Unpro Duck Tivi Tee

Six months ago, I started this crazy blog with the intention of writing a story that required no preparation, no research, and no forethought, just a bunch of made up nonsense. I have discovered that even this sort of writing is not a walk in the cake, to procure a phrase from the very wise Dikemebe Mutombo. With open-ended nonsense, a writer starts to wonder what the point is and it's easy to give up. Paradoxically, the same thing can happen when a story is too complex or intricate; one just gives up.

Well, I don't know that I've given up, but I do know I have been unproductive on this page lately, in part because I started another novel, one I'm not prepared to share with the general public for free.

I realize my absence disappoints my fans, but hopefully neither of them will take it too hard.

Fifteen: Custody

Agent Tomatilla Bygone decided not to handcuff the suspect because he looked like a nice enough guy. This was the dumbest reason she could ever recall for not handcuffing someone. She also felt safe with Nathanial Wildacre around, even if he was older than her grandfather.

"What's your name?" she asked the man, believing she already knew which of the four he was but wondering if he would tell the truth.

"Jim Misanthrope," he replied. "What's going on here?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"I can tell you this whole place is a freak show."

He walked alongside her, as though he considered himself in custody even though she had not put him in handcuffs or charged him with a crime. Her cell phone rang and she plucked the tiny instrument out of a carrying case on her waist and peered at it.

"Oh, lovely," she said, in obvious dismay.

"What's wrong?" Nathanial Wildacre asked.

"The moderates have attacked Tulsa again."

"What did Tulsa ever do to them, I wonder?"

"Well, I'm not sure I'd call it a moderate town," Agent Bygone said.

"Maybe not, but they've got a lovely zoo," said Wildacre, "Cheap, too."

"Pardon me for interjecting, but what exactly is happening?" demanded Jim, who felt he had tolerated enough ordeal and frustration for one day.

Though concealment had become part of the natural order of things for SpyCo employees, Tomatilla Bygone decided to abandon and intrigue for bluntness. Something about the presence of Wildacre emboldened her and she didn't think Jim Misanthrope was connected to any sinister plot.

"Rumor is that this company had developed some type of disposal method for Tangible Hubris. You knew that and we knew you knew. I was sent from Chicago to catch up with you, see what your intentions were. You do realize that whenever someone sets out to accomplish something grandly heroic, lots of people, including our organization, assume you must be driven by an ulterior motive that's sinister."

"Of course," Jim deadpanned, "I keep wondering what our ulterior motive is. I haven't figured that out, but I guess there's no need to now since we've proven so incompetent. Before you ask, I don't know where the others are. They left me here, probably because they thought I was dead. I might forgive them or I might hold a grudge for the rest of my life and die a bitter man."

"I always wanted to try that," said Wildacre, "but I lacked the commitment."

"I'm sure I do as well," said Jim.

Wildacre and Agent Bygone searched the area, finding the unsettling phony corpse and the sign warning off all trespassers. Neither Jim nor Agent Bygone understood how he knew, but they trusted Wildacre when he said the sample piece of Tangible Hubris was real.

"No synthetic approximation has ever been attempted, as far as I know," the old man shrugged. "What would be the point?"

"To scare people off, like they're trying to here?"

"But you can just use the real stuff. There's plenty of it and it's not really dangerous, except that you just can't get rid of it. It doesn't decompose but it isn't toxic."

This, as far as anyone knew, was true. Agent Bygone's next utterance proved inaudible because Nichelle Trudery stormed the room and demanded Jim's release, offering herself in his place. Tottchell Zizzzard stood behind her, looking utterly bewildered.

Fourteen: Compromisation

Nichelle Trudery felt like a complete and utter recreant for abandoning Jim Misanthrope to his fate, whatever that fate might be. Try as she might, she could no longer blame their frantic retreat on Elmer's panic or the bipedal dog's obvious fear of the basement. She and Tott--well, she--should have calmed the others down and ventured into the contaminated cellar to check on Jim. No one knew how far he had fallen nor the nature of the contamination nor even if the sign indicating the danger was still relevant.

"What are we going to do now?" asked Tottchell Zizzzard, who had stretched out his long body in the back seat.

"We get out of here, as I have been saying all along," Elmer insisted.

"No, we have to go back for Jim," said Nichelle, "You guys know that, surely."

They had stopped on the side of the road just outside Goofy Ridge and let the dog out of the car. Unlike most canines, this one seemed not to love riding in the vehicle. In fact, it appeared the creature was carsick. No one spoke for a few moments, as Elmer and Tott absorbed Nichelle's exhortation. They agreed with her, she knew, and must have been riddled with the same guilt that was jolting her. Their silence amounted to consent.

"No," said Elmer, "I don't see that we do. I think it would be a mistake."

Nichelle shot a glare at Elmer, one ablaze with profundity, with reminders of the past, with indicators of his responsibilities toward his friend. Or perhaps the look simply carried disgust. Elmer ignored her. She turned to the backseat, eyeing Tott for signs of resistance. Without even speaking to him, Nichelle knew he would go back for Jim if she pressed hard enough unless Elmer actively recruited him as an ally, which was unlikely. Elmer displayed little but disdain for Tott most of the time; he liked Tott, but rarely showed respect for his feelings or opinions.

