The Final Surprise (-or- The Salad Days of Whales)
We had moved into the living room of sixteen-year-old Franklin Goy's house. I cooked us up a steaming pot of my spirulina-nectarine-Life™ cereal vichyssoise and served it up in edible rye breadbowls, which Maribeth Toilet almost immediately spilled all over Mrs. Goy's floral-print couch. I spooned her up more soup in response, and in response, the smiling face of Mrs. Goy, young Franklin's mother, perceptibly frosted over as she watched today's episode of All My Children from her location in the center of the couch. Franklin, Maribeth, Alain, and I, Alvin Stomack, chef and extreme puppeteer when the occasion suits me, all sat on the sofa on either side of Mrs. Goy, discussing our plans and schemes for me to take back my home and get rid of Miles Burger, current suitor to my dear (deer?) Secretia's semi-metal hand, and his faithful toughs. (Sally and Jimmy, Alain reported, had never left the underwater tunnel to follow us up into Franklin's bathroom, having been distracted by a nearby functioning Sega Games Frogger videogame arcade machine, which shocked me to the point that my eyes bulged slightly from their sockets and my mouth gaped open to reveal that I in fact possesed 33 teeth in totality; I reeled at this fact, for I had not realized that Jimmy Snot had ever left Janitor Island in the first place).
"So what're we gunna do?" young Goy asked.
"It is imperative," I reiterated, "that I clear out all of my unwelcome houseguests."
"How're you going to dooo that?" Meribeth queried.
"I'm certain that I can entice them by offering them hot bread and tasty dried apricot jerky."
Alain spoke up: "Why would you go and do something like that? Back on the ol' J.I., you were so angry that I thought you wanted to rip their limbs off and stab needles into the quicks of their nails!" He made an arcane gesture. Or maybe it was a sneeze.
"You're right," I agreed. "My better nature gets the best of me sometimes." I sighed. "Sometimes villainy just cannot be defeated by kindness. But I think I should try, because not only is Miles Burger my horrible nemesis, I also consider him to be a trusted and manly friend, even if he does not feel the same way about me."
"That Miles Burger is a bad egg and a scalawag," Mrs. Goy volunteered irratably. "He's a ba**ard and a Swamp Thing emulator. I wouldn't give him so much as a moldy hot dog if he begged for it and offered to massage my aching arms nightly every Christmas from Armageddon on out."
"Mom!" young Franklin complained, tugging at his moustache as he is wont to do when the stark chill of embarassment creeps over his trapezius muscles. "Please don't talk around my friends! I hate it!"
"Yeah? Well, you're going to hate it when I make you sleep in the cabinet again! Don't you start with me, buddyboy! I'll send the will o' wisps to fry your brain, mark my words. The molebears'll steal your liver and hang it from the Christmas Island Postal Office flagstaff you mess with me, son!"
Deciding it best to change the subject, I said, "The first thing I need to do is talk to the king. I have to find out where in the preschool he's being held prisoner."
"A sound plan!" Maribeth affirmed.
"And then I need to convince him to return my VHS copy of The Stepmom. A wonderful performance by Julia Roberts (sister of Eric). She's pure magic in that moviefilm. Next-"
"The next thing you need to do is get out of here so I can watch my programs without having to listen over the lot of you!! Mrs. Goy screamed imperiously, turning up the television to probably 3000 decibels with the remote.
Young Franklin ushered us into his room. "I never should have divorced Erica," Adam Chandler stated with feeling from his home in the television wonderbox.
We continued our discussion within the musky interior of Franklin's room, which seemed to be growing some sort of horrendous fungus over the walls and the three computers that comprised what he has always referred to as his 'LAN' (Local Avocado Nation, I'm guessing.) Young Goy turned on his television and Xbox and initiated an exciting game of Lego Star Wars II. We cheered him on for half an hour, but then I thought it was time to get back to the matter at hand. "Not only do we need to locate the king," I said, devouring the last nibble of my soup-soaked breadbowl, "I need to find Secretia and let her know that all the inimicable rumors about her huggable ukulele-strummer aren't true!"
"How do you ever hope to convince her that you're still alive?" Maribeth catechized.
I exhaled pensively. "I just don't know..." I admitted. "But there has be a way."
"I could use my powerful mind-control magick!" Alain von Flippiflop suggested.
"No!" I asserted firmly. "I will have no mind-mucking magic used on my cheery philosopher dove... with the prime exception being, of course, the magic of tender romance and the susurrus of sweet-nothings trickling from my mouth into her olfactory organ."
"Awwwwww!" my friends emoted in unison. Alain gave me a friendly hug.
"I also need to prepare for my quinceanera. Oh!" I cleared my throat, straightened my posture, and stated in my most formal tone: "Each and every one of you faithful philosopher mentor friends I hereby invite to my imminent and upcoming quinceanera, to be celebrated on November 7th of this year concurrently with my 50th birthday. I hope you will be able to make it."
"Of course we will make it, Alvin!" they all said in unison.
"And then, when it's all over, I will coach and lead the Christmas Island Fantastic Trees to splendid victory, culminating in the winning of the Jai Alai Island Cup!"
"I think you're going to have problems with that one, Alvin Stomack," Franklin Goy said, firing his blaster upon an encroaching Trooperstorm.
"But I'm the greatest jai alai coach this island's ever had!" I insisted.
