|
Salty woke one day with a headache. “Dammit,” the gruff old sailor growled, and pushed himself off a bed of cold, wet, dirty laundry. He wiped the grime and dirt from his eyes with someone’s old jockeys, and took a good whiff. Uh-oh—Obsession for Men…. that could mean one of two things. He was either at Quarterback’s house or he was in hell—he paused, realizing that there really wasn’t much of a difference, considering that his brother Quarterback lived in a house with all the charm of a train wreck, packed full of all his kids. Quarterback had a lot of kids. Some of them weren’t even his, but they lived in his house anyway. Some of them were his but not his wife’s, and some of them were his wife’s but not his. Needless to say, Quarterback didn’t spend a lot of time at home. Neither did his wife.
Only Troy wore Obsession in that household. Troy was Quarterback’s oldest kid, and he looked exactly like Quarterback except he wasn’t old and ugly. And everybody thought he was gay. Even though he had a girlfriend and a baby daughter, everyone still thought he was gay.
Salty took a good look around and wondered why he was in Quarterback’s laundry basket. He couldn’t remember much about last night, but as he always liked to say, the less you can remember, the more fun you must’ve had. He needed a cigarette.
He needed a beer. That’s what was wrong. He was nearly sober, and his bottle was nowhere in sight! Crap, he thought, and meandered through the hallways, kicking loose toys and teddy bears out of the way. One toy squealed as he kicked and he realized it wasn’t a toy, it was one of Quarterback’s little monsters. He wasn’t sure which one it was, but was annoyed a little as it started chewing on his leg. He gave it a solid smack and sent it sliding across the floor on its butt. Salty watched it mildly, half-interested, as it twirled to a stop. It sat there, confused, for a split second before opening its mouth and belting out a blood-chilling scream. Salty meandered on.
He found Quarterback on his favorite chair, which was any chair close enough to the TV to make him blind. There was a football game on. The Bucs and the NY Giants. Ooooh, there was a coin toss.
“Hey Quarty,” Salty growled. “I need a beer.”
“I need a shot of morphine and you don’t see me getting one of those, do you?” Quarterback replied mildly, without looking away from the TV. Suddenly he screamed: “YOU IDIOTS! Second and goal and they FUMBLE AT THE 2 YARD LINE!! AAAAARG!!” He rolled off the chair and onto the floor. Salty stared down at him.
“Sounds like a Gator game,” he remarked.
“Don’t make me bite you,” Quarterback warned pleasantly.
“I need a beer,” Salty said, making sure Quarterback knew why he was here.
“You need a shower too but I won’t hold that against you.” Quarterback scrunched up his nose as he got to his feet. He let out a long, deep, resonant belch and headed off to the kitchen. Salty followed.
“What am I even doing here?” Salty asked as Quarterback popped open the fridge.
“You were so sober last night man it scared me.” Quarterback pulled out a beer, popped the tab, and drank it straight. When he was finished, he wiped his lips and gave Salty the empty can. “Sorry bro that was the last one.”
Salty stared at him wordlessly, and the can folded in his hoof.
“You were going on and on about some kind of pretty lights over the lake,” Quarterback shrugged, searching through the fridge again. He picked up a Rubbermaid container and looked at it. Whatever was in it was white and fuzzy. Maybe it was a science project. Or it could be lunch. He put it back and kept going. “I thought you’d flipped out but you didn’t have the overpowering stench of alcohol emanating off you like a scratch and sniff perfume flap in Cosmopolitan so I realized you were sober and probably hallucinating. Holy wow that’s a big powdered donut.” He picked it up off a plate and ducked out of the fridge. He held it out to his brother. “You want it?”
“I want a beer.”
“Well,” Quarty said, taking a look at the furry thing in his hand. “All the fungi are probably fermenting the carbos in this bagel into alcohol as we speak.”
“I’ll kill one of your children.”
Quarty frowned and looked at Salty closely. “Which one?”
“Mac.”
Quarty reached into the fridge and pulled out a beer. “Here you go, pal.”
Salty downed the beer immediately, feeling relieved. He was mean when he was sober. Thank goodness it wasn’t too often.
“What happened to your bottle?” Quarty asked, taking the empty can and replacing it with a full one.
“It’s gone,” Salty replied, finishing off the second can. He took a third. “I’m very upset.”
