Flaming Zeppelins (29 page)

About that time the gentleman of mention appeared, blood-splattered, a fistful of scalps dangling from his left fist, the machete in his right hand. Cat trotted alongside him, her beautiful, gore-stained black hair wadded up around her head.

Bull gave the blood-covered machete to Mr. Twain, said, “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Mr. Twain said, tossing aside the pirate sabre to take the machete. “I suppose.”

“Little dull. But cut fuckers good.”

“I'll have it sharpened.”

“Bull do it. Get done right.”

“Thanks. I'll let you.”

Mr. Verne arrived. “It looks as if we have won,” he said. “We have killed most of them, and the others have darted into the woods. Who would have thought it?”

“I think Mr. Bull killed about a third of them himself,” Mr. Twain said.

“Kill more,” Bull said, “but tired. Hungry. Got anything to eat?”

“I'm afraid not,” Mr. Verne said. “But perhaps now we can find something.”

The ape appeared. The chains made his movements jerky, but he looked happy. The ape said, “Now, that is exactly what I've been waiting for. The precise moment to take my vengeance on these low-grade sea urchins, these coconut heads of the ocean. And I must tell you, I enjoyed every bloodthirsty moment of it. I am invigorated. After being so tired at the wheel, I thought I might drop down and die. Now, I feel as if I could beat the living shit out of twenty more, fuck a hole in a watermelon, and give head to a pack of monkeys.”

Our group sat in silence. Me, because I had to, Bull because he preferred to, and Cat because she thought the incident funny. I could tell the remainder of the crowd was shocked that an ape might speak, and that in so doing would have such strange and vulgar language at his command.

I, being a seal who could write and think like a human, and who had experienced many an adventure with beasts who had been transformed into men or women (Cat was an example) and who could talk, was less impressed.

“You would do that?” Mr. Verne asked the ape.

“Do what?”

“You know? With monkeys.”

“It's an expression,” the ape said. “I really don't have a thing for monkeys. Or watermelons.”

“Damn,” Mr. Twain said. “A talking monkey.”

“I am neither monkey nor ape,” corrected the red-furred creature. “And the name is Rikwalk.”

“That's quite a name,” Beadle said.

“Well, it's really very common where I come from.”

“And, if I might inquire,” Mr. Verne said. “Where is that?”

“Mars,” said the ape.

We all stood on the beach considering that. I thought I was beyond surprise, but this did surprise me. We remained hushed and still, listening as it were to the crash of the sea on the shore, the cry of the birds and the loud thudding silence of death.

“Did you come with the invaders?” Mr. Verne asked.

“Not exactly,” Rikwalk said, “but it is a long story.”

“I suggest we wait on it,” said John, “push the ship to sea. Lest our escaped pirates return, possibly with reinforcements.”

“I doubt he had any,” Beadle said.

“Still, I have had all of this island I prefer,” said John Feather.

“Speak good white man talk,” Bull said. “Like me.”

“Thank you,” John Feather said. “College.”

“And like our friend Rikwalk here, I presume you have quite a story yourself,” Mr. Verne said, smiling at John Feather.

“Oh,” said John Feather, laughing. “You can not imagine. But like Rikwalk's story, Beadle and I will save it for later.”

Rikwalk said, “I will pull the ship to sea, and then it is up to the Dutchman here to sail it.”

“I can do that,” said the Dutchman. “The remainder of my crew will help me, and they will train the rest of you where your assistance is needed. But that will be minimal. It takes few to sail my ship.”

“Work for me,” Bull said.

Using tools from the ship, Rikwalk was released from the chains, and we all loaded onto the ship, taking what weapons we could scrounge from the remains of the pirates.

The great ape, using the chain attached to the front of the ship, pulled us out to sea.

He had a bit of tough sledding at first, but when he reached the water, and the ship glided in behind him, it went well. He waded until the water was beneath his armpits and we were enough at sea to let the waves carry us out, then he swam back to the ship, scuttled up over the side like, well, like an ape. His weight was such that this maneuver caused the ship to list to that side.

