Aboard My Train Of Thought by Scott C. Endsley (10 ebook reader .txt) 📖

scattered, as several of the surviving, terrified patrons from the previous calamity, were now being physically abused by, foaming at the mouth panty hose, boxer shorts and bras, while the least fortunate were forced to involuntarily break-dance across sadistically slick fudge-sickles. Concrete was instantaneously strewn barbariously in all points of an imagined compass, as an enormous flame-spewing Rumpusaurous Rex lurched upon Mr. Big, who darted out from beneath him with swiftness he in no way knew he had.

Doodah observed the beast's feline-similar, whiskers and brutish face, outdone only by his enormously, hairy derriere, which made up three fourths of his physique. "Who in tarnation...?!" Doodah trembled.

"Permit me to introduce myself," he beseeched, offering Doodah his forepaw, making evident his saber-toothed abundant grin...for which he offered heartfelt thanks to his orthodontist. "My name is Chairman Meow. I exemplify the one-eyed midget's persecuting conscience as self-punishment for all the tribulation he will be trying to bestow on a Miss Matilda Wattlebaum. This after all, is going to be Mr. Big's story, and every good short story, deserves an antagonist."

Doodah scratched his head in disbelief and reached for his talkie. "Dufas! We've got a 10 Sumpthin'er-other down here at the department store, on the corner of "I" and "Am", across the street from Sam's Deli. You'd better get down here, NOW!"
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(Episode 3)
While waiting for the Sheriff to arrive, Doodah listened to the entire narrative Chairman Meow told concerning the one-eyed midget and his evil intent; who by then was very probably approaching my front porch, in want to banish me back into the Fictional Forest or The City of The Intellectually Inept; while he himself, sought to find his own train of thought (man, this is getting wordy!).

All the while I was watching The Patti Peptalk Hour on television, with Matilda and Maggie:


"...........And it's scums like you, who call this show, wasting my time with your petty, narcissistic concerns; that don't go beyond your own precious nose!!!!!(SLAM) .......I'm sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen, but there's some things I just don't put up with on this show...Omaha, Nebraska, thank you for calling The Patti Peptalk Hour, I'm Patti, can I help you?"

"Yeah, uh, Patti, Im just uh.....well, what I....."

"You're just nervous, honey. Go ahead, I'm listening!" Patti sweetly assured him.

"Patti, I ..I'm at my wit's end. My wife of 30 years just told me that the kids aren't really mine....I'm holding in my hand a 110 volt AC electrical cord, cut in half; and I might just plug it in, stick the wires in my ears, and fry myself! I hope I burn to a crisp! I could care less if this whole place, that I sweated, scrimped and saved for, for 20 years, burns down!!!"

"What's your name, honey?"

"Uh, Bill...My name's Bill."

"Ok, Bill, don't be hasty...You want to do the right thing....And I want you to do the right thing, Ok, Bill...honey!?"

Bill answered, tearfully, "Oh..Ok, I really don't want to burn this place down, with all the money I put in it over the years. I made sure that if I ever ceased to be around, that she'd be able to make it on her own without me to look after her. But I'm desperate, Patti, what's the right thing to do?"

"Ok, Bill, honey, here's a solution..........FRY YOURSELF IN THE BATHTUB WITH THE WATER RUNNING; SO YOUR LITTLE BRAINLESS WIDOW CAN STILL GET ALL THAT MONEY YOU SCRIMPED AND SAVED, FOR THAT DOGGONE STUPID HOUSE!!! (Slam!!!!!).. ............LET'S GO TO A COMMERCIAL, FOR THE LOVE OF MOUNT SAINT HELEN!!!!!"

"If you live in the Los Angeles area, the number to call Patti for the next 2 weeks, is, 1-999-767-8463, that's 1-999-PMS-TIME. If you don't live in the Los Angeles area, don't you DARE call collect!!!...For tickets to the upcoming, annual Patti Peptalk Pity Party, call, 1-9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 SOMEBODY HAD BETTER FIX THIS SON OF A (CRASH!!!!!!!!!)8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8"


"Oh dear," I do believe Patti's hair's a bit dreadful these days," Matilda sighed.

"Oh the lass has bloody well lost it since the divorce, ya know.... What might you think, Clyde?" Maggie asked.

But I wasn't listening. Instead I was day dreaming as to how to reconstruct my demolished train of thought. "If only I could get back on track," I mumbled.

"Huh...?" Matilda meowed, as Maggie looked a bit concerned.

"Oh nothing, Just thinking."

At that instant came a rapping on the unlocked front door, as Maggie barked. This was not a traditional knock. No! This was a very cunning knock. I hesitated, then glanced through the peep hole, perceiving no one. My shaking, sweaty palm smothered the knob as I swung open the door. Ah, whew! It was just the paper boy collecting his week's wages, "Oh by the way, here's your paper," he innocently beamed.

Glancing down at the front page, I caught the photograph of a Ice Cream Truck on its back, on the floor of the downtown department store, resembling a desert-sun-baked carcass, and laughed to myself. "Thanks a lot, Sonny," I said, handing him a couple of bucks.