Quarty looked at his brother’s face and snickered. “Dude I can tell.” Salty always had one look on his face—a scruffy 5 o’clock shadow, half-shut eyes and a look of general disinterest. Occasionally one thing or another would change—a small smile or a slight smirk, or when he was royally pissed, he turned into Ted Kennedy, or any other irate obese political entity you could think of. Not that Salty was obese, of course. But he could belch with the best of them.
Royal Blue, Quarty’s pretty wife, strolled in, looking perfect as usual. “Why is Marian howling like a banshee?” she asked sweetly, giving the two brothers the evil eye.
“Is she?” Quarty asked innocently. “I didn’t notice.”
“I thought you liked that one, sweetie,” Royal Blue said.
“I do,” Quarty shrugged. “Their screams all sound the same to me by now.”
Royal Blue frowned, and rested her hooves on her hips.
“I kicked the monkey across the floor,” Salty fessed. “I’m sorry I was sober. She looked like a little soccer ball and I couldn’t resist.”
“You don’t like physical activity, Salty,” Quarty reminded him.
Salty thought about that. “You’re right. Okay so I just kicked her.”
Royal Blue was about to bust Salty’s head open with the closest kitchen appliance she could find, when Quarty skillfully interrupted. “Salty’s bottle is missing, sweetie.”
A look of sympathy flashed onto the princess’s face. “Oh really? You poor thing!” She patted the grimy sailor’s hoof gently. “We’ll help you find it, won’t we, sweetie?”
“Actually I was thinking about roller-skating to Mexico today—“ Quarty began, but cut himself short when given the eye. He grinned broadly. “But I’d be tickled pink to help my drunk old brother out!”
“I’m sure, you bastard,” Salty growled.
Royal Blue gave them both a merciless smack.
It was a beautiful, bright sunny day out, and hotter than the devil’s bedroom. The hot sand of the beach crunched beneath their hooves, and everywhere half-naked ponies were taking advantage of the sun’s harsh ultraviolet light.
“Cancer,” smiled Lacey, Quacker County’s only doctor, as she passed the three. “You can smell it in the air!”
Quarty didn’t know what cancer smelled like but assumed it was that fishy smell. He led Salty and Royal Blue to the edge of the water. “This is where I found you last night, Salty,” he said, looking out over the shiny blue lake. “Weeping like a housewife with a prozac addiction.”
“Maybe we can find some clues here,” Royal Blue exclaimed hopefully. Salty whipped out a cigarette and lit it.
“You were blubbering about strange lights, and about how your bottle was gone.” Quarty shrugged. “Complete incoherence. I just assumed he was too sober and that a couple kids with a flashlight got a hold of the bottle and buried it in the sand.”
Salty’s face dropped. He would have to beat up the whole neighborhood to find his bottle if that was true!
“Or maybe it was the sand fairies,” Quarty continued, his eyes growing wide and bright. “You’ve heard of them, right, Salty? They come at night in their little boats made of walnut shells to paint little boys’ toenails! And sometimes they steal your beer and distribute it to all the woodland creatures! Imagine, bears having fistfights, squirrels belching trees flat. Pandemonium! Whales and ponies living together! AAAAAAARG!!” He dropped to the beach and rolled around wildly, shooting up sprays of sand. Salty watched him, sighing, and turned to Royal Blue.
“What do you think really happened?”
“Who knows,” she shrugged. “He didn’t eat that bagel this morning did he? You know bagels make him weird….”
The two suddenly had a feeling they were being watched. Casually Royal Blue turned her head. “Oh—Howie,” she sighed, and turned to face the little black whale. Howie grinned his big, stupid grin, and cried:
“Howie!!” Whales and ponies coexisted in this town, and Howie was one of the kingpin players. He had held political office when there was political office to be held, beating out ponies who once thought the office was pony-dominated. Once a minority, the fat little land dwelling killer whales were overrunning the joint. Some were even marrying ponies! That scared Salty, who had spent most of his life hunting down and eating creatures just like the fat little thing sitting happily in the sand in front of him. “You seen my bottle, Howie?” Salty growled.
Howie smiled. “Howie.”
“You know,” Salty continued, “that thing full of alcohol.”
“Howie has alcohol.”
Salty’s face perked a little. “Can I have some? Is it my bottle?”
“Howie’s bottle!” Howie exclaimed.
Salty snarled. “Gimme the bottle you little freak!” he shouted and grabbed for the whale, who screamed and dodged out of the way.
“No! No!” Howie wailed, bouncing around in the hot sand behind Royal Blue’s tail. “No kill Howie! Noooooooooooooo!”
“Hey knock it off you drunk skinny bastard,” Quarty told his brother, picking sand out of his ear.
