Tuesday, 16 November 2010

JJJP - Book 3. Dead ducks and continued alliteration…

Quack. Quack. Quack.

Flavious was a waiting waiter. He waited for the Ju-Ju to appear, longingly languishing, listening long and hard for clues of the coming, watching for the miracles to commence once more.

News of the resurrection of the dead ducks had followed fast on the heels of the singing sausages and other miraculous events and then, then, then – well, notably nothing.

Nonexistent, negligible, news; notwithstanding nearly no noise normally noticed around these things followed – or rather, didn’t. Flavius grew nervous. His nerves were wracked to the edge of wracking. Breakdown - before blithely, blissfully, belligerent, was now a blatant, blasphemous, possibility. Where had the Holy Peanut gone? There was only one thing for it; his Peanutness must be found.

Fortunately Flavius’s fabric held an ace up its slippery, seesaw, schizophrenic sleeve. He had the Sonia and where there was the Sonia was the ‘Neeeeeeee’, and where there was the ‘Neeeeeeee’ was a lonely Cow-Poke. The Cow-Poke would do anything to get his Sonia back and Flavius fortuitously flipped flush, forcing fortune, flashily fixing (fairly?) his fabricated hand. He’d won her fair and square - if any game in which all players cheat can be called by such a lab

el. Either way he’d won her - and in the way all things in his florid, flaunting, Flavius life, he’d willingly wonderfully won. Won by chance – and cheating.

Cheating is very much like chance. Life is cheating. Death is cheating. Cheating is cheating. It is all cheating. Amen.

My how the Cow-Poke loved his little ole Sonia – when the Count stole her away, beating his Four with a Royal Flush, he almost went plum crazy. Finding the Holy Peanut was his only chance of getting her back. At the camp far away on the lost islands the Cow-Poke did a dastardly deal. The Peanut personified presented, preferably perfect, praised, pacified and without prerequisite in return for his beautiful Sonia. No questions asked.

“Dead or Alive?” the Cow-Poke determinedly declared, dreamily distracted, devoid in his devotion of the lovely Sonia.

“Alive!” Count Flavious screamed. “I need his voodoo-hoodoo Cow-Poke. It iz all for meeeeee!” All Flavius wanted was the voodoo-hoodoo, it would bring him great power. Fishes would fly, dead ducks would quack, sausages would sing. The Peanut must be his and he needed him alive.

The desert is a big and lonely place. As the Cow-Poke walked mile on mile, many miles on many more miles, on more and many more miles, on maddeningly more and many, many more miles, on mile, after mile, after mile, after mile, after mile, after mile, after mile - more miles than he could even matriculate, each mile across the shifting sands, his thoughts turning to Sonia, to the ‘Neeeeee’ that he had coming to him, the mathematics mounting mile on meandering mile.

And then ahead he saw the Holy Ju-Ju – but then we know that already don’t we. That’s the thing with time. Time is a shifting sand on which no man can gain firm footing. Time is what we have too little of. Time is what we are running out of. Time is what we are all running away from. Time is like chance. Life is Time. Death is Time. Time is time. It is all time. Amen.

All hail the Holy Peanut and beware the keeper of the cakes!

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