"Wallow & Misery Take a Trip" by Charles J March III
After having enough of the treacle, the nomads tremulously traversed the downward spiraling path from the elevated forest, and Misery said, “Don’t trip,” to Wallow, “because by the time you get to the bottom, it'll be next fall.”
“Very funny,” replied Wallow. “Where are you taking me anyway? Marrakech?”
“We’re going south by southwest, to desert places,” said Misery, with a faraway look in his eyes.
As they reached the end of the long and winding road, they saw what appeared to be a champagne supernova, but it was ultimately a delirious, wishfully thought of mirage, which hovered above the wearied wasteland.
Wallow asked Misery what the point of going through such a place would be, and Misery's reply was, “To get to the other side.”
“No, really!” exclaimed Wallow.
“It's the journey, not the destination that matters. It’s survival of the fittest down there, and a misfit like could use some climate change,” urged Misery.
This comment made Wallow wistfully remember the not-so long ago days of decomposing in front of his parents’ old Philips-Magnavox television, in disbelief, as he witnessed an orange-haired orangutan-like oppressor deny climate change.
“Perhaps I should have worn my Fitbit,” Wallow jokingly replied. “I’d rather be in a polar desert, but it’d probably still experience global warming. I'd even settle for a cold desert in The Himalayas. At least then I'd be on top of the world, and have the chance to chill with the Dalai Lama.”
“Who do you think you are, Brad Pitt?” Misery disparagingly posed.
“Why do you care? Are you part of The Western Shugden Society?”
“I was, but we disbanded a couple years ago, due to our involvement with China and communism.”
To change the subject, Wallow moved in a Marxist direction, and went on to ask Misery why they were traveling by day anyhow.
Misery’s only response was, “… Solar energy.”
“This heat is diabolic!” said Wallow, with a frantic look on his red, whimpering face.
“More like adiabatic,” riposted Misery.
“What the hell is that?” asked Wallow.
“You really need to expand your universe,” replied Misery.
“Come on, let's just be children of night. We can hide away during the day, then go out walking, after midnight, out in the moonlight.”
Misery said that he was as wise and mystical as an owl, but not as nocturnal, and would therefore have to keep trudging the path of happy destiny, in the sunlight of the spirit.
“Is it possible that this heat is starting to erode your brain, keeping you in a constant positive feedback loop?” Wallow sarcastically asked.
“Probably no more than the chemicals have weathered yours,” replied Misery, acrimoniously.
“I think I'm hitting bedrock,” said Wallow, in a defeated manner.
“Why don't you take a page out of these cactus’s books and grow a spine,” said Misery, sardonically.
“I don't know if I can keep going/growing.”
“Well, I would tell you to dry your tears, but the desert will probably do that for you,” Misery replied, with a compassionate contempt.
“I think I'll just crawl under a rock and die,” began Wallow. “Or at least lay dormant until the next rainfall. I'd even settle for acid rain.”
“Don't be silly,” started Misery, leading into his milieu metaphors. “If you can get through this drought, weather whatever sandstorms may come, and get through the rough cacti patches, you can surely get through anything!”
“Your analogies are so bombastic,” Wallow maintained, while embosoming his embarrassed head in his hand.
“Yeah, they’re the bomb, huh?” gybed Misery, with a guileless grin.
“On the contrary, I’m pretty sure this arid landscape will hinder my growth.”
“Have some sand,” marshalled Misery.
“I'm sick of having grains in my body,” Wallow retorted.
“I'm going to sandblast that pumice exterior of yours, Wallow,” Misery bellowed.
“Hopefully the winds of destiny blow my remnants away into the far corners of the earth. It'll be a long aeolian process, but that’ll probably be the only way I'll ever travel the globe. Besides, I think it makes more sense to have an exterior like that of the horny toad out here anyway.”
“Well, you already behave like one by being sluggish, horny, and easy to catch by predators,” said Misery, jocosely.
And to which Wallow concurred.
“How come you’ve never been successfully hunted down?” asked Wallow, with an inquisitive wonder.
“That’s a good question. Some say that I don't exist. Some say that I'm a choice. But those who seek, find. And those with their eyes closed, don't see. I may also just be a myth that's pervasively inherent. Who knows. I just go with the natural ebb & flow.”
“Why, are you a dead fish?”
“Yet another good question, my boy. If there's one thing that you learn from me, may it be that you should question everything.”
