bright as… really bright stuff, like a Kardasian Engagement ring, Knob noticed.
“To the rivers running with Marzipan, please…” Knob ordered.
“To the what?” the cabbie asked, in a non-pulsed but also in an extremely concerned way. He then added something that made the girl’s blood freeze. “You two haven’t been talking to any Italians, have you?”
“The… ahh… ones… umm… that… ahh… run like chocolate…” Muff said.
“THE WHAT?” the cabbie asked.
“I’m depressed again!” Blurted Muffin. Again Knob assumed the thinker’s pose with her fist poised under her chin and one knee up with the other down. Above them hung a sign that said ‘no thinking or kneeling here’. Knob sighed.
“How could we be so stupid,” Knob began, “Thrown off track by some idiot Italian!” She sniffed and a single tear, followed by a lone drop of sweat and self-bursting pimple, all of which marred her usually below-average countenance. Muff made her daily ‘yaak’ sound. “We’re low on hot sauce, I’ve almost completely run out of carpet tacks, the debit card is utterly depleted, we’re a zillion miles from home in some crap-hole called Blue-Balls, it’s light and my sunglasses have only one lens in them.”
“Hit it…” Muff said, then she added, once more, “I’m sooo depressed.”
“Who’s depress-a-zoid in this fine InterGalactic Airporto establishment here on the wonderoso planet of Blue-Ballsia?” He said. Knob stared hard at the man. He may have been a white man that looked black or a black man that looked white, either way, Knob thought, he spoke in a strange, foreign language. “Look here now, womens, um… the one in the underpants is a woman, right?”
“Right,” Knob said. “If you hit her in the mouth hard enough she even menstruates…” Knob said, not knowing any other way to back up her assertion.
“How problematic.” Said the man. “Well, now lookee here,” the man began. He held a huge boom-box to his ear and sported gold necklaces and a purple beret with the words ‘gray-power’ on it. “Blue-Balls-a-topia is to fine a place to go all depressd-e-matically disposed, or... you shouldn’t, even - may progress to the happiness stage start here and now from this moment.”
“What?” Muff asked.
“What I mean to say in a grammatically correct utterance is that thingys can’t be all that doomy and gloomy - don’t you know, you cool cats-a-rama.” The man said.
“Okay… what?” asked Muffin again.
“CHEER UP BITCHES!” The man said.
“Who are you?” Muff asked.
“Sammy-the-Spammy at your servitude,” Sammy said. “Now tell O’ Sam what the reckless, heckles depressed-less-ness is all about…”
“The what?” asked Knob.
“WHAT’S THE PROBLEM?” Sammy asked.
“We need a signed contract for Marzipan,” Knob said, “but we are all out of resources…”
“Is that … the perpatude and all… Lords be… the extra-lube qualude and praylude and not-whats history revision snake shorts, to not be serious et-all.”
“Okay… what?” Muffin asked.
“IS THAT ALL?” Sammy asked.
“Yup,” Knob said.
“Well I happen to know a Genteel-man of great astoundment and astonishment and achievement and rep-pre-tation that has a multitude of contractual Marzipan-ness at his finger tips… yo.”
“What?” asked Muff.
“I KNOW A GUY WITH CONTRACT CONTACTS.” Sammy said. “His name be Grant-Master-Flash-Gordon-Wizard-Of-Is-And-Isn’t!” Sam said. “YES SIR!”
“What?” Muff asked.
“Can you take us to… Grand-Wizard-Of-Is-And-Isn’t?” Knob asked.
“Surly!” Sam said. “Only he rathers be… called… Bob… for you imformation gathering inventoiries and stock-piles.”
“What?” Muff asked.
“Sure, Bob then, do you think ‘Bob’ would have a signed Marzipan contract we could get from him?” Knob asked.
“With certaintude and absoluteness!” Sam said.
“What?” Muff asked.
“I could trade a depleted debit card, six carpet tacks and a pair of sunglasses with one lens. Oh, and I have this gas can with a hole in it.” Knob said, hopefully.
“All nego-tation-aryies will have to be presented in person-al-tude to… Bob… for which I cannot answer thine inquires as of yet per say.”
“What?” Muff asked.
“YOU’LL HAVE TO ASK HIM,” Sammy said. “Now if you’ll saunter over to my personal transportal-tation device formally known as a Ford Pinto-rina, I’ll Tele-plant you to the Grand-One’s abode-a-tree.
“What?” Muff asked.
“GET IN THE PINTO AND I’LL TAKE YOU TO BOB,” Sam said. As Sam and the über-trusting gals made their way to the curbside Knob whispered to Muffin.
“We must be careful, we’ve already been too trusting.” Knob said in a vaguely precise way, “and don’t mention the hot sauce, that’s my hole card.”
“What?” Muff asked.
“Dang-it Muff, stop saying ‘what’ all the time.” Knob said.
“Okay… umm… you.” Said Muff.
Soon the trio were standing before a rusting pea-green Ford Pinto with heavily bubbled screen-tinting on all four of its windows.
“I’ve made a lot of specialized improvement aspirations, if you will notice the dingle-balls over the windshield and the one Aluminum Mag Wheel Rim - see it on the driver’s front? I have the other three on layaway. Only do a Sport a flavor - watch the rear traffic for me, if we’re hit from behind this baby will go up like a Mexican burrito percolating in a lactose-intolerant gastronomical colon system full of jalapeños and prunes.”
“Okay… waaa,” Muff began, but then stopped herself, choosing instead to burp the first six letters of the alphabet.
“IF WE HIT IN DA BACK PINTO EXPLODE,” Sammy said.
“We’ll watch the Pinto’s ass-end, Sam,” Knob said while glaring at Muff. Muff, for her part, made her second ‘yaak’ sound of the day.
The Ford’s trek took the three companions through six neighborhoods - two of which were upscale and two of which were downscale and two which were nonchalant. A six-mile sojourn through a pistachio factory left the group with a strong yearning for Fritos, beef sticks, red-hots, juice-boxes and a tourist map to Joshua Tree. They passed deserts and seas, two baked Alaskas, mountains and beaches - through tall cities they traversed - modern skyscrapers rose to a vanishing point next to sprawling slums where life was cheep and David Hasslemof style haircuts were expensive.
Eventually they passed an ultra-modern familiar-looking Teleport with its shiny chrome Zeppelins and Dirigibles and its brass go-carts and silver Razor scooters. Apollo rockets, steaming with the gasses of yesterday’s space-race, stood one hundred stories tall. Knob realized then and there that the Pinto had been driving in circles, but she enjoyed the view and kept silent. At one point Knob saw a Hover-wagon tailgating them - Muffin pantomimed crash, boom, and bang! motions and mannerisms to the driver, who was oblivious until Knob held up a sign that read: ‘you are tailgating a PINTO’, after which the driver immediately backed off.
Ten minutes and two carwashes later, they finally turned a corner and before them, in all its glory, stood the Great Grand Castle… ‘Chas Wizard Of Is And Isn’t’ with its tall spiraling spires, chipped blue paint and bored, almost comatose, costumed cartoon characters, all of whom were sweating bullets and bayonets.
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