A chat with Peg, & a day on the job

[Pt. 2 of 3]

When the sun rises, I spend a few hours shooting my guns at it; but then I give up, because I conclude that it’s too far away. So I make the hand gesture known as the “Devil’s Horns”, and, placing the outpointing fingers of this sign into my mouth, I blow with my might, causing a pretty melody like a birdsong to echo throughout the snowy mountains that surround my little pond; and out of the sky comes galloping my favorite zebra: Pegasus. 

“Good morning, Pegasus,” I say, petting her mane.

“What’s good about it,” Pegasus answers via mental telepathy.

“Ah, I know your orneriness is only rhetorical, so I won’t vex you further by answering that the pretty flowers are good; the fresh air is good; and the ice-cold water of our bathing-pond is good,” I gently rib Pegasus while mounting her bareback.

“It’s hard to see the attraction in all these things, as a one-of-a-kind creature,” Pegasus mentally telepathizes. “Maybe I’d be as chipper as you, if there existed a second winged zebra in this dimension, to whom I could write romantic letters that begin, for instance, like so: ‘Dear foreign princess, I admire thee so intensely that even after multiple angelic knife-attacks yestereven, I was able to return to slumber every time and successfully envision myself braying yea-neighs to thee, as I dreamt that my owner tied me to a hitching rail where I had a clear view to the window of your stable outside of the palace: you were in there with your husband, the gigantic Stallion, and your nostrils dilated as he embraced you, and you trembled with pleasure…’ and so on and so forth.”

“I agree,” I answer Pegasus aloud, “it would be nice if Mother Nature would stop forgetting to make an help meet for each and all of her monstrosities; but, just as a thought exercise, try putting yourself in her horseshoes — if you’re manufacturing what is supposed to be either a dragonfly of many colors or a death-white mule, and then you get distracted so that the creature you’re molding ends up striped with zigzags like the floor of my ballroom, which I recently converted into a cowshed, then are you really going to want to turn around and commit the same sin again? No: you’d be weeping and contrite; hoping that your husband Jehovah forgives you, so that you can avoid being sent back to the cycle of Life (which truly is Hell) for another few eternities, because rebirth as punishment is still legal in this alley of the world. See what I mean? The last thing you’re gonna wanna do is craft a copy of your misconception for that initial error to mate with. Cuz then you have the problem of these two wrongs attempting to make everything right by multiplying and replenishing the province of Stupidica (the original name of this third dimension before Death was invented). — Ah, but look: now we’ve reached our destination, the public school where I work as a custodial engineer. I’ll need to tie you to this hitching rail while I go in and perform my heroic labors. Before I leave, however, I’ll go open up the shutters on that nearby stable’s window, so that you can pass the time ogling its inmates. Here’s some zebra treats for your feedbag.”

I sprinkle some cheetah meat into the sackcloth and toss it to Pegasus, who nods under its straps so they loop round her head when it comes to rest. If she tries to answer my last speech, I do not hear her, because my attention is focused now on the human world of work-work-work. (In case it’s unclear, we flew from my pond-home to the public school where I’m employed, during our conversation above.) So, after opening up the stable window’s shutters and greeting the stallion that stands nearby with a pat on the rump, I head toward the glass double doors of the school’s entryway.

Once inside, I head to the clock and punch my timecard; then I walk to the janitor’s closet and retrieve my mop and bucket. I also pull baggy coveralls over my suit. (Even tho I’m a phantom cowboy, I often wear a fine Italian suit with snakeskin boots, instead of my usual costume of a flannel shirt and jeans, because the girl who’s supposed to inform me of continuity errors while we’re filming this masterpiece often loses interest — in fact, whenever I happen along and nudge her awake, she repeats her catchphrase: “This screenplay is so boring.” The joke being that her character is actually the ONLY dull persona in the whole film.)

So, now in my shapeless coveralls and pushing my mop bucket, I begin to clean the floor of the school cafeteria. I do this for the whole rest of the chapter, which lasts until doomsday.