Captain, Limonade, and Phillippo, having no plan but none, and unmoored from any priorly-introduced locale, traveled their way down or up the coast, as afooted as usual, and espied such pedestrial folks as made the environs their home, but bypassed them in hopes that a more contoured experience may yet come to pass—and when one didn’t, the abscondable trio redoubled their pace, and with that unprepared-for haste, overshot their destination, the identity of which goes unsaid forever. They instead arrove fully at Symphony Number Two in Dee Major, a little beach town well known for being a hidden gem that’s gone underrated for years, and thus was swamped with tourists of uncountable number, and all that their presence entailed.
“Is this a municipality exploitable enough?” said Captain by enlarge. “Seems too many of the best options are spoken for!”
“Give it a quarter of a chance,” said Limonade. “I’m not wanted here, so far as I know—and I’m prepared to settle for less.”
“That’s an approachable request,” said Captain. “Cordially, I’ll attempt the same—though I’m inclined to recline!” He then rebegan his search for a Co-Zee-Lounger as cozy and loungeful as his previous example, but none were at the train store, and the numismatists’ museum was closed for fumigation and lunch, so he opted to open a manhole and peered inside, looking for a small amount of grated ginger root, or some spare bobby pins to point the way. A pathologist came by and closed the manhole, sternly glaring at Captain to make his point as clear as a tube, and in case he hadn’t, he taped the m’ole shut so that peering would cease for the foreseeable, and unforeseeable, future.
Meanwhile—there’s always a meanwhile, though not one in ten are revealed, so keep your guessers warm—Phillippo was attentive to neither of them, for although the captivating interest of Captain’s and Limonade’s activities was sky-high, Phillippo, horse costume that it was, had no brain to its name, and thus had no organ with which to focus, and so didn’t. It instead let its eye get caught by a newly appearing opportunity, and it went over to get its picture taken with an accordion, which was an impressive feat since most people get their pictures taken with a camera. Did you notice that pun? Try not to, since that sort of thing is punishable in more sensible circles—but never mind for now. It was a tourist trap, and that’s just the sort of thing folks here got up to.
Henriope the accordionographer noted that he had a job to do, and a waiting customer to do it to, so he slithered to action and swiftly, cleanly, and without err, got the job done. Further punnage could occur against the phrase “take a picture,” but Henriope, a professional, did not stoop to that cowardice. One was enough. “Okay,” he said when complete, patting his equipment as he put it out to pasture. He grasped the picture and flapped it around a little, to make it develop faster—that works under private relativity—and said, “That’ll be sixteen fifty.”
“Oh,” said Phillippo. “I don’t have anything. No pockets, y’see.”
“I don’t see,” said Henriope. “Sixteen fifty.”
Captain and Limonade had noticed Phillippo’s lacking presence—or its presence lacking—and, suspecting dishavior, they came over to oversee the sight, not wanting to be too left out, but were swiftly diverted from this complication, for just then a thing of ordinary fashion happened, as it does every day, everywhere, to everyone—a single thought entered their several brains, and they were at once as one. They three caught the whiff of a sea breeze that carried the memory of a loss catastrophic, a friend buried in haste, an unexpected and unwelcome feast in the coldest room, and their backs foolishly turned to the almighty sea. “Almighty”? Could its might even be guessed at, seeing as how it went unseen? Of course—it could only be guessed at, seeing as how it went unseen. And so they were filled with an endless passion and a rising song, and there came to them such a desire to emote that they did, not dancewise, but stillly, and they struck a pose they deemed steeped in the eldest stories and larger than the sound it made, and with them was grandeur, and to them went glory, and they held the myriad hearts of any given god, adrift in the blood and gore of a blank page. Henriope, artisan, beheld them correctly.
“Hold it,” said Henriope.
“Hold what?” said Limonade.
“The pose,” said Henriope. “You’ve got it.” He hastily hired a cowboy to ride across the range and wrangle his equipment, and in merely several moments of brevity, levity, and silence, Henriope had his gear enhanded, setting it up on its monopods, and prepared to create an accordionograph the likes of which no one, from the minks to the finks, had ever seen before. And then, he did. Henriope was a doer, and got what he wanted. “You can relax now,” he said, drawing the picture from the cam’.
“Ideally, yes,” said Captain. They deposed. The moment passed permanently.