“Yeah you skinny bastard!” Howie shouted at the sailor, who rolled his eyes and flicked ash off his cigarette. Howie went up to Quarty and rubbed against him affectionately. “Love…” he sighed.
“Yeah I love you too Howie.” Quarty pushed the whale off his arm. Howie looked appalled.
“Ewwww,” Howie said. “Quarterback’s gay!”
“Oh I’m not gay,” Quarty grinned.
“Oh he’s not gay,” Royal Blue agreed.
Wiggy’s shiny, sleek orange body looked even oranger in the burning Florida sun. He approached the four as casually as a completely conspicuous bright orange pony could manage and flashed a charming grin. “Hey guys!”
Quarty swatted the air by his ear. “What’s that buzzing noise?” he wondered, looking everywhere but at Wiggy. “That buzzing--“
Wiggy kicked him in the head.
“Oooooh!!! Wiggy, it’s you! What a pleasure it is to see you—“ he dropped back into the sand and fell promptly to sleep.
“Bastard,” Wiggy growled.
Royal Blue smiled unapologetically, and Howie edged closer to Wiggy. “Maybe you can help us out, Wiggy,” Royal Blue said. “We have a little problem.”
Howie edged closer to Wiggy. Wiggy glanced at the whale briefly, frowning. “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” he said boldly, slipping out his big black pipe and puffing on it regally.
“We seem to be missing something.”
Wiggy’s eyes went bright. “Then you’ve come to the right man! Dick Wam is at your service!!” He blew a large smoke ring and gave it a gentle puff. It floated across the sand and ringed Howie’s tail. Howie edged closer to Wiggy. “I can find anything, anywhere, any time, at any cost, at any price, no matter how big, no matter how small, no matter how seemingly insignificant, no matter how enormously valuable, no matter—“
“Shut the hell up, Wiggy,” Salty growled, annoyed.
“Sorry,” Dick Wam apologized, winking at Royal Blue.
“Don’t wink at my wife,” Quarty warned the detective pleasantly, still lying peacefully in the sand, his eyes shut. Howie edged closer to Wiggy, who was beginning to look nervous.
“So what is it that you’re missing?” Dick Wam asked, his pipe bobbing between his teeth. “Money? A fur coat? Precious jewels? A child?”
“MY BOTTLE!!” Salty shouted. Dick Wam looked startled, then sympathetic, and directed his full attention at the gruff sailor. “My bottle is gone you idiot.”
“When did you first realize that the artifact was no longer in your possession?” Dick Wam inquired, pulling out a notepad and pencil. Royal Blue wondered where he kept it all, considering he was only wearing tight pale blue bathing shorts.
Salty stared at him silently, and Wiggy stared blankly back. “Um,” Wiggy popped the pipe out of his mouth and glanced down at his notepad. “When’d you notice the bottle was missing?” he said, revising his statement.
“When I woke up today. What difference does it make?”
Howie was standing directly under Wiggy. He sniffed cautiously, and sniffed again.
“I’m gathering clues,” Wiggy said. “Where did you wake up this morning?”
“In Quarterback’s laundry basket,” Salty replied blandly. Wiggy looked startled, but licked his pencil and scratched out his notes.
Howie sniffed, took a deep, deep breath, and sighed pleasantly. Wiggy jumped five feet off the ground and screamed.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he shouted at the startled little whale, who bit his lip and looked big-eyed and innocent. He slowly approached Wiggy, eyeing him carefully, making sure he wouldn’t run away screaming. Wiggy held his ground, though, and Howie approached with more confidence. He rubbed Wiggy’s leg and sniffed again.
“Old Spice!!” he sighed, enjoying the scent of Wiggy’s cologne. Quarty started laughing. Wiggy rolled his eyes and flushed a hundred shades of red or so, but tried to play it off by sucking regally on his pipe.
“Ah-hem,” he cleared his throat purposefully. “Let’s get back to business, shall we?”
“Please,” Salty snarled. “Let’s.”
Excavation of Quarty’s laundry room revealed nothing, except for Quarty’s lost Doritos and some loose change. While they were searching his house, Quarty took the opportunity to eat and watch TV. His younger brother Steamer, who was a Jr. Dick working with Dick Wam, joined him. He was munching on Doritos and lounging in Quarty’s recliner. Quarty was on the floor.
“Gee, Quarty, I feel real bad for Salty,” Steamer said around a mouthful of chips. He brushed crumbs off his lap and switched the channel.