“Isn't overthinking a constant cause of anxiety?”
“I think I would rather overthink than underthink,” replied Misery.
“But isn't ignorance bliss?”
“Well, that's what they say. But would you rather have your head in the clouds, or in the sand?”
“Probably somewhere in the middle.”
“Good choice. But sooner or later, you’ll have to stop straddling the wall of ambiguity, and stand on your own two feet for something, or you’ll wind up just another brick in the wall.”
“You’re probably right. I'm sure the day will come when I have a cause to fight for. But for now, I'm just a rebel without much of one, except my survival. Speaking of, I'm starving. What are we going to do for food?”
“You can drink my blood if you want,” said Misery,” half-jokingly.
“I'm not a vamp kid, ok!” said Wallow, mordantly.
“I'm as serious as a heart attack,” attested Misery. “Nomads have been living off of a mostly blood diet for centuries.”
“That's nice of you, but I’ll pass. Hopefully we find some viands soon. I can't go on like this much longer,” puled Wallow.
As the vagabond gypsum pair passed over the mosaic-stoned sand dunes, which looked like extraterrestrial ergs, and reminded him of the ones in Indiana and Michigan that he was brought to as a boy, they saw a cryptically cream-colored courser that was perched on one of the peaks. Wallow ravenously waded over towards it, and just before he could clutch it, the beautiful bird soared to new, and cooler heights. And just as Wallow was about to give up hope, he looked into the distance and saw a deep, geologic depression. He saw in it what looked like a watering hole, but he’d have to get closer to be sure.
As they drudged down the dune, they did in-fact find a cerulean solution where a sort was sousing, and Wallow couldn't help but to immediately plummet into the Prussian blue pit. Wallow agitated the otherworldly émigré, and they began splashing each other like children, or early relationship lovers, full of nervous energy. The plashing was precluded when Wallow realized that this being was no mere mortal.
“What on earth are you?” Wallow queerly catechized.
“Is that where we are?” the creature queried.
“Yes, I take it you’re not from here, huh?”
“No, I've actually just come from outer space.”
“Holy shit!” Wallow exclaimed with a half-laughed, wide-eyed wonder.
“Drake would be proud.”
“The rapper?”
“Heavens, no! Frank Drake.”
“Sorry, never heard of him. Anyways, I crash-landed my aircraft down here a couple weeks ago, and have recently begun working.”
“Is that legal?” Wallow asked.
“Probably not. I guess I’m an illegal alien.”
While he was talking, Wallow noticed that the hireling’s left hand was in its own Tourette’s-like syndrome world. Among other gestures, it kept alternately flashing the peace symbol and middle finger.
“Excuse me, but what's going on with your hand?” asked Wallow, disconcertedly. “By the way you’re acting, I can't tell if you’re an enemy or a friend.”
“Oh, sorry about that. I have alien hand syndrome. It's a recent phenomenon, and I think it developed from my colossally concussive crash. Although, I’ve been doing a lot of hot yoga out here, which seems to be helping my mind-body connection.”
“Interesting,” said Wallow, with a slow, semi-disingenuous demeanor. “Have you had your ammonia levels checked recently?”
“No, but I would imagine they’re pretty high, as I’m an ammonia-based life form,” said the caustic customer.
“Ah, so that would explain your aberrant behavior,” deduced Wallow.
“Perhaps,” said the soul, with a speculative smile.
“So why did you come here anyhow?” asked Wallow, with an agog air.
“Well, I was poor, my planet was overpopulated, I needed asylum (mental), I didn't want to get drafted into the war, I felt like I didn't belong, and I'm looking for family.”
“You have family here?” Wallow asked, with a flabbergasted guffaw.
“I do indeed. I was hoping to fly to Los Angeles, to find my asshole brother, but I must have missed the mark a bit, which is ok, considering I now believe him to be in Washington D.C.”
“What do you think he’s doing there?”
“Well, he's Draconian, and he's currently the president of your country.”
“What!” exclaimed Wallow. I knew it. It all makes sense now.”
“Yeah, you could say he's evoking a lot of alien sedition.”
“So what species of alien are you?” asked Wallow.
“Well, I have a grey’s anatomy, but I'm starting to wish I was reptilian, being in the desert and all.”
“Where are you from?” asked Wallow.
“I'm from the planet-moon, Titan.”
