Scurvy Goonda

by Chris McCoy

  Scurvy looked at Carolina for a long time.

  “Space h-heater?” said Bugslush, interrupting the silence.

  “Out, Bugslush!” said Persephone, sending the honey possum scurrying from the room.

  “Persephone,” said Scurvy. “May I speak tah the prisoner alone fer a moment?”

  “You may not—” started Persephone, but a look from Scurvy cut her short. “Oh, all right. But be quick about it. My right foot awaits.”

  Persephone left the room with her guard. The door shut behind them.

  Scurvy stared at Carolina.

  “Ya think Ted might have gone through tha tunnel in tha Crusher as well?”

  “The gross man in the soup aisle told me it was the last place he was seen,” sniffled Carolina. “I crawled and crawled. Incidentally, there was a lot of rotting bacon down there.”

  Ted could have followed the bacon.

  “Huh,” said Scurvy. “Me Ted’s in Middlemost.”

  “I think so,” said Carolina.

  Scurvy smiled.

  “Why are you smiling?” said Carolina.

  “Because,” said Scurvy. “It means he’s exactly where he needs tah be.”

  VIII

  Joelle-Michelle tiptoed her way through crowded caves as Ted attempted to keep pace, squeezing past the teeming hordes of ab-coms who were trying to find places to eat or converse or sleep for the night. He was smeared with slime and had been showered with sprinkles when he smacked into an enormous frozen yogurt. By the time Joelle-Michelle found the staircase she was looking for, he looked like he had rolled around on the ground at a petting zoo and then been attacked by a dessert truck.

  When Joelle-Michelle finally turned to look at him, she couldn’t stop laughing. She, of course, was spotless.

  “Your style is so creative,” she said. “And slime is good for the skin, I hear.”

  “I got some in my mouth,” said Ted.

  “Bon appétit!” said Joelle-Michelle, walking up the staircase. “Suivez-moi! Follow me!”

  Ted looked at her legs and forgot he was covered in glop. He followed those legs.

  At the top of the steps, they emerged from the caves and were in a simple garden with a walkway, a few rosebushes, and a stone bench. Willow trees surrounded the garden, closing it in, though there was no canopy above to hide the night sky. Ted looked up and saw the same unfamiliar stars he had stared at the day he’d arrived.

  “Here,” said Joelle-Michelle, handing him some leaves. “Clean your face.”

  Ted wiped down his face as Joelle-Michelle sat on the bench. The garden was blissfully silent.

  “This is my favorite place in Middlemost,” said Joelle-Michelle. “The circle of trees was already here when we found it. I just had a few rosebushes put in. It didn’t need anything else.”

  “It’s really nice,” said Ted.

  “It’s quiet,” said Joelle-Michelle. “I come here when I don’t know what else to do.”

  Ted couldn’t imagine Joelle-Michelle not knowing what to do.

  “I’m going to unpin my hair,” she said, reaching back to undo her ponytail. “Having it back so tight all the time, it gives me headaches.”

  “A ballerina’s cross to bear,” said Ted, without having the faintest idea what he was talking about.

  “That and weighing ninety-five pounds, wearing tights, and being considered over-the-hill at age twenty-five,” said Joelle-Michelle.

  “So you’ll have another decade of peak performance.”

  “I’m a hundred and twenty years old, Ted.”

  “Wow. I mean, you must have taken excellent care of yourself.”

  “Thank you for saying that,” said Joelle-Michelle. “But it’s simply how I was made. Eternally a teenage ballerina.”

  “Who made you?” said Ted.

  “Wished for me is a better term, I think,” said Joelle-Michelle. “It was a French girl named Maryse. She had never been to a ballet, but there was an art gallery near the tiny apartment in Paris she shared with her poor mother. She would look at the ballerina figurines in the front window, and one day she wished for me.”

  “Why did you have to come to Middlemost?” said Ted.

  “She didn’t need me anymore,” said Joelle-Michelle. “One Christmas an uncle bought her a pair of ballet slippers, and she could be her dream. So I came here.”

