it until the end of the chapter when the elaborately constructed plot piece was no longer needed and it all fell on top of their heads. So much for the mooks.