to rescue the world, by the seat of your pants!
That’s what it means to be chosen, you see,
and if I was still young…they might’ve picked me.”
Old Bortlebee seemed to have stars in his eyes.
“Aw, Morty!” he mooned. “What a wonderful prize!”
“Well, sure,” Morty said. “Maybe for you.
But what if I won? I don’t know what I’d do.”
From his pillow, old Bortlebee lifted his head.
“We’re different. I know that,” he quietly said.
“But look at me here. I’m sick to the core.
Each morning I’m worse than the morning before.”
He gazed at his son, looked him right in the eye.
“It’s true: Someday soon I will probably die.
Before then, I want you, my one only son,
to have an adventure…and maybe some fun!
I know your chances—well, they’re not very good.
You likely won’t win, but just maybe you could.
So think of this thing as my ultimate hope.
My one last request…at the end of my rope.”
For a moment, Morty said nothing at all.
He looked out the window, and then at the wall.
He looked at his Pop, who seemed thoroughly drained,
whose expression was hopeful, yet equally pained.
Then Morty looked down at the slip in his hand.
“I’ll do it,” he nodded. “But I don’t understand…
The details, they seem just a little bit thin.
Like the actual prize—what will I win?”
Old Bortlebee angled his mouth in a smile.
The answer, he said, would come in a while…
Chapter 5
the lottery draw
The following night, by the Underwood Mall, at the Zorgledom Central Community Hall, a billboard was posted, inspiring awe: Welcome, it said, to the Lottery Draw!
Hundreds of zorgles awaited inside.
They came from all points, from far and from wide.
Muscular zorgles, zorgles of might,
zorgles renowned to be good in a fight.
There was also a stage and an orchestra band—
who started to play! The show was at hand!
The curtains rose up and everyone cheered.
Before them was something stupendously weird:
A contraption like nothing that
you’ve ever seen:
An incredibly intricate marble machine!
It bristled with pulleys and spiraling tracks,
suspended with rivets and wire and wax;
with miniature bridges, with pillars and piers;
with levers and winches and clutches and gears;
with pedals and treadles and spinners and spars;
with pendulous pivots and balancing bars;
with motors and rotors and rollers and ramps;
with flickering bulbs and electrical lamps;
with flingers and swingers and hinges and hubs;
with grabbers and funnels and buckets and tubs;
with clockwork propellers, mechanical cranks,
and panels and chimneys and channels and planks!
Nobody spoke.
Who there would dare?
An odd sort of peace had come into the air.
The host of the night, the Lottery Boss,
leapt up on the stage and sauntered across.
A plump little fellow, this captain of chance,
who twitched like his jacket was crawling with ants.
“Good evening!” he bellowed. “Welcome, as well!
Are you anxious to start? You are, I can tell!
This machine, as you know, just off to my rear
is the reason you’ve come. It’s the reason we’re here!
And what a machine! Why, isn’t it nice?
It’s the Hero Selection Divining Device!”
Everyone clapped. They hollered and cheered.
All except Morty. He was scratching his beard.
The Lottery Boss, he waited until
the crowd, once again, was quiet and still.
“Your names,” he went on, “are within the machine.
They’re written on marbles—nine hundred nineteen!
When I yank on the lever that’s here at my side,
the nine hundred marbles will go for a ride.
They will enter the funnel that starts at the top,
they will tumble and roll ’til they come to a stop;
because only one marble will finally roll
to the end, to the base, to the Destiny Bowl!”
The “Destiny Bowl” was more like a flask;
it was heavy and broad, like a barrel or cask.
On its side was a letter, which Morty could see
was written in rubies—a big letter
“Wait!” Morty called. “Before we begin?
You still haven’t said what the winner will win!”
The Lottery Boss tipped the brim of his hat.
“Well, of course!” he exclaimed. “I was getting to that.
You see, my good friends, there’s adventure ahead!
Perhaps you have read what the newspaper said.
The countryside zorgles have all disappeared!
They were lost in the night, or so it is feared!
So the winner tonight wins a compass, a map,
a flashlight, galoshes, a coat and a cap,
to help with the search, when the going is rough!
…plus all kinds of other adventuring stuff!