  “Did she become a dancer?” asked Ted.

  “I have no idea,” said Joelle-Michelle. “I wish I did. I cared very much about that little girl.”

  Joelle-Michelle was staring down at her slippers. Ted didn’t know what he should say. The quiet of the garden felt over-whelming.

  “Ted,” said Joelle-Michelle, “do you know why we’re sitting here?”

  “You wanted to talk to me,” said Ted.

  “Oui, of course, there is that,” said Joelle-Michelle. “But you must have a suspicion why.”

  “It has something to do with what happened at the factory,” said Ted. “The opera singer.”

  Joelle-Michelle nodded.

  “May I see your arm?” she said.

  He held out his left arm.

  Joelle-Michelle took his wrist in her hand and ran her finger over the birthmark.

  “I’ve never seen one up close before,” said Joelle-Michelle. “You keep this hidden?”

  “It’s ugly.”

  Joelle-Michelle looked at Ted.

  “It makes you insecure, this mark?” she said.

  “Sometimes.”

  “You’re too handsome to be insecure. Don’t worry about this.”

  Handsome. Handsome?

  Ted croaked out, “But what is it?”

  “It isn’t a birthmark,” said Joelle-Michelle. “Well, it is, in a way, but it’s more that this mark is hereditary, meaning it has been passed down through the years. Through the ages, really. You come from a bloodline that is very important to all of us, Ted,” said Joelle-Michelle.

  She paused to think about what she would say next. “Has anybody told you the story about the caveman who founded Middlemost?”

  “No.”

  “The story is that thousands of years ago, a depressed woolly mammoth ab-com who had been rejected by his caveman tried to end his life by throwing himself into a volcano. But the mammoth didn’t realize that the volcano was extinct, and he fell straight to the middle of the Earth, passed through the fold in space that we know as the ThereYouGo Gate, and ended up here. His caveman felt so bad about what happened that he threw himself into the volcano after his mammoth—and he too ended up here.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “The caveman tried to get his mammoth to go back through the hole. But the mammoth’s feelings had been badly hurt, and it refused to go. So the caveman decided to make things as happy as he could for his friend. He imagined green fields and blue oceans, and they appeared. He imagined deserts and cities. He thought about how content his mammoth had made him before he chose to get rid of it, and he decided that all humans should have abstract companions. He thought of tubes that would be able to suck up children’s thoughts that had floated out into space. He dreamed up the processing factories so that kids could have abstract companions, creating the system we have today. He made all these things just by thinking about them. When he was done, he created a herd of mammoths to keep his mammoth company.”

  “Geez, that must have been one happy mammoth.”

  “That’s just the thing,” said Joelle-Michelle. “The mammoth was so pleased with his friends and his oceans and his fields that he tried to embrace his caveman, but in the process ended up trampling him to death.”

  “Yikes,” said Ted. He hadn’t been expecting that.

  “Mammoths are big,” said Joelle-Michelle.

  “I’ve seen them at the Museum of Science,” said Ted.

  “So the mammoth reluctantly returned to Earth. The caveman had two sons—both of whom had the same birthmark as their father—and the mammoth told their abstract companions a
bout Middlemost. Those kids had kids, and the pattern kept repeating itself until there were enough abstract companions to populate Middlemost.

  “That’s when the vents were created, to stabilize the passageways, because so many abstract companions were coming to Middlemost. At first they were placed in out-of-the-way spots, but when people started building factories and supermarkets, they could be placed almost anywhere.”

  Ted thought about this.

  “So I have caveman blood,” said Ted.

  “It’s quite a heritage,” laughed Joelle-Michelle.

  “Does this mean I can create things?”

  “You created the opera singer.”

  “But I don’t know how,” said Ted. “I was under pressure and I was trying to think of a way to get Eric out of the glass cylinder, and it just happened.”

