We need something like a busboy

Here's half an episode of BRYAN THE TYGER, in which we order a cleanup crew after our feast. I will write the conclusion of this stupid chapter tomorrow.

P.S.

In other news: my Public Private Diary is fully printed; also I made a list of my latest novels that have been printed but not included in any collection.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Now, having rid the world of ibex and scientists, we find ourselves with a surplus of recurved horns and lab smocks.

“What should we do with these items?” I Bryan the Tyger gesture with my mighty forepaw toward the landscape, every inch of which, as far as the eye can see, is littered with recurved horns and lab smocks, all bloodspattered.

My dining companion Myala the Black Panther shrugs and sez: “I’m not sure. Maybe we could sell them.”

“Do you think we could find a buyer?”

“If we advertise online,” she sez, “perhaps. It seems that people sell everything nowadays. Even freedom.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Alright. But we should probably separate out the horns from the smocks, so that they don’t both appear in the shot when I snap a photo for each ad. Cuz I can’t imagine that anyone would want to buy both collections at once — that would be an unlikely coincidence.”

Therefore I fetch the ocarina that was given to me by the alien Doctor Kohault (whom I suspect is a robot), when his team of extraterrestrials allowed us to romp thru the art collection that’s displayed amid the indoor forests of their flying saucer. Don’t worry if you’re confused by the existence of this instrument, gentle reader, for I’ve neglected mentioning it until now. Doctor Kohault gave it to me as a souvenir at our parting, when we left his ship in flames on the side of Mount Horeb — he said:

“Take this ocarina, O Bryan my Tyger-friend, and keep it with you wherever you go; for if you play a haunting tune upon it, I will hear and come to your aid within an airy vision, no matter where I exist in the universe at that moment.”

So, I secured the instrument within a hollow jewel and have been wearing it as an amulet around my Tyger-neck, ever since.

Now today I remove this necklace and set the jewel upon a large flat rock; then I smash it with a sledgehammer, and the thing cracks open to reveal its magic secret. I take the ocarina into my forepaws and improvise an eerie melody upon it. Then I toss the instrument with all my might into an active volcano.

“Why did you obliterate Kohault’s gift?” Myala is wide-eyed with wonder. “Does it not work unless you destroy it after use? Or is it like those self-destructing audio cassettes that we used to receive from the Archons of the Secret Government before we rebelled?”

I smile and shake my vast Tyger-head: “No, my dear. I annihilated that ocarina purely for style. But I’m convinced that I’ll never again be needing such extra-dimensional help from any mechanized alien Doctor — honestly I can’t see this type of situation arising again.”

Now immediately the red phantom image of Doctor Kohault appears swimming within midair at Tyger-eye level.

“Doctor Kohault, you’re ruddy!” I can’t help exclaiming — “Is everything OK?”

“Fret not, Bryan, O my cub; for the life is in the blood [Leviticus 17:11],” sez the rippling phantom. “In other words, the reason I am tinted thusly has to do with the fact that I live. Only dead shades turn blue.”

“Ah, I see,” I say; “that makes sense.”

“Now why have you disquieted me, to summon me up?” asks Doctor Kohault

And I answer: “I am sore distressed. For my soul-mate, Myala the Black Panther here, joined me on an adventure where we consumed every single ibex of spacetime; and we also slew and ate all the scientists as well . . .”

“Ah, I see — so now you want to reverse the effect of your rash actions?” Dr. Kohault pronounces that last phrase very smarmily.

“No,” I wince. “No, not at all. In fact, that’s why those scientists had it coming — they already tried to fix what was NOT broken. They cloned the species back from extinction after we had finished dining, thus forcing us to consume an extra course.”

The look evinced by Dr. Kohault at this moment recalls that affair when the equation “1 + 1 = 3” became a facial expression.

“All I need you to do,” I continue, “is send us some cherubs to help us tidy up.” (Here I make a grand gesture again, to indicate the expanse that is riddled with horns and blood-stained smocks.) “We just want to separate these items, so that we can get a clean photo to post online. You know, like when you separate the light from the dark items when doing laundry in your spaceship.”

Doctor Kohault closes his eyes and smiles and nods: “Ah, now I understand.”

“So can you send us some cherubs?” I re-ask; “like, say, an army of them?”

Continuing to nod, apparently relieved that my request is so easy to grant, the doctor answers: “Yes, I can send you a multitude of cherubs.”

My fire-plumes crackle in appreciation. “Thanks a lot! Alright, goodbye!” – I bat my Tyger-paw at the vision and it pixelates into fizz.