"Not anymore," young Goy said. "We have a new coach now, and our winning streak has rocketed into the stratosphere under his cunning playing strategy and trusty pep talks. He pats our backs and tells us how to play."
"Oh?" I said, a bit more snippety than I had intended. "And just who is this new coach of yours that's just sooo effectual that I, Alvin Stomack, victor and champion, am not needed anymore? Who is this Stomack-replacer?"
Franklin paused the game and looked at me. "Alvin... Our coach is now Miles Burger."
Maribeth and Alain both gasped in horror, shock, and surprise. And that was the last thing I heard, for your cuddly friend and culinary-questor, poet and Awesome Astronaut, Alvin Stomach, promptly fainted and fell to the floor.
"So what're we gunna do?" young Goy asked.
"It is imperative," I reiterated, "that I clear out all of my unwelcome houseguests."
"How're you going to dooo that?" Meribeth queried.
"I'm certain that I can entice them by offering them hot bread and tasty dried apricot jerky."
Alain spoke up: "Why would you go and do something like that? Back on the ol' J.I., you were so angry that I thought you wanted to rip their limbs off and stab needles into the quicks of their nails!" He made an arcane gesture. Or maybe it was a sneeze.
"You're right," I agreed. "My better nature gets the best of me sometimes." I sighed. "Sometimes villainy just cannot be defeated by kindness. But I think I should try, because not only is Miles Burger my horrible nemesis, I also consider him to be a trusted and manly friend, even if he does not feel the same way about me."
"That Miles Burger is a bad egg and a scalawag," Mrs. Goy volunteered irratably. "He's a ba**ard and a Swamp Thing emulator. I wouldn't give him so much as a moldy hot dog if he begged for it and offered to massage my aching arms nightly every Christmas from Armageddon on out."
"Mom!" young Franklin complained, tugging at his moustache as he is wont to do when the stark chill of embarassment creeps over his trapezius muscles. "Please don't talk around my friends! I hate it!"
"Yeah? Well, you're going to hate it when I make you sleep in the cabinet again! Don't you start with me, buddyboy! I'll send the will o' wisps to fry your brain, mark my words. The molebears'll steal your liver and hang it from the Christmas Island Postal Office flagstaff you mess with me, son!"
Deciding it best to change the subject, I said, "The first thing I need to do is talk to the king. I have to find out where in the preschool he's being held prisoner."
"A sound plan!" Maribeth affirmed.
"And then I need to convince him to return my VHS copy of The Stepmom. A wonderful performance by Julia Roberts (sister of Eric). She's pure magic in that moviefilm. Next-"
"The next thing you need to do is get out of here so I can watch my programs without having to listen over the lot of you!! Mrs. Goy screamed imperiously, turning up the television to probably 3000 decibels with the remote.
Young Franklin ushered us into his room. "I never should have divorced Erica," Adam Chandler stated with feeling from his home in the television wonderbox.
We continued our discussion within the musky interior of Franklin's room, which seemed to be growing some sort of horrendous fungus over the walls and the three computers that comprised what he has always referred to as his 'LAN' (Local Avocado Nation, I'm guessing.) Young Goy turned on his television and Xbox and initiated an exciting game of Lego Star Wars II. We cheered him on for half an hour, but then I thought it was time to get back to the matter at hand. "Not only do we need to locate the king," I said, devouring the last nibble of my soup-soaked breadbowl, "I need to find Secretia and let her know that all the inimicable rumors about her huggable ukulele-strummer aren't true!"
"How do you ever hope to convince her that you're still alive?" Maribeth catechized.
I exhaled pensively. "I just don't know..." I admitted. "But there has be a way."
"I could use my powerful mind-control magick!" Alain von Flippiflop suggested.
"No!" I asserted firmly. "I will have no mind-mucking magic used on my cheery philosopher dove... with the prime exception being, of course, the magic of tender romance and the susurrus of sweet-nothings trickling from my mouth into her olfactory organ."
"Awwwwww!" my friends emoted in unison. Alain gave me a friendly hug.
"I also need to prepare for my quinceanera. Oh!" I cleared my throat, straightened my posture, and stated in my most formal tone: "Each and every one of you faithful philosopher mentor friends I hereby invite to my imminent and upcoming quinceanera, to be celebrated on November 7th of this year concurrently with my 50th birthday. I hope you will be able to make it."
"Of course we will make it, Alvin!" they all said in unison.
"And then, when it's all over, I will coach and lead the Christmas Island Fantastic Trees to splendid victory, culminating in the winning of the Jai Alai Island Cup!"
"I think you're going to have problems with that one, Alvin Stomack," Franklin Goy said, firing his blaster upon an encroaching Trooperstorm.
"But I'm the greatest jai alai coach this island's ever had!" I insisted.
"Not anymore," young Goy said. "We have a new coach now, and our winning streak has rocketed into the stratosphere under his cunning playing strategy and trusty pep talks. He pats our backs and tells us how to play."
"Oh?" I said, a bit more snippety than I had intended. "And just who is this new coach of yours that's just sooo effectual that I, Alvin Stomack, victor and champion, am not needed anymore? Who is this Stomack-replacer?"
Franklin paused the game and looked at me. "Alvin... Our coach is now Miles Burger."
Maribeth and Alain both gasped in horror, shock, and surprise. And that was the last thing I heard, for your cuddly friend and culinary-questor, poet and Awesome Astronaut, Alvin Stomach, promptly fainted and fell to the floor.