And then something better than all else combined!
An expenses-paid trip to head out there and find
the zorgles who vanished with nary a clue:
those countryside zorgles of Zorgamazoo!”
To Morty, this sounded like less of a prize,
and more like a punishment put in disguise.
But there wasn’t much time to consider for long,
for the orchestra started performing a song,
and the Lottery Boss went over to stand
in the place where the lever awaited his hand.
“Now remember,” he said, “that in any event,
this machine is correct, one hundred percent!
It will magically choose from this clamoring mob
the most suitable zorgle for doing the job!”
He beamed at the crowd with his simpering grin.
“Now! Let the lottery raffle begin!”
With his hand on the lever, he gave it a push,
and the marbles came down with a
Then into the funnel
and onto the tracks,
and wire and wax,
guided by channels and panels and planks,
battered and clanged in mechanical cranks,
over
the motors and rotors and ramps,
under the glow of electrical lamps,
crossing
the miniature bridges and piers,
rolling and reeling in winches and gears,
bouncing between all the balancing bars,
flung by the flingers and into the hubs,
caught in the catchers and
funnels and tubs…
Then, when the running was finally done,
with odds that were more than nine hundred-to-one,
a particular marble was down at the goal.
Alone, on its own, in the Destiny Bowl.
The Lottery Boss, he skipped and he hopped,
to the bowl on the floor, where that marble had stopped.
He plucked it right up and read what it said.
Then he paused.
And he frowned.
And he waggled his head.
“Fancy that,” he said softly. “I suppose this is right!
Where’s ‘Mortimer Y?’ He’s our winner tonight!”
All of the zorgles were looking around
> to see if this “Mortimer Y.” could be found.
Mortimer knew they were looking for him.
He had won, though the odds were incredibly slim.
It can’t be, he thought, they’ve made a mistake!
He was suddenly woozy and started to shake.
His palms were all clammy; he thought he would faint.
For he was no hero, no idol, no saint!
He was just Morty, just Morty the hack,
and he sensed he was having a panic attack.
But then he remembered his desperate dad,
whose illness was growing increasingly bad.
He thought of his Pop in that hospital bed,
swaddled in gauze from his hips to his head…
So in spite of reluctance, confusion, and fear,
the thoughts in his head were surprisingly clear.
He planted his feet.
He started to rise.
He went to the stage,
and collected his prize…
Back at the hospital, Bortlebee lay,
musing about the events of the day.
His mind was befuddled with thoughts of his son,
wishing and hoping that Morty had won.
So when Morty arrived, with a map in his hand,
charting the course to a faraway land,
old Bortlebee smiled. He instantly knew:
his incredible dream was incredibly true!
“Well,” Morty croaked, with a lump in his throat.
“They gave me this map, plus a cap and a coat.
It’s awful! I won! As you probably guessed.
So they’re sending me off on some sort of a quest.
But I’m not the right guy,” he fretfully said.
“I’m telling you, Pop, I’m in over my head!”
“Don’t be a scaredy-cat,” Bortlebee teased.
“Can’t you see that I’m happy? I’m terribly pleased!
Just do it for me and wipe off the frown.
Be happy! For once you’ll get out of this town.”
He looked at his son, and uttered a sigh.
It was time, he could see, for saying goodbye.
“I hope,” he said slowly, “you have nothing but luck.
But remember: Whenever you’re stuck in the muck,
when the travels are rough and you’re stuck up a tree,
you remember this, Morty: You’ve always got me.”
“Aw, Pop,” Morty grumbled. “I love ya, too.
And that’s why I’m going. I’ll do it for you.”
Then they hugged one another, especially tight,
and Morty set off, that very same night…
Chapter 6
the gang of mccrook
On the surfac above, in the world that you know, Katrina Katrell was a girl on the go. But where was she headed? She hadn’t a clue. She just had to keep going—it was all that she knew.
Yet a terrible rain was flooding the streets,
falling in thundering, merciless sheets.
Katrina was soaked. She was practically drowned,
but she had to escape. She couldn’t be found.
For Mrs. Krabone was hot on her trail,
tracking her down, by tooth and by nail;
and with her that lunatic, Doctor LeFang,
who would mince up her mind into lemon meringue!