Misery’s ears perked up at this, and he interjected that he, too, used to live on Titan, during its golden age, and then came to earth on a panspermic planetoid during the Iron Age.
“Yes, that's precisely why I left,” said the fugitive fauna. “It was becoming miserable.”
“I’d like to live on the moon,” said Wallow, in a ridiculous reverie. “Kid Cudi had the right idea.”
“Stop waiting for the Big Bang of your life to happen,” Misery pleaded. “It’s time to give up your mediocrity principle and shoot for the cheese face. And look on the bright side of the moon—even if you don't make it—you’ll be amongst the stars.”
“You’re starting to sound like Sir Richard Blackmore,” Wallow quipped.
“Ok, I’ll try not to embarrass you in front of our new found friend,” said Misery.
“New found friend?” said the mordacious martian, with surprise. “You don’t even know my name!”
“Please, forgive us,” said Wallow, with a beseeching bearing. “I'm Wallow, this is Misery, and that's his pet, Julie.”
“You have a bulldog bat for a pet?” asked the still unnamed, unearthly being.
“No, that's just what she transubstantiated into to survive out here,” Misery alleged.
“She's trans?” asked the anonymous individual, while scratching his distended dome.
“I guess you can say that,” shrugged Misery. “I honestly don't know how to identify her anymore. All I know is that she's pretty progressive.”
“How esoterically intriguing,” said the incessantly incognito immigrant. “Please pardon me for being so forward with the introductions. I forget that I’m on an entirely different planet, with its own customs and courtesies. I, too, usually delay introducing myself, for whatever reason. ‘By the way’ is my go to ice breaker. But I digress. My name is Ángel.”
“That’s a pretty seraphic name for an illegal alien,” said Wallow, in jest. “How long do you intend on staying out here?”
“I'm not sure,” said Ángel, tentatively.
“So what is it that you do for your job?” Wallow asked.
“I've recently started working as a busboy at a Zagat-rated Mexican restaurant,” said Ángel, ambivalently. “They stow me away in the closet, and I work for next-to-nothing, scrubbing under the tables on my hands and knees. I’m scared to venture into more hospitable places, for fear of getting picked up by la migra.”
“I hear you,” Wallow said, sympathetically. “I’ve recently been deported from the land of nod, myself.”
“Speaking of deportation, would either of you be interested in a sham marriage?” asked Ángel, desperately. “It's probably my best chance at citizenship.”
“Would it be a lavender marriage?” asked Wallow.
“Why, do you have something against that?”
“No, I love lavender. I use it all the time. I'm just wondering what your orientation is.”
“I'm asexual,” claimed the ethereal entity.
“Oh, good,” said Wallow, while swabbing the sweat from his brow.
“I think earth reached maximum capacity centuries ago,” said Misery, misanthropically. “I want to help you, but I'm not really the marrying type.”
“And I'm basically but a child,” said Wallow, helplessly.
“Ugh, such is life, I suppose,” said Ángel,
in wretched resignation. “I’m constantly stuck in a Fermi paradox. But, extraterrestrial life, uh, finds a way. An alien can dream, can’t he?”
“Yes, all beings with a superior neocortex can dream,” Wallow propounded.
“Yes, and let us dream resplendently tonight, for I’m afraid that we must continue on our way come morning,” said Misery, trepidatiously.
So the three amigos spent the night star-gazing and listening to shoegaze, while dunking freshly glazed donuts in their star-anise flavored teas, then slumbered in old military sleeping bags that they had found while crossing the desert. The noir night was filled with the splish-splashing sounds of Julie taking a bath, whilst struggling with her chronic rhinitis and flatulence, which then led to her dive-bombing the depression in search of sustenance.
As the sun started to peak over the horizon, they awoke off the ground in a Crocodile Dundee fashion, with stiff backs and sopping sleeping sacks from all the frost, per the desert’s night and day dichotomy. After enjoying a cup of industrially revolutionized sugarcane cowboy coffee, Wallow and Misery packed their things, and anxiously thought of how they were going to say their goodbyes. They decided to not shake his hand, as that was too cold and businesslike, while a hug seemed too personal for someone they just met. A fist-bump might suffice, but what if they were left hanging with a blank fist? So standing several feet away, and looking into the bulbous abyss of his black eyes, they wished that he’d come and go in peace. And then without saying a word, Ángel raised his hand and gave them the universally recognized live long and prosper gesture. So Wallow and Misery nodded with the same persed smirk you give someone while passing on the street, and just like that, they were gone.
