| Having toweled off, slipped into my duds and wolfed a plate of eggs in about the time it takes to say so, I find myself on a second floor balcony with Pisistrato. Below us the square is full of people milling about. “They think they’re here for a Gag Fest,” I tell the old fellow. “A what?” “A Gag Fest, you know, a festival of jokes. That’s how Knots got them to cooperate.” “They’ll gag alright once the get a load of the featured attraction.” The Pisser gestures to the hill overlooking the main gate, where just yesterday there had been a mere dozen Spartans camped. The hill is black with men and horses. Lumbering into place are gigantic siege machines, catapults, battering rams and covered staircases on rollers, tall enough to convey warriors safely to the tops of barriers four times higher than the dinky walls of my adopted city. “Talk about overkill,” moans the minister. “They got enough guys and stuff over there to kill us ten times over, a hundred times over. Ye gods.” “Speaking of ye gods,” I interject, “you and I are the only ones who know the true i.d. of Toody’s new wife . . .” “That would ordinarily have me concerned,” replies the Pisser, “but I think you’ll agree more momentous problems are afoot.” “It’s all related,” I continue to relate. “Last night I had a dream-state visitation from Apollo . . .” “Apollo!” “He told me the Spartan army is being personally led by Mars, the god of war.” “Mars! We’re talking major league deities here!” “Apollo also told me Mars doesn’t care about capturing the city. He wants Thalia. This is his idea of courtship.” “Great. And she’s married to Toody now.” “Hey, there’s more. Apollo wants Thalia, too, and I have until sundown to get her to sign a marriage contract or else . . .” My heart sinks. I had forgotten about or else. Goodbye Calculotta. “Or else what?” he asks me. “Well — or else. You know. Or else.” The Pisser is dismayed. “You know, baby boy,” he says, “you picked a hell of a day to return.” “How do you know I’m the baby boy here? What was that bath routine all about?” “At birth, Toody’s younger brother had a strawberry mark on his tush, like you got. Three days later, no mark. Adelle smelled a rat, so did I. But there was this kid there. There was still a kid with a markless tush. Thirty years we live with our secret suspicions and this kid. Then at Fred’s funeral, Knots was such an unbelievable jerk, Adelle and I finally confide in one another. ‘I don’t think he’s my kid,’ says she. ‘I don’t think he is, either,’ says I. ‘Remember the strawberry tush mark?’ I ask. ‘Naw,’ says she, ‘couldn’t be. We’re imagining things,’ says she, ‘that tush mark was something come off in the bath,’ ‘Oh yeah?’ says I. ‘Says you,’ says I. ‘Says me?’ says she. ‘Says YOU!’ says she. And on and on, we was getting into a kind of argument, so we let it drop until you come along.” “I overheard Mars tell Knots he wasn’t Toody’s brother and that I was.” “Wow! Conversations with Apollo, then Mars. Hanging out with the quality, no?” “So my whole name is ‘Not Fred’?” I ask. “Yeah, but let’s keep calling you ‘N’. I like it. Has a certain ring to it.” He looks at me, grabs me around the skull, and gives me these really sweet little old man noogies on the noggin. “Welcome home, baby boy!” he crows. Suddenly he straightens me up and looks me sternly in the face. “The Plan kicks in here any moment. Important thing for you, N, is move fast at the right time. And at the right time, stay close to your brother. This is crucial.” “Got it. Where’s Toody now?” “Look there!” Pisistrato jabs a stubby finger toward the far left corner of the square, beyond Thalia’s statue, where the crowd is making way for Knots riding his Spartan pony. To our right, on the platform from which Knots addressed the crowd the night before, kettle drummers and buglers kick up a racket once again. Snaking single file behind Knots are the members of the City Guard who aren’t in the band. Each one is carrying his spear. As they pass below us on their way to the platform, I notice the last two in line have fierce, gruesome masks on their faces. The very last one lifts his mask and flashes bright orange eyes at the Pisser and me. “It’s Thalia!” I cry out. She points to the guardsman immediately in front of her, winking broadly and making kissing and then chewing motions in his direction. She waves bye-bye and closes the mask over her face. “That’s Toody in front of her,” I observe. “So far, so good,” breathes Pisistrato. “Let’s keep it up, kids.” “SUBJECTS!” Knots