“What for?” Quarty asked ingeniously, picking up a loose marble off the floor. He shut one eye and aimed, and shot the marble at the TV. The channel switched back.
“Dude, you know.” He went flipping for cartoons.
“Naw, Bro, what do you mean?” Quarty plucked up a stuffed duck and chucked it at the TV. It flipped back to football.
“Dude, like, the whole withdrawal thing.” Steamer shook the controls, and went searching again for cartoons. “If he can’t find his bottle, he may have to undergo serious lifestyle changes and consequent therapy.”
“There is other alcohol in the world, you know,” Quarty said reasonably. He picked up a book and looked at the cover. Cat in the Hat. He chucked it at Steamer. It bounced off his head, and the TV control popped out of his hand and landed on Quarty’s chest. Quarty picked it up and changed the channel. “Hey look,” he said, “the Bucs are losing.”
Steamer stared at his empty hand quizzically for a minute, then promptly filled it with Doritos.
“Do you know how old those Doritos are, Steamer?” Quarty asked as his brother stuffed a handful in his mouth.
“Yep,” Steamer said, and ate another handful.
Trent Dilfer hurled a hail-mary down the field. It was caught by Warrick Dunn for a touchdown, and Quarty almost wet himself.
“Oh,” Steamer gasped. “Was that good or bad?”
“Depends on whether or not you’re wearing diapers,” Quarty replied, rolling onto his belly and getting to his feet. Steamer thought about that for a while, and Quarty left him there thinking. It should keep him occupied for a while.
He found the Detective, his wife and his sobering brother in the master bedroom. “Finding clues in my sock drawer?” he drawled casually.
“No,” Salty said, “my feet were cold.” He pulled on a pair of Quarty’s sweat socks and puffed on a half-finished cigarette.
“I have come to the conclusion,” Dick Wam announced grandly, “that the bottle is not in Quarterback’s house!”
“Really?” Quarty grinned. “How can you tell?”
Wiggy’s eyes narrowed briefly but he ignored the grinning blue bastard. “The last place Salty can remember having his bottle is along the beach. So I think we should look there.”
Quarty smiled, but didn’t have to say anything to get a growl and a muttered “smartass” out of Wiggy as he brushed past. Salty followed the orange Dick, looking gloomy. Royal Blue looked at her husband. “He’s just trying to help,” she rationalized.
Quarty just kept smiling.
Troy and Mac were playing football in the sand when the five trooped out onto the beach. The ball made a perfect arch in the air, spiraling evenly, and bounced straight off Mac’s head. The little boy’s eyes crossed, and he toppled over sideways. “Hey!” Quarty shouted. “Dammit I like that one! Don’t make him stupid!”
Troy trotted over, grinning, his silver chain glaring in the sunlight. Salty caught a faint scent of Obsession and grimaced. “Hey mom, hey dad.”
“Hey sweetie,” Royal Blue said and gave her pretty boy a kiss. Quarty was less affectionate, smacking the cuter version of him in the head, then grabbing him in a chokehold and giving him a ruthless noogie.
“Ow! Dad-- stop it!” he shouted. “Not in front of the ladies!”
“How dare you call your mother a lady?” Quarty scolded, and glanced up to see a bevy of giggling girls lounging around in teeny bikinis. “Ooooh, you mean those ladies.” He let Troy go and pushed him onto his butt in the sand. “Too bad you’re married and gay.”
“Dad—“ Troy protested. “I’m not married, and I’m not gay!!!”
Quarty smirked a little and went over to his youngest son, who was still sprawled out dazed in the sand. Mac, who long ago was called Noodles (and was renamed “Mac” to keep in line with the Macaroni and Cheese motif) was one of Quarty’s favorite children. Probably because his name was so easy to remember. “Up ‘n at ‘em, Mac-daddy,” Quarty said, lifting him up by an ear.
Mac shook his head clear and glared accusingly at his father, until he realized it wasn’t Troy, and then directed his glare accusingly at Troy. “Daddy, he tried to kill me!”
Troy shrugged.
“That’s okay, Slack-daddy, just kill him back.”
Mac glowered at the nickname. “But he’s too big to kill.”
Quarty thought about that briefly. “You’re right. I’ll just have to kill him for you.”
“Yay!!” Mac cheered.
“But dad,” Troy protested, “I have a child to raise!”
“Yeah but you only claim her when I threaten to kill you.”
“I’m going to kill every single one of you if somebody doesn’t find my bottle,” Salty growled, redirecting them back to the matter at hand.