Once on board, however, the ship balanced out nicely. A breeze came up, the sails were hoisted. The wind caught in the canvas and took us out quickly.

When I looked back, I saw, sailing above the jungle, a strange colorful creature that looked more reptile than bird, and yet, somewhat birdlike as well. It was our old friend the pterodactyl, or one just like him.

The cruiser had been put up, and I was raised up on my ass, leaning against the rail. I reached over and tugged on Mr. Twain's coat.

He turned for a look, said, “I'll be goddamned.”

Mr. Verne and the others looked now.

Bull said. “Firebird. Me hear of it.”

The pterodactyl descended into the mist that covered the island, and was gone.

“I would like to know what other beasts dwell there,” Mr. Verne said.

“I'm glad we left,” said John Feather. “The pirates were beast enough for me.”

“I wonder where they came from,” Mr. Verne said. “They looked, well, out of time. In fact, this ship, this crew, looks out of time as well.”

“They are,” Beadle said. “But again, I'll explain what I know later. Each for different reasons. For now, I suggest we get well out to sea, rest a bit, see if the Dutchman has some food, and afterward we can talk.”

“Yee haw,” Bull said out of nowhere.

Most of the sailing was left to those who knew how to sail. In the battle with the pirates, not a man from the ship had been lost, and each of them knew his business. They scuttled from rope to canvas, and the Dutchman, tall and noble-looking, stood at the wheel. If he didn't know what he was doing, he sure looked as if he knew.

We helped where we could, but after a point, we were more trouble than we were worth. That being the case, a number of us naturally drifted together. Mr. Twain, Mr. Verne, myself, Mr. Beadle, John Feather, Bull and Cat, and the great ape Rikwalk.

Mr. Beadle determined that we all (I dismiss myself from this group) might be a smidgen more comfortable, as he put it, if we could talk Rikwalk into wearing something over his sizeable member.

It is my belief that this had less to do with modesty than with embarrassment. Comparatively, human penises are worms while Rikwalk's member was an anaconda. I read about them in books. They are big snakes, by the way. Real big snakes.

I, who am not particularly endowed, do not go about with my tool poking out except when I mean business, as you might surmise. And I do not wear clothes, unless, for some reason, I feel sporty. I do like my fez, though. I thought it made me look like a seal with an attitude.

However, I must admit, in all honesty, when I was not mentioned as someone who should wear something over myself, I had a flash of insecurity. A sort of, hey, if you want him clothed, what about me? I'm naked as the proverbial jaybird here and no one's concerned.

But I let that go. I reached down inside myself and found that reservoir of strength I knew I had, and pulled it up tight, secure in my manhood and in the necessary size of my equipment.

After all, I am but a little seal, so what should one expect?

Right?

Rikwalk is a giant. Proportionately, there is no real difference.

Well, maybe a little.

Perhaps more than a little.

Still, it's the not the meat, it's the motion.

Right?

That's right, isn't it?

I believe that's right.

I really do.

Anyway, the matter was broached, and Rikwalk took it well. In fact, he seemed to like the idea. Some sailcloth was found, and some rope, and Rikwalk was appropriately tricked out in a large diaper-style adornment. Cat said she didn't see it as an improvement. Bull thought this was very funny.

When Rikwalk was attired, Mr. Beadle said that he had something interesting he wanted to show us in the hold, and that there was a story to go with it, but he thought it might be interesting to have Rikwalk tell us his story first, and upon its completion, he would take us into the interior of the ship, show us what he wished to have us view, then tell us a tale about himself and John Feather.

This all seemed rather exciting (less exciting than our previous experiences, but a sort of excitement you could look forward to), and so we gathered ourselves on the deck near the mainsail, the moon low down and bright, the sail above us beating in the wind like a hummingbird's wings, a cool salt spray blowing across the deck, and we sat, and Rikwalk talked.

Ned's Journal Ends

Once upon a time, on Rikwalk's world, in Rikwalk's universe, at a specific angle of dimensional division, this happened:

On one of many planets called Mars, where the universe splits sideways and turns cattycorner and anglewise, there was a rip in the sky and things fell out of it.

