Dear diary,
So it comes to pass that we escape from our latest Magic Show in an Ultramagnetic Locomotive that Joseph Smith and I purchase (with help from my assistant Tara, who pays the title-transfer fee with the banknotes that she was storing inside her brassiere). Forthwith, we order room service… or boxcar service… or whatever it’s called when you request refreshments to be delivered to any non-caboose section of a Magnet Train. Using the landline in our berth to place our order, soon three large trays of spirits are set before us, carried respectively by the signalman, the station master, and the ticket collector, who have volunteered to wait upon us.
“Thank you,” we say.
“You’re welcome,” they say.
We then tip these gentlemen with the stash of cash that we earned from our last Magic Trick. For, although we left that show mid-performance, at halftime, we were paid in advance; so, Joseph Smith retrieves from his top hat (which we refer to as ‘the treasury’) the parcel labeled ‘Prepayment of 900 Thrillion Caesars for Misappropriating the Liberty Statue’ and divvies the stack of bills that fill the envelope. He hands one third to the signalman, a third to the station master, and the final third to the ticket collector. Each man bows and leaves after receiving his tip (except the ticket collector, who first tries to collect our tickets; but Tara slaps him and then he goes away politely).
After enjoying the spirits that we ordered, we decide to go on a few adventures...
Adventure 1:
Smith as Cloud
Soon we are joined by Christopher Robin, the young lad from A.A. Milne’s storybook Winnie-the-Pooh.
“You’re THEE Christa Fur Robbing?” exclaims Joseph Smith who was Enoch who is Metatron. “That’s hard to believe; for you were only about five years old when I was alive! Now you’re… what?—eighteen, nineteen hundred...?”
“I just turned six,” sez young Mr. Robin; “I can shoot a real firearm now.”
“Ah,” Smith smiles, “so you no longer carry that vintage wooden toy pop gun with a string cork for ammo?”
“No, I still use the cork gun,” sez Christopher Robin innocently, with good cheer; “I’m just saying that now I’d also be legally allowed to operate a genuine, lethal weapon, if I ever needed to do so.”
“But you still brandish the toy pop gun, by preference,” Smith is nearly incredulous, “even tho you’re so much older?”
“Of course!” sez Mr. Robin. “It’s fun; and it makes a silly sound, which always makes me laugh.” Then, to demonstrate this, he pulls out the wooden toy weapon (which he had apparently been concealing upon his person) and fires off a cork at the bouquet of balloons that happen to be floating above our dining table. The shot does indeed produce a funny noise, which instantly gives us all the giggles; and the cork, when expelled, hits its mark directly and boings off the surface of the balloon.
Joseph Smith now stands up and slams down his empty cocktail glass upon the roundtable: “I have an idea!” he announces.
After a lengthy silence, “Let’s hear it,” Tara sez.
“Did any of you remember to bring hot tar?” asks Joseph Smith.
“I did,” I say.
“Good!” sez Smith. “Now, listen close. I want you to paint me with tar, so that I resemble a thundercloud…”
“Like the Storm God Jehovah?” I say.
“Egg-ZACKLY,” shouts Mr. Smith.
At this point, by chance I meet the gaze of Christopher Robin, who seems to be confused, so I attempt to bring him up to speed with Mr. Smith’s Master Plan:
“Old Enoch here is only desirous of attracting some honey bees,” I say, “because they are sweet; and he thinks that impersonating a source of precipitation is the best way to accomplish this. — Lo, consider the following ‘unavoidables’. Factoid One: Heavy rainfall feeds the flowers. Factoid Two: Bees use these flowers to perform the sin of pollination, which fills their honeycombs of imprisonment. And all the rest is self-explanatory.”
Christopher Robin’s visage now grows bright, and he sez: “I understand! Let’s get to work… Now, where’s the hot tar? We need to paint this man and rocket him into the upper atmosphere, before the pesticides take effect!”
So I get out my bucket of hot tar, and Tara and Christopher Robin and I all grab the horse-hair brush that has our name branded on its handle (for there are three brushes, each with its own label: “Tara,” “Christ,” and “Bry”), and we hastily paint Joseph Smith from head to toe; then we tie one balloon to his waistline.
Mr. Smith floats up into the atmosphere and attracts no bees but only the following birds: a fieldfare; a nightjar; a jackdaw; a moorhen; a lapwing; a redshank; a woodpigeon; and a bullfinch. Plus he attracts a peregrine falcon, which is the most awe-inspiring bird in America. Additionally Smith attracts a pipistrelle, which is actually a bat. All of these creatures land on his nose at the very same moment (it’s his only organ NOT painted with tar), so Joseph Smith waves them away with his paw.
“You look like a floating black bear,” I shout, referring to the tar covering, which is supposed to resemble a thundercloud; but poor Joseph doesn’t seem to hear me. An airplane passes overhead.
“Shoot him down,” I give this order to Christopher Robin.
“Will do,” sez the boy.
We notice, after Smith lands on the ground, that some of the feathers from the aforesaid birds have adhered to the tar.
Adventure 2:
Smith Gets Stuck
Soon after our first adventure in ecological augmentation, we all enjoy our next adventure, in which Joseph Smith gets trapped in the Book of Kings from the Hebrew Bible:
“I went down a rabbit hole,” Smith explains, “and wrote my own scripture; but now I got stuck trying to exit.”
“Let me see what you wrote,” I say.
Smith hands over his book.
“Now climb out,” I say.
Without budging, Smith looks sad. “Aren’t you going to read it?” he asks.
“No, look: you are free now — it was this book that was wedging you in and restricting your movement.” I casually toss the book over my shoulder and it lands in the Lake of Fire.
Smith wriggles out and dusts himself off. “Ah, I see!” he sez; “thanks, Bry.”
Adventure 3:
Detective Bryan Solves Another Mystery
(by Pinning the Crime on a Passerby
& the Missing Felt Appendage
on its Claimant)
Then our stuffed donkey loses his tail, and I plant evidence suggesting that Bubo the Owl has stolen it. After persuading the suspect to sign a prefab confession and our jailbird gets caged, the Transnational Corporate Police Force grants me the Medal of Sleuthery for my hubris in gumshoeing.
Adventure 4:
B-day Blessings for a Beast of Burden
Incidentally we learn that today happens to be the anniversary of our stuffed donkey’s birth, so Tara and I run home and rummage thru the storage compartments above our respective waterbed-chambers on the Ultramagnetic Locomotive; then we return to our friend bearing gifts. Tara offers our donkey an inflated balloon; I myself give him a jar brimming with honey; and Joseph Smith casts an expensive pearl to the ass.
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