“Oh,” Troy said. “Your bottle is gone, Uncle Salty?”
“No I just said that because I like to see the stupid pathetic sympathy in your eyes,” the sailor snarled, and Troy blushed a little.
“Oh----“ Quarty crowed. “I think he’s BLUSHING!!”
“I am not,” Troy muttered, flushing deeper.
Quarty’s eyes got bright. “I think he’s actually turning red!”
Troy rifled the football at his father, grounding him, and it sent him rolling through the sand.
“I take it back!” Quarty called, his head in the sand and his butt in the air. Wiggy kicked him in the butt and toppled him over.
“I have enlisted the help of a bunch of whales!” Wiggy announced, approaching the group with a little parade of whales trailing behind him. Wiggy paused and the whales assembled in front of Salty to salute.
“At your service, Salty!” Gammy saluted. Gammy was one of Howie’s many brothers, but unlike fat little Howie, Gammy was skinny, smart, and best of all, didn’t rub up against you like an over-affectionate cat. He owned his own stretch of property in the mountains of Northern Georgia called Gamiami Trail. He was an affluent, ruthless businessman and a behind-the-scenes politician. He never held political office, but was suspected to be the puppeteer behind Wiggy’s successful terms as Mayor. Now, he wanted to help a drunk old sailor find a bottle of liquor.
“You guys go into the lake and see if Salty’s bottle went down there,” Wiggy suggested. Gammy’s brother Spammy looked quizzical.
“But wouldn’t it float?” he asked.
Wiggy frowned. “Why would it float?”
“Well,” Spammy said, “if you put a letter in a bottle and throw it out to sea, it is supposed to float at sea until you die for someone to find it.”
“That’s if it’s full of air, you idiot,’ Salty snapped.
Spammy bared his teeth, but it didn’t phase Salty since the whale’s teeth were squared instead of sharp like most killer whales. Oh, the glory of evolution, Salty thought, and thought Spammy would make a nice handbag for his wife.
One by one, the little whales plunged into the lake. “While they’re searching,” Wiggy addressed them, “I suggest we have some tea!”
Quarty perked at the idea. He loved tea-time! “Willy!” he shouted. “Bring us some tea!!”
Willy was a whale. He had heard every joke in the book about being Free, and his teeth were still sharp. He owned his own restaurant—co-owned it, according to Wiggy, whose name was attached to the restaurant but who did as much as a quadriplegic at a bachelor party. Willy was also married to a pony. Not just any pony—a princess pony!! Vikki was a lovely, sleek purple pony with huge black eyelashes that looked like tarantulas on Rogaine. She was two licks short of the tootsie roll center but was one of the few truly altruistic ponies in Quacker County, and you had to give her credit for that. She and Willy had a little brood of their own—however that may happen—and they were all little ponies. Nobody really wanted to think about that kind of thing, sober or not.
Willy brought them their tea in pretty porcelain tea cups with a light blue floral design. Wiggy sipped his tea daintily. “Did you know there is a chicken for every human being in the world?”
“Really?” Quarty frowned. “Then why are so many people starving?”
“Because some people eat more chickens than they deserve,” Royal Blue said matter-of-factly.
“But some people need more chickens than others,” Wiggy said.
“But shouldn’t all chickens be distributed equally?” Quarty asked. “Isn’t that the only way to be fair?”
“But if one person can afford to buy more chickens, then they should be allowed to buy more chickens.” Wiggy added three cubes of sugar to his tea and stirred it vigorously. “Chickens don’t come cheap, you know.”
“Some people don’t even like chicken,” Royal Blue pointed out reasonably. “Some people are strict vegans.”
“That’s right,” Wiggy agreed.
Quarty frowned and rubbed his chin, thoughtfully thinking. “So it would be okay if rich people bought those chickens. But the rest should go to the people who need those chickens.”
“But what about the rights of the chickens themselves?” Royal Blue sipped at her tea meaningfully.
Wiggy frowned and shook his head. “But the chickens have no rights, you see, because the rights of the people outweigh the rights of the chicken.”
“And the rights of the rich people outweigh the rights of the poor people,” Quarty extrapolated. Wiggy looked offended.
“I didn’t say that,” he protested.
“Then why don’t we just say that poor people can’t vote?” Quarty continued, ignoring Wiggy’s protests. “Why don’t we just send them back to Cuba?”
“But poor people get welfare, so they can buy chickens,” Royal Blue offered.
“And they can have the parts of the chickens left after the rich people are done with them.”
Quarty considered those points. “Okay,” he agreed, and sipped his tea.