Shortly after sojourning on, Wallow slipped into an absurd, wabi-sabi depression, while thinking of life’s transient nature.
“So if people just perpetually come in and out of our lives, what’s the point of getting to know anyone?” asked Wallow, with a despondent demeanor.
“Life is about taking chances,” replied Misery. “We can only pray that the ones who are meant to stay will indubitably do so. They will enrich your life, and you’ll reciprocate. You won’t know the kind of people you’re meant to be around, unless you make eclectic selections. Be a part of life. Don’t let life be just a part of you.”
“I know, I know. Sometimes I just wonder what the point of it all is.”
“Join the club,” said Misery, with a demure, self-deprecating snigger. “More will be revealed.”
Around high-noon, after having slavishly trundled the well-trodden trade routes, they saw in the distance what appeared to be tipis, with beautifully complex geometric depictions of celestial bodies. It was quite a sight to behold. Wallow was extremely excited, as he’d never met many natives before, but really revered them. As they approached the village, there stood a serene looking man, who looked like he was standing on a rock, with an elaborate pipe aligned to his mouth, which looked like an oil rig. As they drew nearer, they began to hear the rhythmic pulsing of drums, and smelled the distinct bouquet of cedar, sweetgrass, and sage.
“Welcome, brothers,” said the naive native, in the most comforting, sincere gesture possible. How do you do?
“A lot better, now that we’ve found you,” said Misery. “The ol’ dusty trail was becoming unbearable.”
“I’ll take a dusty trail over a trail of tears any day,” affirmed the Indian.
“Yes, of course,” replied Misery. “It’s all about perspective.”
“You came all this way without horses?” asked the inquisitive Indian.
“Yes,” said Wallow. “But even if I had one, it’d probably be crazy, and/or have no name.”
“Very well,” said the interested Injun. “I guess I’m just used to our horse culture here.”
“I, thankfully, have recently given up horse culture,” said Wallow, with a proud propensity.
“Good for you,” said the Amerind, in a commending manner. “Let me know if you want to get in on a Wellbriety drum circle later. And please, do come in for some R&R.
“Thank you,” soughed Misery. “It’s been awhile since our last encounter. We had a close one with an ambiguously-orientated grey alien whose reptilian brother is the president!”
“Hahaha, ah, the joy of being a joya,” said the Indian. It’s all an illusion. He may be the president, but I’m The Lizard King.
“Oh, forgive me,” pleaded Misery. “Where are my manners? I’m Misery, and this is Wallow. I’m sorry we didn’t come bearing gifts.”
“That’s quite all right,” said Lizard King, with a slight, empty gesture gentility. “We don’t need another Columbian exchange. And we sure as heaven don’t need anymore gifts infected with miserable diseases! I have enough friends in the Little Earth housing project fighting the good fight as it is.”
“Trust me, Lizard King, I do not wish to kill any Indians, and I sure as hell do not wish to save the man,” said Misery, adamantly. Plus, much like Alcatraz—where your peers took a valiant stand—I am a rock, and I am an island, who stays away from mainstream society, and therefore—diseases.”
“I believe you,” said Lizard King, reassuredly. “I can tell you’re more interested in our collective community than in your own individualism. So in the name of nonviolence, let us go to our sweat lodge and smoke a peace pipe.”
“Perfect,” replied Wallow, excitedly. “I could use a good sweat. It’s just what Shoma Morita systematized, per my self-diagnosed taijin kyofusho.”
“What’s that,” asked Lizard King.
“I got the fear!” cried Wallow.
“Ah, yes. Don’t we all,” stated Lizard.
“Just keep bering strait, while choosing water over wine, and you’ll be able to handle whatever tomorrow may bring,” inspirited Lizard King.
As the ceremony began, the fire keeper stoked the rocks, and a fire inside of Wallow began to swell. It felt as though he was once again inside a womb, ready to be reborn. He was so happy that they had let outsiders into their observance.
While Lizard King passed the peace pipe, he commented on the irony of the nontraditional war-causing substance inside, that it, like he and his people, were finally starting to get the proper treatment they deserved, instead of being public enemy number one.
After the sweat lodge finished, they were all a bit hungry, so Lizard King advanced the idea of victuals.
“How do Spanish plugs sound?” asked Lizard.