  “All that matters is that the ability is in you,” said Joelle-Michelle. “But we don’t have much time, so we might have to figure out a way of using it on a more consistent basis.”

  “So we can stop President Skeleton.”

  “Ah, but even President Skeleton reports to a superior,” said Joelle-Michelle.

  “What does that mean?”

  “There are other people who have the birthmark, Ted,” said Joelle-Michelle, “and they’re not all as kind as you.”

  Joelle-Michelle put her hand on his birthmark and ran her palm over his forearm. After years of hiding it, Ted found it bizarre to think that it might make him special in some way.

  “Who is President Skeleton’s superior?” said Ted.

  Joelle-Michelle paused.

  “His name isn’t very intimidating,” she said.

  “What’s his name?”

  “It’s Lloyd,” said Joelle-Michelle. “Lloyd Munch.”

  “Munch?”

  “I think it’s Danish.”

  Ted thought about the name.

  “You’re right,” he said. “That’s not very intimidating.”

  “He’s a terrible person.”

  “Person as in human?” said Ted.

  “You didn’t think you were the only human to have ever come here, did you?”

  “I just assumed.”

  “Members of your bloodline have an instinct to seek out Middlemost,” said Joelle-Michelle. “Your ancestors created this place. It’s your home too.”

  Joelle-Michelle scooched closer to Ted on the bench.

  “Right,” said Ted, nervously. “Then, uh, welcome to my home, I guess.”

  “It’s a beautiful home, and that’s why we’re defending it,” said Joelle-Michelle. “Tell me, have you never met a French girl before?”

  Ted’s throat was bone dry. He felt faint.

  “Ho, brah!” said Brother Dezo, walking up the steps into the garden. “Da Swamster geev us da stink eye. Need Joelle-Michelle.”

  “Of course,” said Joelle-Michelle, getting up from the bench. “We will continue this conversation later, yes?”

  “Hhhhh,” said Ted, which was the only noise he could push out of his throat.

  “Very good,” said Joelle-Michelle, disappearing with Brother Dezo.

  Ted sat on the bench and thought that if he were back on Cape Cod, he would probably be getting beat up right about now.

  IX

  Swamster was sitting on a hard wooden chair chained to a table, squinting under the hot white lights. This was ACORN’s interrogation room, and a cop was standing across from him, shouting into his face and occasionally slamming the table. The cop wore a pink uniform and carried a fancy umbrella instead of a nightstick.

  The cop slammed the umbrella down on the table—WHAP!

  “We know that you served as Persephone’s—”

  “President Skeleton’s—”

  “Persephone’s personal attaché for many, many years,” said the cop. “We know that you rarely leave her apartment building, and we know that when you did go into the field, you were in the company of two Presidential Guards. How can you possibly claim that you’re innocent?”

  “Well, you see,” said Swamster, “I didn’t actually want to leave the apartment building. I did want a promotion, but I’m really better suited to the service sector and—”

  WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! The umbrella came down on the table three more times.

  “Enough!” said the cop. “Persephone’s wedding is taking place at the Presidential Palace.”

  “The president loathes the palace,” said Swamster. “Much too massive. She always said she wanted something more intimate.”

  “Nevertheless, we need to know how to get into the palace,” said the cop. “We need to know where the guards are going to be, where the bride will be entering from, where—”

  “But I haven’t been involved in the planning,” said Swamster. “If I had, I would have picked a far more tasteful venue.”

  The cop held the umbrella an inch from Swamster’s face.

  “I’m going to leave this room,” said the cop. “And when I get back, you’re going to have answers for me—or prepare to POP!”

  Swamster nodded nervously. He didn’t want to pop—it sounded unpleasant and unhygienic.

  The cop left the room.

  ACORN was just as awful as the president had said they were. Granted, Persephone was trying to wipe out ACORN, but what else was she going to do? He didn’t understand why ACORN wouldn’t want to take over the Earth. Progress was always about expansion.