Wiggy glanced at Willy. “What do you think, Willy?”
“Eh,” Willy grunted, and sucked up his tea.
One by one, the whales trooped out of the water, each one empty-handed. Willy gathered up the empty teacups and returned to the quiet shelter of his restaurant. He sighed. All of his friends were stupid, but he had so little to choose from.
“You didn’t find anything?” Wiggy asked, disheartened.
“Well,” Gammy began. “We found a lot of mud, a couple rocks, a ring, which I kept, and the finger—“
“Which I kept,” Spammy piped up.
“—and an old pair of jockey shorts, but we didn’t think you wanted those.”
Wiggy wrinkled his nose. “Good call.”
“But no bottle of alcohol.” The little whale glanced at Salty apologetically.
Salty snarled, uninterested in apologies, and the little whales rapidly dispersed. “Gee, Salt,” Quarty said, approaching his sobering brother. “That’s too bad. It seems like Wiggy is running out of rabbits to pull out of his pants.”
“I am not,” Wiggy protested. “I still have plenty of rabbits left!”
“Too bad they’re not chickens,” Quarty smirked. “You could sell them to some really rich people—“ Wiggy pounced, and the two ponies went rolling through the sand.
“What seems to be the problem here?” a professional sounding voice asked. Salty sighed and turned to face another brother.
“Hey Moldy.”
“MOLDER—it’s MOLDER—NOT MOLDY!!” Moldy shouted, annoyed. He looked a lot like Salty did, except that he was clean-shaven, well dressed and always seemed to be sober. His partner Skully stood beside him, looking as subdued as ever. The two were a recent addition to the Quacker County society, transferred from Washington against their will. Against Moldy’s will, anyway. Skully could care less. Actually, she was pleased to have been transferred to some backass Florida town; both of her brothers, Slugger, and the ever-charming, self-named Casanova lived here too. Moldy was accustomed to expensive spontaneous road trips to places all over the country, searching for paranormal suspicious activity. Weird things happened in Quacker County, though, enough to get a rise out of Moldy.
“Salty’s bottle has disappeared,” Royal Blue explained to the two agents. “No one can seem to find it!”
“An unexplained disappearance?” Moldy was sounding interested. “It could be linked to a possible paranormal abduction, instigated by forces beyond what our minds could possibly comprehend!”
“Or some kids stole it,” Skully suggested blandly.
“When was the last time you remember seeing your bottle? What was it doing?” Moldy asked his brother urgently, inches from his face and staring intently into his yellow-gold eyes.
“I don’t remember,” Salty growled. He reached into Moldy’s pocket and snatched out his sunflower seeds.
“Think, Salty! Think back to the last memory you have of each other! Think of the time that you shared! It may be our only chance!”
“We’re talking about a bottle of alcohol, you know that, Moldy,” Salty reminded him, sucking on some sunflower seeds.
Skully looked over Moldy’s shoulder. “Were you drunk last night, Salty?” she asked.
“Of course I was.”
Skully looked at Molder. “He had his bottle last night and lost it last night. His degree of soberness is severe enough to suggest abstinence for at least a 12 hour period. The bottle has been missing all night, Molder!”
“Dear God,” Moldy gasped. “Then we don’t have much time!”
Salty rolled his eyes.
“Oh crap!” Wiggy shouted, spitting sand out of his mouth as he approached. “Who called the feds?”
“Nobody,” Salty said. “The Feds called themselves.”
Wiggy and Quarty both sighed long, annoyed sighs. “Do you really think this is a federal problem, Moldy?” Quarty asked, stepping up to his younger brother, looking as intimidating as he could possibly manage. He was effectively intimidating; Moldy was trying to play it off.
“Well,” Moldy began. “Anything that the Quacker County police can’t handle, the Feds handle.” He smirked up at his big brother.
Quarty scratched his head and picked sand out of his ear. He sniffed and rubbed his nose, then pushed Moldy to his butt in the sand. “Fine, Fox.” Quarty smiled.
“I can’t expect someone of your limited mental capacity to comprehend the implications of my work,” Moldy glowered.
“You want this job? You got it, Moldy,” Quarty smiled. “You’ll make my job easier.”
“Come on Molder,” Skully helped her partner to his feet. “Come on. We have work to do.”
“He thinks he owns this damn town,” Molder growled, watching his brother walk away.
Skully glanced up. “So do I.”
Wiggy danced at Quarty’s heals as he walked away from the Feds. “Why did you do that? Why did you give them my job?”