“Sounds great!” exclaimed Wallow, with an esurient appetite.
“Ok, I’ll have my wife, Macedonia, make some.”
“What kind of tortillas do you have?” asked Wallow.
“We have flour (poignantly proffered to his pot-bellied progenitors), maize, and frybread.”
“Well, when in Rome I suppose,” said Wallow, reverently.
“Frybread it is,” said Lizard King. “Do you want salmon in your taco, Misery? It’s good for depression…”
“Sure. I won’t swim against the current on that one,” said Misery, wittingly.
“What about you, Wallow?”
“I’d like some white buffalo, please, if that’s ok...”
“Sure thing,” said Lizard King. “I can tell you have the Spirit of Peace within you.”
“Absolutely not!” Macedonia vociferated, from a clamorous kitchen. “You better watch out, boy, or I’ll chew you up!”
“Whoa, Nelly!” wailed Lizard King. “Haha, what can I say—she’s a maneater, bless her heart. As you can imagine—I’ve had my share of Beaver Wars.”
“What’s your point?” asked Wallow.
“That she pierces my heart like a Folsom Point, but she blows my blues away, and if it wasn’t for her, I’d probably be near the Poverty Point. Anyways, enough trivial talk. Please enjoy your tacos, and afterwards, I’ll take you on a tour. No reservations needed, of course. Say, Misery, before we head out, do you want some moccasins? If you keep walking barefoot on this desert asphalt, you’re going to end up like one of my Blackfoot cousins.”
“Yes, I’d be honored,” said Misery. “Although, sometimes, having a black body is more ideal than a white one. Especially if this asphalt is Albedo.” “Interesting aphorism,” replied Lizard King. “Although, I prefer to think of them as equals. But, I know there are definitely different strokes for different folks.”
After Misery’s feet were furnished, he proceeded to carry Wallow around in a cradle board, as he was still convalescing from the constitutional. As they went around the village, a feeling of yūgen happed over Wallow, and he wished the world at large would readopt such a way of life.
“Is there any way to join your tribe here?” asked Wallow, longingly. “I’ve been told I’m part native.”
“Well, DNA testing is all the rage right now—so if you can get one done, and you’re a sixteenth Indian, you may be able to start reaping the benefits. But it’d probably be easier to understand quantum mechanics than to hit the indigenous jackpot.”
“Yeah, never mind that now,” said Wallow. “Let’s just enjoy the moment.”
The background ambiance of flutes playing was soothing, and reminded Wallow of his schoolboy days whilst learning the recorder, and playing in his school bands.
In the distance, they saw men playing lacrosse and shooting arrows, which reminded Wallow of the Prince of Thieves, and of select verses from the Bhagavad Gita.
“Who are they?” asked Wallow.
“Those are our various sports teams,” replied Lizard King.
“Do they have mascots?”
“No need,” replied Lizard King. “We try to let their actions speak for themselves, as they’re pretty savage during competition.”
“Do you play sports,” asked Lizard King.
“Yes, I’ve played many throughout the years,” said Wallow. “My favorite being golf.”
“Oh, no kidding,” remarked Lizard King. “I’m friends with Notah Begay III. We used to play practice rounds with Tiger Woods.”
“Really?!” exclaimed Wallow.
“Yes, what a talent. It’s been pretty hard to watch his sagas of late, though. But I guess, per the laws of nature/the universe—what goes up, must come down/the bigger they are, the harder they fall—and so on.”
“Indubitably,” replied Wallow. “So what do you guys do out here for a living?”
“Well, we trade our various arts and crafts and such, but we mostly just live off the land. Why, do you need some money? I can give you some wampum and turquoise if need be.”
“No, thanks. I appreciate it, but I want to stop being such a hand-me-down man. You ever think of starting a business?” Wallow asked.
“Well, it’d be a gamble, but I’d be willing to roll the dice. And Vegas isn’t too far from here.”
“Yeah, it’d probably be good to take some affirmative action, and manifest destiny,” quipped Misery.
“Isn’t that how the West was won?” asked Wallow.
“More like lost, in my opinion,” said Lizard King. “The only Independence Day my people can relate to is the movie with the Black guy and the Jewish guy. We can have bald eagle feathers, but that’s about the only association we have with that symbol.”
“Alright, enough of this talk,” said Misery.
“Yes, perhaps we should talk in code, like my grandfather did in WWII,” said Lizard King, vitriolically.