  Of course, Swamster had loved the little boy who had been his friend. His name was James. He was from Chicago and wanted to be an Olympic swimmer, which was why he had outfitted Swamster in the swimsuit and all the gold medals, though Swamster sometimes felt bad that he hadn’t actually earned any of them. What if James was hurt during the invasion?

  Still, ACORN shouldn’t heartlessly ruin Persephone’s wedding. Even if ACORN disagreed with her political position, Persephone had waited so long for some measure of personal happiness, and to strike during her special day—well, it was just a lousy thing to do.

  Though she might be curt with him from time to time, Swamster really did miss Persephone.

  Swamster looked at the table. It was bolted to the floor, but the table leg to which he was chained looked like it was made of pine. He had always enjoyed the taste of pine, and it had been days and days since he had last filed down his teeth.

  Swamster dropped to his knees and started chewing. He worked furiously, quickly turning the leg into a pile of shavings. Within moments, he was completely through the wood. The chain was still attached to him, but he was free!

  Behind him, the doorknob started to turn. He pressed himself against the wall behind the door. When the cop walked into the room, Swamster grabbed for the cop’s umbrella.

  “What the—?” the cop said.

  “Ha!” said Swamster, and with a quick thump, he brought the umbrella down on his interrogator’s head. POP! The officer exploded into a spray of purple muck that smothered Swamster, sticking to his fur and drenching his swimsuit.

  Swamster hadn’t expected that.

  His first instinct was to yell, and then perhaps look for some soda water to get out the stains, but he knew that if he shouted, more ACORN soldiers would come. So he wiped the purple muck out of his eyes and looked down at the umbrella.

  “Fashionable umbrella,” he said.

  Swamster poked his head out into the corridor. It was teeming with abstract companions—a veritable shoving and shifting horde. There was no way anybody was going to notice Swamster. He slung the chain around his neck as if it were a piece of jewelry and kept the umbrella at his side, taking care not to let it touch him. And with that, he stepped out into the hallway, shutting the door of the interrogation room behind him.

  Hugging the wall, he followed the EXIT signs, steadily making his way down the passageway. Each time he was bumped, he positioned the umbrella away from the bumper. Every time he needed to step over somebody, he lifted the umbrella into the air, keeping it away from their heads so they didn�
�t explode.

  As he scurried along, he noticed that the ACORN fighters appeared genuinely happy—they were talking to each other and laughing and generally seemed like they believed in their silly cause. How could they take this side of the fight instead of following somebody as brilliant and fearsome as President Skeleton?

  Up ahead, Swamster saw light filtering in through the exit to the cave. His heart was beating fast—he couldn’t wait to get back to the president and settle back into his assistant position. She would have to be impressed that he had returned from behind enemy lines, and the amount of information he had in his head—she would probably give him a huge promotion.

  Swamster was picturing himself back in his warm room chewing on a nice cardboard toilet paper tube, when suddenly—POP!

  While daydreaming, Swamster had let his umbrella poke a fireman, who burst into a purple mist that covered the nearby ab-coms.

  “Oh, I’m quite sorry—” POP!

  He had accidentally jabbed a cat with butterfly wings, which detonated above him, splashing more ab-coms.

  Suddenly all eyes turned on Swamster.

  “It’s the Swamster!” somebody yelled, and Swamster instantly was mobbed by ACORN fighters. But the tree-cave exit was close.

  Swamster closed his eyes and swung the umbrella in front of him, pushing himself toward what he hoped was the exit.

  “I’m coming, President Skeleton!” yelled Swamster, slashing his way forward. “I’m still your LOYAL ASSISTANT!”

  Swamster felt goop spattering on his face, and he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, but with each step forward he whirled and whipped the umbrella until he thought his arms would detach. Then came a moment when he was just swinging the umbrella through empty air, and everything was quiet around him.

  He opened his eyes and saw that he was standing in an enormous purple puddle. He wiped off his umbrella on the cave wall, walked out into the sunshine of Middlemost, and vowed that as soon as he got home, he was never going outside again. Ever.