Henriope flapped this new picture, gazing at it agog. “Ho! Now, this one’s something,” he said. “Although, everything is—then, that makes this everything.” He looked up at the trio, and marveled at how they, who had a moment ago been more than picturesque, had acquired mundanity in such haste—all the moreso the inverse. He shrugged. Art wasn’t for everyone. “Forty-three fifty for this one.”
“‘Forty-three fifty’ what?” said Captain.
Henriope said, “Forty-three fifty please.”
“We haven’t got any pleas,” said Captain, “save this: please let us off the hook for this fee, eh?”
“‘Hook’?” said Henriope. “Who said ‘hook’?”
“You did,” said Limonade, “and you might want to rethink that strategy.” He drew a triangle and a circle, the colors optional but shading a must.
“Oh? Hum!” said Henriope, laughing, and becoming dolphinesque. The three guys shared no drinks or birthdays, and would never get a chance to visit the taco department. “You’re out of the water, fenlows! It’s time to do the whole charade! Get ready to get estranged!”
At Henriope’s signal—semaphore—Bunberbuss Alphond, the flying squirrel apprentice, and Telemetamorphotogenic, the troll weaver, came out from behind the spittoon and didn’t have a headache. Alas, but the commage is unquestionable now—let it be as knowable as the deer’s count that it was inspected by a professional—though a professional what I’ll unsay—and it was found not wanting. There’s a glow that blinds. But, Bunberbuss and Telemetamorphotogenic—these are pretty typical names, placing thirty-twelfth and twenty-oneth on the Paltropisburger quasiannual industrial name ranking survey, and you know exactly what they mean. Hell, half of you probably have an Uncle Telemetamorphotogenic that you only see on Saint Plasticine’s Day—and they’re all the same guy.
Captain, Limonade, and Phillippo didn’t know what their names meant, or even what they were, but the new duo was very loomy and had been brung forth to procure the forty-three fifty of something—anything. It was a tourist town, after all, and tourists make great targets. Unbeknownst to any local-dweller, however, Captain, Limonade, and Phillippo weren’t mere daylight savers, and weren’t stretch goals, either, and these two lacks of identity complemented one another in the worst fashion possible, and decisions were now allowed.
“So, it’s combat you want?” said Captain. “I can spell that right on the first try!”
“That makes one of us,” said Limonade. “I’m a cliff.”
“Education is available,” said Captain, “so stay tuned and develop!”
Bunberbuss and Telemetamorphotogenic approached Captain, Limonade, and Phillippo with what could only be described as nunchucks.
“I’ve got an opposite intention,” said Limonade, “as should you! We’ve got blander woes to endure, first—unless you’ve forgotten the task ahead?”
“Indeed not,” said Captain. “So it goes. But with fight off the menu, only flight remains!”
“Not technically,” said Limonade, “but that’s my preference. Let’s get discounted!”
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
And so they fled—but owing to confusion, the three so-called fenlows knew not whither they hasted, yet hasted all the same until, at the time when the blur of travel became familiar enough to be more legible than automation, Captain espied an adequate locale, and led their troop through a door’s step and into a funeral home, throwing the pursuants off his trail, for they were expecting a brick factory, or at least a historical stump. An adroit dodge for anyone, him especially so, lacking a back. He congratulated himself, and thought about giving himself a medal.
“You! You there! The one with several hairs!” said a sayer. Sliding down the pole came that sayer, Total Thomas, the funeral home’s director, who wore nothing but the greatest oldies to ever hit the airwaves. Total Thomas said, “You’re hired. You’re hired as hell. Get to work and back!”
“No can do!” said Phillippo. “We’re on vacation!”
“Thanks for trying, but we’ll take this tip,” said Captain. “Nor would I say no to a distraction—s’long’s I’m paid twice as much as last time,” he added with a laugh. Laughter indicates joviality. This is a human trait, one of which Captain surely was.
“I get some, too,” said Limonade. “Finder’s fee.”
“I,” said Total Thomas, “offer slavery.” He bowed, revealing the the answer to the fourth panel.
Captain shrugged to Limonade. “Call it exposure—and better than nothing,” he said.
Total Thomas went to assay the butcher’s work, while Captain started his shift, and transcrobe the whispers of the corpses into hieroglyphics carved into uncooked marmalade trophies. Movo the chef had some water boiling, and as soon as the carvings were done, they grabbed all the trophies and threw the them into the pot—it was a very big pot so there was no need to break spaghetti in half like a goddamned savage, but there was no spaghetti involved, so all’s well—and they all gathered around and waited exactly ten minutes and one second for the trophies to be cooked as perfectly as they used to do it in the bold country, and when it was, they poured it into the well.