Quarty took a quick sudden step backwards and tripped the blithering dick. “Because you suck, Wiggy,” Quarty grinned, and continued to walk away.
Mac was chilling with one of his little girlfriends , Squirmy, who was a cute little yellow pony who liked to terrorize tiny babies. She had an excellent gene pool according to Wiggy, who was her father. She got her smarts from her mother, whoever that may be (they had it narrowed down to two or three) but definitely not from Wiggy. “Salty looks pissed,” she noted, sipping on a root beer float.
"The fact that his eyes are open amazes me,” Mac said, sipping on the second straw in the root beer float.
“What a shame he lost his bottle. A sober Salty is a menace to society.”
“Do you think he realizes there are two more bottles exactly like his in Willy’s refrigerator?” Mac wondered out loud, and they both started to giggle.
“Maybe he prefers the predigested taste that his spit adds to the alcohol,” Squirmy crowed.
“Or maybe his bottle performs the task of a psychological pseudo-security blanket!” Mac howled, laughing hysterically.
“Or maybe I’ll wring both your scrawny necks!” Salty roared, and the two children screamed. Salty straightened out of their faces, and they continued to scream as loud as their tiny little lungs would let them. “What are you screaming for?” Salty shouted at them. “I haven’t done anything yet!” He plucked up their root beer float, downed it promptly, and filled the glass with water. With a dutiful look he soaked the kids completely. They gasped for breath and stared up at the old sailor.
“I’m going to tell my mommy!” Mac spluttered.
Salty snorted. “Good then she can beat you.”
“Why are you so mean?” Squirmy whimpered.
“Because I’m sober. Now quit making fun of me and get out of here.” Mac and Squirmy made good on the opportunity and scrambled away. That was a good root beer float, Salty thought. It just needed more beer and less root.
“I have an idea!” Moldy shouted, and Salty turned to see the Fed running to meet him. “Since your short term memory is obviously impaired, we are incapable of soliciting the information that would lead us successfully to the abducted artifact.”
“Okay,” Salty said tentatively.
“We have an alternative. Hypnosis!” Moldy looked particularly proud of himself.
“But Molder,” Skully protested as she casually strolled up to join them. “There is no scientific basis to support the theory that someone not under the influence of an alcoholic beverage is susceptible to the power of hypnosis.”
“You mean I’m not drunk so I won’t fall for it?” Salty clarified. “You know Fox I think she’s right.”
Moldy frowned. “Come on dammit let’s just go do it.”
Molder led them to 4-speed’s presidential mansion, where renowned psychic and hypnotist Maggie lived. Maggie was both Steamer’s and Wiggy’s sister-in-law, and was by far the strangest of the three sisters. For years she had been little more than a psychotic howling banshee who, when she didn’t believe she was a banshee, believed she was a psychotic howling dog. Now, however, she was Quacker County’s leading psychic master. Molder absolutely loved her.
They had a little parade by the time they reached the Mansion, and Molder let them follow, wanting to prove the validity of his work. Maggie sat them all in a wide circle, on little velvet pillows, and placed Salty square in the middle. He didn’t look enthusiastic.
“Now, Salty, just relax,” Maggie said, looking as enthusiastic as Salty. She whipped out a 14 karat pocket watch.
“Are you going to use that to hypnotize him?” Moldy asked eagerly.
“Naw, I just wanna see what time it is,” Maggie said blandly, and popped open the face. “I don’t want to be late for dinner.”
Moldy looked disappointed. “Oh.”
“Alright, here.” Maggie sat in front of Salty and pulled her long hair back. “Look into my eyes, Salty,” she began.
“I want a beer,” Salty said.
“Shut up and look into my eyes.”
“Okay,” he said, and looked into her eyes. “But I’m not getting sleepy yet.”
“Shut up. Just relax your entire body, now. Let every muscle go slack, let every cell feel light as a feather. Close your eyes, and open your mind to my words. Float on my words, let my words be your wings. Let my words—“
“This is gay,” Salty said. Maggie reached out, her eyes closed, and popped him square between the eyes.
“Shut up and float,” she snapped.
“Floating,” Salty complied.
“You’re floating high above the clouds,” she murmured, “On a sweet, moonlit night. The clouds race beneath you, colored silver by the new pale moon. You are drifting slowly, and coming closer and closer to earth. You can see Quacker County now, you see the lights of the city—“
“Hey, I can see my house from here!” Salty said cynically.
“Shut up and float!”
“Floating!”