There were other rips, and into these rips, things fell up, and out of some of the rips, more things fell down.

Ups and downs. Rips this way and that.

Besides the rips, the ups and downs, what was happening was that, like a hand slowly balling up a sheet of paper, the fabrics of times and spaces were being wadded one into the other, and all of existence was soon to be no more than a tight wad of all things known and things unknown. The Wild West, Flying Saucers, Rock and Roll, Super Heroes, all manner of times, yesterdays and tomorrows, real lives and imagined lives, and as the wad grew tighter, these worlds, these things, would cease to exist.

It wasn't a pretty picture, and this is how Rikwalk discovered there was a picture, and that things were coming together and coming apart.

So Rikwalk is living on Mars, you see, and not the Mars that Twain and Verne look up and see. Not the Mars from which the invaders came to ravage the world of Twain and Verne, but another Mars. Not the Mars that is worn out and sandy, near airless and waterless, but a lush Mars, ripe as a nubile virgin in stretch pants. A Mars crisscrossed by canals and greenery and strange animals and shining cities in which lived what to our eyes would appear to be sophisticated giant apes with big dongs.

But there are other Marses. Some with apes. Some without. Some with the invaders. And some without anything but hot, red soil.

These Marses, these universes, these dimensions, it's like there's a train on a track, and under the track is another train, and they're alike and run the same way, but inside the train, people do different things. Sometimes the same people, or apes, or insects, or creatures, but these beings are multiplied, taking different paths, unaware of their counterparts, or their differparts. And say alongside the train, if you could slice into its metal skin, slice it real thin, you would find there's another train in there, running parallel with the first train. Each train (each universe) and its contents (think humanity, apeanity, insectimanity, etc.) believes it is the Union Pacific and no other Union Pacifics exist. But if you could hold a special mirror to the top of the train, you would see that, in fact, there's a train on its back, its smokestack meeting the stack of the other, and its wheels turning on a track that is touching ground that should be sky in the other universe.

And don't forget that train on the bottom of the track. Don't forget that. And on the sides, under the skins. Don't forget them. And, understand, that from all these trains are other trains, atop, abottom, and asides.

It's all in the angles, baby. And, from one train's angle, the other angle does not exist, and yet, all angles exist.

Omniscient narrator is getting a headache, baby, so he's gonna back off and say this:

Say on one train operations are as smooth as married sex, but on the other, well, it's more like adolescent boys trying to determine which hole what goes in. And on some trains, they can't even get their pants down, or haven't figured out they ought to wear pants.

Say there's a warp in the track. A bad warp. Call it trouble with the universe. Maybe a black hole caused it. Something we don't understand yet. Time(s) and Space(s), for whatever reason, begin(s) to collapse on itself.

So this train, running on this track, hits the warped stretch and bumps up into the train below. Or maybe the warp throws the train off the tracks, and the train on the bottom, and the one on the top, and the ones on the sides, all come together. Now, finally, they are aware of the other. And it's not a happy awareness.

Rikwalk's Martians called themselves the Mellie and they called their planet Mars.

And so Rikwalk, he's living on his Mars, and things are good. He's got a job operating one of the locks on one of the canals, and it's a good job. He's making good pay, doesn't work hard, gets a little overtime, has a wife he loves, one of the good ones that hasn't stopped giving head after ten years of marriage, and he's got a daughter and a son, two groodies and a zup
¹
. And one day he's out at the lock, ready to check the water depth with a dropping gauge, and he hears something that sounds like a runner's tendon ripping from too much tension, looks up, sees a fiery orange-red rip in the sky. At first, he thinks he sees the sun, but it isn't. Not even close. It's a glowing rip to nowhere.

A boat in the lock is suddenly sucked up and through the rip, falls out of sight into orange-redness. The rip widens, and Rikwalk is sucked up, like a dust mote in a vacuum cleaner. Sucked right up toward the glowing rip in the sky.