“That’s good,” said Total Thomas. “That’s as good as a—as a...” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember the word for a fishmonger, failing, and then he gave up and gave Captain the long-foreshadowed medal to celebrate his success, and also threw Movo into a meat grinder to be punished for someone’s sins, and then finally called the main office to place another order for some fresh orphans.
“All right,” said Total Thomas. “All right. There’s more for the doing—who wants to work twice the job for half the pay?”
“Fools and loyalists,” said Limonade, “and we’re not both, so leave us out of this one!”
“Then the labor movement ends here!” said Total Thomas. “Strike and be struck!”
“I can improve upon that,” said Captain, “and pink-slip myself entirely!” He tossed his apron into a furious heap, punched out, and called it a day, sprinting out the back door before the sources could be gleaned. Naturally, it goes said that Limonade and Phillippo accompanied him.
“Wait,” said Phillippo. “Weren’t we trying to earn some money?”
“Dim your brights, my pal,” said Captain. “All will come in time!”
“If that was ‘trying,’” said Limonade, “then we’d better practice our camping.” No one seemed to notice, so he rethought for two moments’ time, then said, “No, wait, I got a better one—Phil, say it again!”
“Oh, ho there!” said Henriope, over there by the partridge dispenser, noticing Captain’s and Limonade’s and Phillippo’s standing around outside the, what was it, a deli they were in? A warehouse? It’s not even scrolled off the screen and the history’s already lost.
They—all of them, this is a full-blown chase chapter now—floored it, and went right up the main street, right up to city hall, and Captain, Limonade, and Phillippo ran inside and went to the mayor’s office—not for help, per se, but it had such an alluringly fancy door that they couldn’t help themselves. The police rode up on yaks and threw lassos at them, but Captain’s height had changed so the lassos flew over him, and Limonade simply couldn’t be bothered to get caught, and so only Phillippo was trapped and was ensnared thoroughly by the lassos, but it started chatting with them, and before long befriended them, and they began to do its bidding. At Phillippo’s command—well, it was politely requested, really, this is Phillippo after all—the lassos captured all the police and threw them in the freezer, and then captured all the secretaries and threw them into a pickup truck, and then captured everyone else—everyone else in the office, not everyone else—and threw them up in the air, where they founded a new city and created a new society, one without laws, but rooted in creative expression, so that all they did, all day, every day, was paint paintings and say poems about the paintings, until one day Vuculent Rod painted a painting so grandly perfected that no one could think up any poems about it—although they tried so hard—and so Vuculent Rod sewed up everyone’s mouths so they’d never say a poem about his painting, as no poem could ever be said well enough to do justice to it, and to even try would be like a dagger in his heart, like a thigh in his eye, like some mice in his rice, and then, when everyone tried to play the cat’s lie, Vuculent Rod went ahead and sewed all their hands together—and then, just to be really sure, he sewed all their feet together, too.
“Whoops!” said Phillippo. “That was an accident.”
Telemetamorphotogenic was nearest. He was not distracted by any of this and entirely tackled Phillippo—except, not so much “entirely” as not at all, for the lassos called one of their friends, a rope, and Phillippo rode that to safety. Telemetamorphotogenic wasn’t paid enough to deal with ropes on top of lassos, and so he rented a cabin in the woods instead. He drank a pitcher of pictures to recalibrate his cool.
“Follow the rope—we can’t be cloven from a friend!” said Captain.
“We could,” said Limonade. “There’s a first time for everything, after all.” This gave him the idea of a lifetime, which was lost as soon as it was found, for at that second a cardboard box collode with him and scooped him onto its top as it scampered yon and slightly hither. Limonade clumb into the saddle of the cardboard box—the natural enemy of plesiosaurs, by the way—and then with a giddy-up he spurred the box into wildly careening through the grocery store. A lot of parents were shopping with their kids that day, since the kids’ school had been in the shop all week, and so, since all the kids had crossbows, they fired at Limonade, but the box was wily and wove between the flying bolts, until it came to a stained-glass window. The stained-glass window told no tale.
“Boss,” said the box, “I’m optionless!”
“When it comes to options,” said Limonade, “none’s as good as one!”
“Then,” said the box, “today, I’m the one that does!”
