What's next, after slaying the dragon? ANSWER: Camping.

Yesterday I compelled the heroes of my ongoing Tyger-novel to slay a dragon and rescue the princess from the town of Dullsville; then they buried the beast in the swimming pool from Sunset Boulevard (1950)... Now, in today's episode, they go camping.

[I got tired of graffiti-ing tygers onto junk ads, so, for the next few days, the obligatory images that accompany these announcements will be just lazy attempts at hand-drawing copies of ad photos with felt tip marker.]

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 Forty-Four

After slaying the dragon and reinstating the princess as the Dictator of Dullsville, I Bryan the Tyger and my soul-mate Myala the Black Panther set forward to look for another wild adventure.

The population of Dullsville gathers together to see us off: “Goodbye,” they wave, “and thanks for all your help!”

We wave back: “God bless you.”

Now we skulk thru the plains of the region to the northwest of Dullsville. We travel in a rigidly straight line, as is our wont. If you were to film us in a medium shot from the side, your view would be of a Burning Tyger and a Glowing Black Panther pacing over land without any hills. If you were to animate this sequence, you could probably get away with making a simple, repetitious sequence of images depicting our majestic forms continuously ambulating while the same bland background keeps scrolling by in a constant loop. There are no other animals or even any trees to add to the scenery.

I can sense it in my fur’s fiery barbules that this region we’re approaching is Planet Earth’s lowest elevation. Finally we arrive at the shore of a body of water. Myala dips her forepaw into the surface and tests the liquid by taking a lick:

“This is the deepest hypersaline lake in the macrocosm,” she exclaims, wincing. “Not in all the worlds have I sampled a saltier substance.”

I am confounded: “It’s understandable that you can gauge the salinity of a liquid by tonguing it, but how are you able to discern the source-water-body’s depth after only lapping one drop?”

Myala licks her paw and winces again: “By the flavor. You can taste it. Try it yourself.”

I cautiously dab my mighty forepaw on the surface (I really hate water); then draw it back and touch my paw to the tip of my tongue. Instinctively I recoil and shudder violently:

“You’re right!”

Now I crouch down and submerge my entire Tyger-head in the water and drink deeply. After many moments of loud glugging and swallowing, my huge face emerges gasping, and I exclaim:

“That is ten times saltier than the ocean!”

Myala nods knowingly: “I’d guess that’s why there are no other animals or plants in sight. Nothing can survive here.”

So we pitch our tent on the shore of this awful deadly place. When evening falls, we go into our tent and lie down as if we’re preparing to sleep; but we really just whisper to each other all night long.

§

Sometime before sunrise, we decide that it would be fun to remain quiet for a while. So, after a lengthy spell of silence, I nudge Myala and announce:

“I just had the most vivid dream.”

Since she fails to answer but remains lying there breathing calmly, I ask, in a whisper: “Are you asleep?”

“No, I’m still just closing my eyes and thinking, like we’ve been doing.”

“Well then can I tell you about my dream?”

“Did you really fall asleep?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “I never sleep. And I’m pretty sure that I’ll never die either.”

“Then how could you have dreamt, if you weren’t asleep?” Myala sez. “Dreams issue from slumber, not the other way around. Unless . . .”

“Well then call it a vision,” I interject “—a waking vision: isn’t that a thing? Anyway, here’s what happened: I had this intense dream in which you and I were the owners of a motor-coach; and we stored this possession in our garage, yet somebody stole it!”

“They filched the thing right out of its stall?”

“Exactly!” I say. “And this dream was so vivid that even tho I knew it was only a fantasy, I still feel the urge to go look outside of this tent and see if the machine exists in real-life; then make sure it’s parked safely in a secured terminal.”

“But we’ve never owned a motorized vehicle,” sez Myala; “for we have no need of such things: we walk everywhere on foot.”

“Yes, that’s why it’s so weird,” I say. “Plus: why would I care if a bandit made off with my automobile — I don’t even know how to drive!”

“Cars were never at the top of your interest list,” Myala agrees.

“Therefore, I’m just going to unzip the door-flap and skulk around outside, to check,” I say. “I wanted to inform you of my reason for doing this, so that you don’t fear that I’ve become too zany.”

“I don’t know if it’s better or worse that you told me,” sighs Myala.

So I exit the tent and inhale the desolate air of the Valley of Death (which is how Myala and I have been referring to this place in our private nighttime conversations). I walk around to the southeast side of our tent where I imagined the garage would be — and, sure enough, there is no garage there. No automobile either.