What she needed was shelter, some haven or place,
to escape from the chill and the rain and the chase.
It was then
that she spotted a place she could hide:
at the end of an alley, off to the side,
a hatch in the wall that might be a door,
or an entrance that wasn’t in use anymore.
On the wall near the hatch was a kind of sign.
It was hung on the brick with some raggedy twine.
The words on the placard were sloopy and wild,
as if scrawled by the hand of an ignorant child.
Yet this was a sign that was meant to be read,
and these are the words that it messily said:
The alley, however, was terribly dim;
the rain was so thick you could go for a swim;
the wind was a billowy, blustery gust,
and the placard was grubby and covered with rust.
So Katrina, of course, didn’t notice the sign.
She assumed that the doorway was perfectly fine.
She splashed to the handle and waggled the latch,
and to her surprise…that opened the hatch.
Inside was a ladder, with rungs in a row,
a stairway of steps to a chamber below.
But the stairway was crooked, the ladder was cracked
(on the verge of collapse, as a matter of fact).
Descending the stairway, its pilasters shook,
they wobbled and quaked like a fish on a hook.
At the bottom, the walls were discolored and bare,
and shadows, like spirits, were haunting the air.
Looking around, Katrina could see:
a booth, where you once put a ticketing fee,
some rusty old tracks for an underground train,
and maps from the past to explain the terrain.
Seeing it all, she could fairly deduce:
This was a station…no longer in use.
At this point, Katrina was terribly bushed;
she couldn’t go on, even if she were pushed.
She needed a dwelling for resting her head,
a comfortable place she could set for a bed.
After some searching, she spotted a room,
that wasn’t too buried in rubbish and gloom.
She lay on the floor, on a pillow of stone,
feeling wretched, dejected, completely alone.
But just as she readied herself for a doze,
just as her eyes were beginning to close,
just as she started to slumber and snooze,
she was jolted awake by the thrumping of shoes!
“Well, well!” came a voice like the squeal of a saw.
“It looks like some joker has broken the law!
Perhaps not a certified law of the land,
but for sure—it’s the only law we understand.
“Now what sorta law am I talking about?
The law that says:
The girl was in gumboots as tall as a chair.
She had daggers and knives pinned up in her hair.
Her name on the street was
“Selena the Slash,”
and she’d cut off your pants to pilfer your cash!
To her left was an impish and rascally scamp,
dressed in the rags of a traveling tramp.
His nickname was “Sickly” or
“SICKLY VAN PUKE”
and his nose always trickled with gobbledygook.
The last was a ruffian lofty and tall,
as strong as an ox and as wide as a wall,
with a look on his face, so purple and mean—
like a face you might make in a stinky latrine.
Katrina concluded with only a look this last was none other than BUGSY McCROOK! (Now the Gang of McCrook was a miserable mob, for whom robbing you blind was an everyday job.
They were known for their violence and criminal feats,
for a seedy selection of sinful deceits—
from robbery, arson, and pyramid schemes,
to snatching the mascots from basketball teams.
They had once robbed a pet shop of all of its cash,
and they never—not ever—recycled their trash!)
“I know who you are,” Katrina exclaimed.
“You’re BUGSY McCROOK, and you should be ashamed!”
“At your service,” said BUGSY. He bent in a bow.
“I wonder, my dear, what shall we do now?”
“I know!” said the girl in the cumbersome boots,
“Let’s force-feed her full of some f
estering fruits!
We can sting her with bees as much as we please!
We can scrape up her knees with a grater of cheese!
We can jab her with sticks, and if she survives,
That’s fine! Then we’ll stick her with one of my knives!”
Sickly agreed with insidious glee.
“You’re a genius, Selena, that’s easy to see!
She must’ve been blind, ignoring our sign!
We’ll force her to whinny and whimper and whine!”
“Wait!” said Katrina. “Hold on for a sec.
Before you go crazy, start wringing my neck,
before you begin to dissever and maim,
hold on—at least let me tell you my name.”
“Alright,” BUGSY sneered, “but get on with it, see.
Then you’ll get your shellacking,
Zorgamazoo Page 4