With a faint battle cry, the box leapt through the window, and it—the window, not too much plastic wrap—shattered, for the tendrils of wroughten iron that lay between the glass panelets was no match for the box’s card nor board, and the window broke into a thousand thousand gleaming pieces, the strobe lights shining on the twirling facets. On the window’s other side was a vital cricket match, and since the main rule of cricket is that if a cardboard box leaps through a stained-glass window both teams automatically lose, both teams automatically lost. They had bet against and for themselves, and now their fortunes were annihilated, but they were influxed with restraint. As for the fans—unaccustomed to this novel interruption, they went into double triple absolute conniptions, and threw every knife at Limonade and his box. Limonade caught all the knives with the cardboard box, and transferred them cautiously into one specially designed for knife-storing, and then saw that the pursuers were getting close, so he ran up to the tenth floor, where the books and T. V. department were, and then would’ve run out of money if he had started with any, but a friendly man-e-quin wasn’t there, and so, deep down inside, he had to use the bathroom, where Henriope was waiting for him.
“The price has increased,” said Henriope as he cornered Limonade, “to fifty fifteen, to cover tolls and fees incurred during the chase.”
“You make it sound like the chase is done,” said Limonade sideways.
“You have nowhere left to turn,” said Henriope. He brandished three finely-crafted marlins, who proceeded to invent basic. Limonade’s box o’ knives couldn’t hold a candle—or anything else—to that. “The brisket is ready,” Henriope said, “and the savanna’s been plowed under—fine feat for a kennel’s dejecta! The tune’s improved, by degrees, but the name’s got a long way to go!”
Limonade lost years off his life—he was really at the end of his rope. But—wait a minute! That wasn’t his rope, but Phillippo’s, passing through! Limonade reached out and grabbed it, and hauled himself—see, I do know that word—aboard as Phillippo floored it like a lucky sea jelly, and soonish enough, they were out of Henriope’s reach.
“Go back for Captain!” said Limonade. “I’ve got bills he’s got to pay!”
But Phillippo was filled with an inability to pilot the rope properly, and crashed into the clock tower—not the clock face itself, nothing as cinematic as that, just some regular stone elements at the corner of the ground floor. All the ropes and lassos and whatever broke and Phillippo and Limonade fell down, but they landed on someone’s feet, and so brushed themselves off and blended into a crowd that was headed toward a new art exhibit, featuring Vuculent Rod’s latest and final masterpiece, but alasly their attention was held firm by Henriope et al’s potential arrival, and so the scene went unseen once more.
And, they hadn’t gone back for Captain—so he was encaptured. Bunberbuss and Telemetamorphotogenic seized him with and without ease, and tied him up with golden H. D. M. I. cables, and threw him in a Faraday cage—there was no symbolism to the devices chosen this time, they simply used what they had handy. Thus pinned down, Captain was drug afore Henriope. Ah! Hence the old rule. Well, as it was said once and now again—it was a tourist trap, and that’s what was done here.
“You owe me,” said Henriope, punching swiftly on a calculator, “fifty fifteen. No! Fifty sixteen. Cough it up at once—or else!”
Captain had not the inclination to portray the weak end of this conversation. “You bluff!” he said, playing the hand someone else had been dealt. “‘Or else’? Or else what, pray tell?”
“Or else,” said Henriope, with great menace across his facial region, if nowhere else, “you don’t get your accordionographs!”
“Fiend!” growled Captain. “That’s an almost unendurable fate.”
Henriope laughed a maniacal laugh that he had been practicing a lot in the off season. “Then, eat the doom that’s served to you!” he crowed.
“I said,” said Captain, “‘almost unendurable’!” He stood to his heights and glared at Henriope. “I spit on your offer! Keep the pictures—I want them not! You think I’ll be given to woe, without a keepsake of today? My memories are enough!”
Henriope grew darker. “Is that your desire?” he said. “To be spared this utter art for once and all?”
“Those are secrets,” said Captain.
“Then keep your secrets,” said Henriope, “and I shall keep your ’graphs. You feign virtue now, but there shall surely be a time when you miss these memories dearly. In that moment, I shall have my vengeance.”
Enough of this game. Henriope called a cab for him and his comrades, and they departed in casuality, unhastening to find the next mark, for they were massed in aplenty. As for Captain’s friends, those two shortly arrove by his side. Thus was the end of the tale of the accordionograph—a benign end, where no one died who didn’t matter.
“I ill like the attitude of this zone,” said Captain. “Do you know another’s spot?”
“At least all of them,” said Limonade. “Don’t look at me to quantize the troublesomeness, though.”
“Can we at least get some ice cream before we go?” said Phillippo.
Captain and Limonade shared a glance, if nothing else.