has assumed his position on the platform, addressing the crowd, this time with his City Guard arrayed in front of him, lined up facing the crowd at the foot of the platform. “This is not a Gag Fest, this is a revolution!” he intones. The people laugh anyway and applaud. “In times that dry and splinter men’s souls,” he continues, “ a strong patriot will emerge, selected by on-high, a patriot uniquely qualified to seize the reins of the ship of state, a man with his headquarters mounted squarely in the saddle, his brain going off like the test lab in a light bulb factory, his hands firmly grasping the neck of the terrified chicken that personifies the state in distress, his eyes staring unblinkingly into the sun, his heart throbbing between the thumb and forefinger of the heart of the god that made him what he is today — YOUR KING!” The people love all of this. Especially the part about the chicken. At that point even the Pisser mutters, “Chicken, that’s always a laugh.” But I don’t think Knots understands that the joke is on him. The people are reacting with approval. They came for a Gag Fest, and Knots is supplying one, unbeknownst to him. Everybody is happy only because nobody knows what anybody’s talking about. Knots winds it up. “March with me now through the gates of the city. Watch me demand and receive the surrender of the entire Spartan army, which shall fall as if by magic under the spell of my charismatic leadership. SEE the muscle-bound oafs grovel before your King! MARVEL at my prowess! Witness statesmanship as it’s never been practiced before! Finally, worship with me MARS, the great god of war and the day is saved! Let’s go!” Knots hops on his lend-lease pony, which has been waiting at the foot of the platform with his guardsmen, and the drums begin again. The people roar. Knots is a big hit. They follow, hoping, no doubt, to enjoy more gags. “Get going Assistant Prime Minister!” Pisistrato slaps me on the shoulder. I turn back into the palace and race down the hall. Before I can get to the grand staircase, I hear a high-pitched growl and feel fingers grip the back of my shirt collar. I’m jerked ungently into a dark room, and before you can say Jack Robinopolis, I’m being mauled by my would-be fiancee, and I’m mauling her in return. The room is suddenly flooded with a funny yellow light that buzzes and flickers in a very annoying way. Calculotta and I look up from our mutual mauling to see the fat figure of my foster father, Icapus, hovering in the middle of the room about a foot off the floor, the little wings on his ankles whirring like angry gnats. He spits, “My lord Apollo wants to know how you are progressing in getting a certain contract signed for him.” I answer, “I’m doing great. Now buzz off.” Instead of off, he buzzes closer to me. His breath stinks of stale coffee. “If you’re doing so great,” he hisses, “why don’t you even have the aforementioned contract on your very person?” I stutter some. “Here it is!” He thrusts it into my hand. “Now get on with it! Apollo will be here at nightfall. And remember,” Icapus points at Calculotta, “OR ELSE!” He vanishes. The room is dark again, but gee, my sense of the moment is all gone, you know what I mean? “Who was that?” Calculotta inquires. “That was my foster father.” “Your foster father is a fairy?” “Look, Lotta,” I tell her, “I want you more than anything in the world.” “And I want you.” She resumes the mauling process. I stop her. “If I don’t leave now, we’ll never be married.” “Darling, this is our last chance together,” she moans, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m supposed to marry Toody’s brother.” “I AM Toody’s brother,” I exclaim. “I’ve got the strawberry tush mark. That’s what the Pisser was looking at when you came into my bath.” “A strawberry tush mark?” she says. “Let’s see.” I show her. There’s a pounding on the door. It’s the Pisser. “Is that you in there, N?” He opens the door before I get my britches back on. “What are you doing?” gasps the old guy. “You forget the Plan? Get going to your posts, both of you!” The Pisser calls after us as we pound down the stairs and out into the the now abandoned square. “N, get out that front gate! Lotta, wait for me there. I’ve got to get the banner. Sex, sex, sex, that’s all you kids think about . . .” I exit through the gate I entered almost twenty-four hours before. |
| Ancient Greasepaint Copyright 1990 Louder Than a Lie Publications, LLC and David Keith Johnson All Rights Reserved |