“I’d rather not,” said Misery. “Though we thank him for his service.”
In an effort to change the subject, Misery suggested that they start a Fancy Dance with some of the village’s lovely ladies.
“I’d rather do a Ghost Dance,” said Wallow. “Or even a Rain Dance, to end this/my drought.”
“You guys are making me sick,” said Misery.
“Well, now’s a good a time as any to get ill,” said Lizard King.
“Is there a medicine man here I can see?” asked Misery. I’m feeling very faint. I need an IV of coconut water, stat.”
“Yes, we will go see Hippo In Crate at once.”
As they approached Hippo’s tipi on the outskirts of the village, he greeted them at the doorway, and was bedizened with everything except the longhouse lavabo. His abode matched his eccentric appearance, as it was limned with an amalgamation of animal depictions.
“So you must be Wallow, and that would make you miserable, right?” asked/stated Hippo.
“My name, actually, is Misery.”
“Yes, I know, but you’re currently feeling quite miserable, correct?”
“Yes, how do you know this?”
“Your coming was presaged to me during a recent trance.”
“How very interesting,” said Misery.
“What have your divinations divulged about me?” asked Wallow.
“Well, I know that you’re somewhat of a noble savage, who romanticizes primitivism, and who reminds me of Ishi.”
“Excuse me?” said Wallow, with a very mystified expression.
“Never mind that now,” said Hippo. “Let’s get your friend’s sick off.”
“So, Misery, tell me about your symptoms.”
“Well—I have a headache, I’m thirsty, it’s currently hard to interpret sensory information, and my chief complaint would be my stomach, to which I’m experiencing pain, cramping, and nausea.”
“How bad is it?” asked Hippo. “Would you rather puke, or perform seppuku? Because if it’s the latter, I can give you a Brompton cocktail.”
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary,” said Misery. “I don’t want a near-death experience just yet. Although, I could go for an out-of-body one.”
“So I see,” said the wise man. So what do you think were the events that led up to this? And why have you come? I must know, as I normally don’t treat outsiders.”
“Well, I guess you can say that we’re pseudo-refugees on somewhat of a spiritual journey,” said Misery. “And there are only a couple of things that I can attribute my symptoms to. One being my oxcarbazepine pills. And two, having potentially gotten water poisoning from the depression.”
“That’s it!” exclaimed the astute savant. “You’ve become intoxicated from the depression. You need to be purged, and since you say you’re on a vision quest, I think I have just the substance.”
So the two interested onlookers watched as Hippo presented Misery with what looked like little glistening buttons that had passed through the slit of time and space, which fastened man with the universe.
“These are the sacred sacraments of our church,” said Hipppo. “It’s how we DM God, and vice versa. It’s illegal for anyone outside of our tribe to have this particular spiritual experience, but in this case, I think I’ll make an exception. Now, it’s pretty bitter going down, but sometimes bitter is better.”
After ingesting the entheogen, there was a sacred silence, which Hippo broke by tritely, and awkwardly asking Misery about his sign.
“I’m a cancer,” replied Misery.
“So you’re a crab, huh? Well, if Jean Paul Sartre were here, he’d probably get nauseous.”
As soon as Hippo finished his sentence, Misery started violently vomiting, which really disturbed Wallow. Not wanting to trouble his little troglodyte, Misery fled the scene, which ultimately made things worse.
As he ran through the desert, he started getting strange visions of bloody Jesuses perched on the thorns of cross-shaped cactuses. So Wallow began chasing after Misery, in the hopes of quelling his bad experience. Without knowing it, Misery climbed all the way to the top of Tikaboo peak, and with the last bit of light from the setting sun, he could faintly see the silhouette of a small city. Then, like a silly, drunken teenager, he said, “Peekaboo, I see you,” to the burg below.
Before he knew it, he was in some kind of Dreamland. Everything started to look otherworldly and unidentifiable to him, and his brain became filled with strange theories. It was at this point that Wallow finally caught up to him.
“Now just where the hell do you think you’re going?” asked Wallow, hysterical and out of breath, while trying to restrain Misery in the most loving way possible. “This secret little town seemed very intriguing, so I thought I’d take a closer look,” replied Misery.
“Dude, I just saw a sign back there saying deadly force is authorized against trespassers.”
“Don’t worry,” said Misery, in a calm, reassuring voice. “The force is with us.”