“You see the place you were last night, you see yourself sitting there. You’re sitting with your bottle, and you’re drinking. Where are you, Salty? Where are you?”
“I’m sitting on a hard tile floor in your bedroom,” he replied, popping one eye open and glancing around. Her eyes snapped open and she glared at him.
“You’re not cooperating,” she growled.
“Come on, Salty,” Molder called. “You have to help us so we can help you! You have to believe!”
Salty turned to Molder with big innocent sarcastic eyes, and said ingeniously: “I want to believe!”
Quarty and Wiggy started laughing hysterically. Molder looked offended. “Oh, screw this,” Maggie said, and grabbed Salty’s head, forcing him to look at her. “Hold still. Okay he’s getting sober and he’s not liking it. He can’t remember where he was last night but he woke up in Quarty’s laundry room and Quarty told him he was found by the lake.” Maggie squeezed her eyes shut tight, digging deeper into Salty’s head. “He took a walk because his daughter was on the phone with Willy’s boy and he didn’t want to deal with that. Then he—“ her eyes popped open and she slapped the old sailor. “That’s disgusting! You pig!” Salty chuckled meanly as she grabbed his head again. “He wants to sit by the water. There are pretty lights on the water. He thinks it’s the moon, and that it’s pretty.”
“Oh, Salty,” Quarty crowed. “How romantic!!”
Molder was listening thoughtfully, intrigued.
“But it’s a cloudy night,” Maggie continued. “So he’s not sure where the lights are coming from… The lights—they’re all colors! And they’re getting brighter!! The whole lake seems to be glowing!”
Quarty glanced at Molder, who looked about ready to wet himself.
“There—there’s something coming out of the water!!” Maggie cried, squeezing Salty’s unenthusiastic face. “It—it—it—“
“Well what is it?!” Moldy shouted, jumping to his feet.
“It’s a GLOWING BAGEL!!” Maggie screamed, pushing Salty away. He tumbled over backwards.
“A glowing—what?” Moldy looked startled.
Maggie shivered pleasantly. “Oooh, I love doing that! Almost better than sex!”
“How dare you say that?” Quarty accused.
“A glowing bagel?” Moldy scratched his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I guess that’s what you get when you go poking around in Salty’s head,” Quarty smirked, leaving the building. Everyone else filed out, grumbling evil things to each other.
Quarty stepped out into the twilight and stopped dead in his tracks. Wiggy bounced into him and bounced right back off of him. “What’s wrong, Captain?” he asked, and looked over his shoulder. His jaw dropped.
Nearly 50 little whales stood in a ring on the sand against the pale pink sunset, swaying slowly in time to their own eerie song.
“Holy crap,” Quarty breathed. Salty pushed his way to the front of the crowd to stand beside his brother.
“Aw, what the hell is this?” he sighed. “Where’s a flame thrower when you need one?”
“Look!!” Molder screamed, pointing at the sky. Above the ring of chanting little whales, the clouds broke, and a beam of light shot through, illuminating the whales below. The clouds suddenly seemed to catch fire, and they burned ruddy red before dissipating to reveal
“The glowing bagel!!” Quarty cried, and started laughing. “Woo-hoo!!”
Colored lights revolved around the bagel as it slid gently through the sky, dropping toward the whales, who were singing with all their hearts. The ponies watched, awe-struck and wide-eyed, as a beam of light shot down from the belly of the bagel to illuminate the center of the ring. Within that beam emerged a form, and as they watched it drift to earth, it took on definition. The ponies gasped.
Salty squinted. “Oh hey,” he said. “It’s my bottle.”
The bottle glistened like a flame in the golden light, and drifted gently into Howie’s outstretched fins. As soon as Howie’s grip was firm, the light snapped away, and the bagel shot into the darkening sky. They watched it until it was nothing but another star in the evening sky.
“Cool,” Quarty drawled. He sniffed the air, then glanced at his little brother Moldy, who had wet himself.
Salty and Quarty approached the ring of whales, who had stopped singing to watch the men approach.
“Howie,” Howie said, smiling his big, stupid smile, and clutching the bottle like it was a vital part of his anatomy.
“Is that my bottle?” Salty asked.
“Howie,” Howie grinned, and Salty growled.
“Just let me have my bottle.”
Howie grinned even bigger, every single tooth in his mouth on display.
Salty snarled. “Gimme the bottle you little freak!” he shouted, and grabbed for the little whale, who screamed and took off running like a bat out of hell. “Dammit come back!” Salty shouted, and chased him into the darkness.
|