Just as I shut off the doorway, unbeknownst to me, the paper boy peeled a sticky rubber like, synthetic mask from his face. He was, in fact, Mr. Big -- the one-eyed midget. "At last, I find him," he grinned. "This is gonna be easy, all I have to do is retire Mr. Hipwing to the Fictional Forest, grab his cat, and I'm off to Vegas!" As he grasped at the doorknob, he was at once tapped on the shoulder. "What?!!!!! Who?!!!" Mr. Big gasped.

Deputy DooDah, who had just been alerted of his wicked endeavors, was lost for breath from running several blocks; but managed to encounter the hoodlum with bodily force, and wrestle him to the ground.

I wondered what the commotion was about, so I threw open the door and was immediately outraged by the perception of the burly Deputy whooping up on the clearly inferior, size challenged, paper boy. "Oh good golly!" Matilda exclaimed, "it's the one-eyed midget!"

Just as the words departed from her whiskers, Mr. Big slipped under the Deputy's dukes, barging his way inside and darted in the direction of my word processor, that I had just recently purchased to make my work more effortless. "So Clyde, who's at whose mercy now?" He, basking in the glow of his triumph, questioned.

"How did you come back to life, you spilt your own ink in the last story!?" I gasped as Mr. Big's only eye widened in even more amazement of his conquest.

"You forgot the rules, Clyde! Like you I died a fictitious death, therefore I've now entered your reality," he grimaced.

He therewith began counting down from five, and on each digit, descended his index finger closer to the delete button. "Four!"

"Just WHAT IS all this stuff about dying a fictional death?" Doodah scratched his head.

"No, Mr Big, get a hold of your senses!" I begged.

"Two!"

"Is there anything, besides my cat, that I..I could give you? You know, we..we could be friends!"

"Say," Doodah spoke louder, "I asked a question!"

"ONE!" Mr Big's brow emphatically expressed the thrill of the moment.

"Look, Mr Big, I've got a good part for you in my next story. See..we could make you a good guy, yeah...You could....Oh, Good Godfrey! Just go ahead and do it!"

"ZERO!...Bye guys!" Mr. Big at that moment pressed delete as all existing mortality, excluding Matilda, was eliminated. "It worked! I've actually got my own creative powers!" Mr. Big rejoiced.

With myself, his adversary, no longer an obstacle, it was now Mr. Big's tale. Grasping Matilda by her esophagus, he swiftly approached the nearest tracks and anticipated his next move.

"You're not going to get away with this!" Matilda vowed.

"Shut up, cat!" He snarled as his Train of Thought accelerated upon its approach.
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(Episode 4)
On the outskirts of the Fictional Forest as MY Train of Thought swiftly passed, I discovered myself, once again, on a large pile of rocks. This time as the Merry Band of Calypso Singers neared, I tried desperately to get their attention. "Hold it guys!... I need your help!"

A bit agitated, they stopped as the apparent leader yelled "Yesterday's Milk is Tomorrow's Curds!" I was instantly atomized with large quantities of what appeared to be cottage cheese spurting from a fire extinguisher. Consumed in Curds, I made a breakneck retreat, slipping all over myself.

"What's with this yesterday's milk business? Where have I heard that before? It must be the secret phrase to this story.... Ah the large maple tree!!!" I strode up to the standing timber, finding no inscription, shrugged my shoulders and carved:

I'M PROBABLY HERE

But nothing happened. A moment later, to my astonishment, a sheet of lightning flashed and bit the bark. I waited in anticipation as the vapor from the combustion cleared. Hacking heavily and waving smoke away, I made out the assertion:

"Sorry, this isn't your story, sucker!..... Tough luck!"

Feeling desperately forsaken, I remembered my friend the Strange Stranger. With Strange nowhere to be found after a lengthy search, I buried my face in my hands and cried aloud. "Woe is me! For what reason was I born? My life is but a cruel joke to which their laughter is like a slick dagger, twisting and turning, purging me of any reason or desire to go on...Woe is me!"

Again I buried my face and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, until I was doing the backstroke in my own lamentations. Then what sounded like tennis shoes swishing through shallow water...(I never had the courage to swim in water more than a foot deep)... startled me.

"Pardon me, but do you know where I might find the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City of The Intellectually Inept?" Strange quizzed.

"Strange !!!" I delighted.

"Strange? What's strange?" Strange asked.

"You're Strange, of course!"

"I beg your pardon, but, you're not so ordinary looking yourself!" Strange protested.

"No, Strange, I know who's the Intellectually Inept!... It's Homer!" I exclaimed, grabbing Strange by the shoulders.

"Homer?... Now that's strange." Strange nearly sprained his brain as his mind almost tripped over its own confusion.

I gave up trying to clarify myself and grabbed him by his bewilderment, and hastened him to Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger's Bistro. Upon arrival, Strange looked around, closed his eyes and pondered deeply, "Yeah it's vaguely clear...I think it's all coming back...I ate here once!!! Yeah I had a Spam Slam. Yeah, it was...."

"No Strange. You've got to think real hard. Don't you remember the phrase...Dawn Comes With Rosy Fingers!" I frantically queried.

"Oh! So you're the Intellectually Inept... that explains everything!"

"Yeah!...No!...Yeah! Wait a minute...No, it's Homer. I'm just the Gate Keeper, remember?!!" I attempted to clarify in frustration.

Slowly, a white haired man, who resembled Homer, though I thought it couldn't have been-- on account of he was sporting a mature Van Dyke-- strolled up to