“Who do you think you are, a Jedi?” asked Wallow, with an acidulous air.
“No, but I am your master.”
“So what does that make me, your slave?”
“I wouldn’t say that. But Nietzsche probably would.”
“Whatever, lead the way,” said Wallow, with a sad little sigh.
“Man, this place looks really well-groomed,” said Misery.
“Yeah, it must be a military base or something,” said Wallow. “Even though I feel somewhat at home, being in the land of Lincoln and all, this place gives me the creeps.”
“What’s that over there?” asked Misery.
“It looks like a salt flat or something,” said Wallow.
“Yeah, I think I can smell it,” said Misery.
“I doubt that,” said Wallow. “You’re probably experiencing synesthesia or something.”
“Yeah, maybe. I wanna go over there and try some.”
“For what?”
“For the health benefits, of course.”
“It’s not Himalayan salt,” Wallow opined.
“It doesn’t need to be,” contended Misery. “That’s a common misconception.”
“Don’t go over there,” Wallow supplicated. “You don’t want to get quagmired!”
“Fine,” said Misery, scathingly. “You don’t have to be so briny about it, though.”
“Whatever. Let’s just get in and get out of this place.”
Before they knew it, they were inside. Everything seemed very sterile and strange.
“What do you think they do here,” asked Wallow.
“They probably have all sorts of weird, black projects going on,” Misery hypothesized.
“What, like the Tuskegee experiments?”
“No, like stuff involving sensitive, compartmented information.”
“Sounds like my journal,” divulged Wallow.
As they turned the corner, they saw their friend, Ángel, in a glass holding tank.
“Ángel!” Wallow excitedly shouted. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same,” said Ángel, in a trenchant, but non-incriminating way.
“You first,” said Misery.
“Well, my psychotic sibling wanted to deport all the dreamers/illegal aliens, so I got picked up by some smith looking guys the other day. I asked if he’d give me a Groom exception, but he refused.”
“He sent Johnny Marr & Morrissey after you?” asked Misery.
“No, I meant the guys from The Matrix. I’m surprised you haven’t run into them yet. They must all be in an important meeting or something. What kind of a question is that, anyway?”
“Don’t mind him. He’s under the influence,” said Wallow, while rolling his eyes. “Are you ok?”
“Yeah, it’s surprisingly Homey in here. Maybe it’s because some of my homies are in here, too.”
“I’m glad you’ve felt at home, but we need to get you out of here.”
“And how do you propose to do that? It’s not like you can just take the extraterrestrial highway.”
“We’ll have to commandeer one of these aircrafts,” said Wallow.
“Where will we go?” interrogated Ángel. “Mercury?”
“That place has been flattened by nukes,” said Misery. “But I have no fear for atomic energy.”
“That’s nice, but I was actually referring to the planet,” said Ángel.
“Won’t we get mercury poisoning,” quizzed Wallow.
As soon as he said that, a barrage of gunfire broke the glass, which sounded the alarm, and sent them all frantically running. They managed to find the hangar, and started deciding which craft they would copilot.
“What about that U-2?” asked Wallow.
“Bono probably couldn’t even fly that thing,” said Ángel. “I’m seeing red flags.”
“What about those top gun planes?” asked Misery.
“What are we, Goose, Maverick, and Iceman?” asked Ángel.
“We’re going to be chopped liver if we don’t get out of here soon,” Wallow urgently added.
“Oh look, my craft!” said Ángel, overjoyed. “They must have been trying to reverse engineer it. I hope it’s still operational.”
“It looks like a UFO short bus,” said Misery, with a politically incorrect approach.
“Yeah, and you’d fit the proper passenger description,” said Ángel.
“Hey, at least we now know that there really isn't intelligent life in the universe,” confirmed Misery.
“There’s no time for embryonic banter,” said Wallow. “Get in, and let’s get the hell out of here.”
So Wallow & Misery were voluntarily abducted by Ángel, and the three unlikely amigos grinningly took off from the camouflaged Cheshire Cat airstrip, penetrated the restricted airspace Box, and raced into space.
Charles J. March III is a hospital corpsman veteran currently living in California. His work has appeared in Back Patio Press, Points in Case, Taco Bell Quarterly, Neutral Spaces Magazine, Fleas on the Dog, Bear Creek Gazette, etc. More can be found at LinkedIn & SoundCloud.