She got out of the car to check on the dog, pocketing the keys as she did so, fearing faintly, distantly that Elmer might slide across the seat and take off without her. She did not really think he would attempt this, nor did she imagine even the pliable Tott would permit such an extreme course of action. Still, she was taking no chances.

The strange beast they had found at the Monolithic Chemical Company lifted its weary head when she approached and made a sound, half bark and half moan. Though there were no obvious signs of illness or injury to the alleged dog, the creature was clearly uncomfortable. It occurred to her now what needed to be done, that there were two important things to accomplish, one of which might serve to distract and preoccupy Elmer long enough for her and Tott to return to MCC and locate Jim. Unfortunately, she wasn't certain Elmer could be trusted even with this much less risky assignment. She motioned for the upright-walking dog to accompany her and it grudgingly obeyed.

"Elmer," she said, "I'm not going to try to cajole or guilt you into going back to get Jim."

"Thank you," he muttered, without looking at her.

"Instead, I want you to take this animal to a veterinarian."

"What?" Elmer demanded, as though he had been asked the most confounding trick question possible.

"Will you do this for me? I know you don't want to go back to that contaminated basement, but I have to. Tott can go with whomever he likes, though I suspect I'll need him more than you will. Meanwhile, you can go to the vet and see what you can find out about this... er, dog."

As she spoke, she noticed Tott nod from the back seat, indicating he would go with her.

"That's not a dog, that's an experimental freak," said Elmer. "Besides, who can afford a vet bill? Not me. And this creature doesn't belong to me in the first place."

"Elmer, you're not using your brain. I know you're afraid to under the circumstances, but listen for a minute. Do you think once the vet sees something like this that there will be any demands for money? All you have to do is say what happened and where you found the thing. Like you said, it's not your dog. The vet can do whatever, but my guess is under the circumstances, they'll do everything they can for it because, like us, they want to know what the hell it is."

Elmer's averted eyes and shaking head revealed what his mouth wouldn't say. You're right, Nichelle, you're right and I'll do this so you'll stop thinking I'm a jerk and a coward.

Thirteen: Unlucky Jim

Jim Misanthrope could not believe his misfortune at first, but then he recalculated this assessment and deemed himself lucky to be alive. Then he refigured again and decided it was possible to be lucky and unlucky at the same time. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious when he woke, only that he felt dreadful, dull pain in his head, neck and shoulders.

Nichelle Trudery, Elmer Treedweller, and Totchell Zizzzard were gone now, probably assuming he would be impossible to find or had been killed or captured. The upright-walking dog had also vanished, presumably following the three humans to the car for a long-awaited ride with its head out the window.

Until his eyes adjusted to the overall lack of light, Jim would have sworn he fell through some kind of trap door. In reality, he had fallen because he had come to a staircase on the opposite side of where the steps began and the guardrails were missing. Apparently unable to find him or learn what had occurred in the darkness, the others assumed the worst and made their escape. He could not help but feel a little disappointed by this development, especially considering he would not have left any of them in this building without an exhaustive search. Then again, perhaps something else, a more imminent threat, had prompted their departure.

Jim struggled for several minutes to find a light source, a long chain attached to a bare bulb that burned surreal yellow and revealed nothing in particular. The floors were hardwood and surprisingly clean, the walls recently painted ivory with cobwebs in the corners. This struck Jim as stranger than just about anything he could previously have imagined. Considering the presence of the bizarre dog and the apparent emptiness of the facility and the sinister feel of the whole affair, he would have been less surprised by a chamber of horrors or signals of longer abandonment. Instead, the area was simply a long, open and low-ceilinged basement that looked something like a laboratory, but with no experiments present, only countertops and tables and chairs.

When Jim made his way carefully up the staircase he had used about half of to get down, he could see a few drops of blood and various dings and dents and bruises on the steps, any one of which could have been caused by part of his body. At the top of the stairs, he discovered what, in all likelihood, had impelled his friends to leave the area in the first place. It was a grotesque and horrifying sight, a man of roughly his own age who had apparently coughed up a fatal dose of tangible hubris, a huge blob of grey, rubbery gunk that apparently had poisoned him or choked him to death or damaged his esophagus, or whatever tangible hubris did to kill its victim. There was a handwritten sign attached to the man's corpse, evidently intended for anyone who ventured down the stairs.

DO NOT ENTER: CONTAMINATED AREA

Perhaps Nichelle, Elmer, and Tott had not known exactly what happened to him and ran across the corpse in their search. Maybe they didn't even see the staircase or the fact that there were no guardrails on the far end. It remained fairly dark, but the light of the still burning bulb downstairs and Jim's well-adjusted eyes rendered things more clear than they would have been to his friends. It occurred to him that he had no idea how long he had been unconscious and, therefore, how long they had been gone. In all likelihood, they had seen the body and panicked, especially Elmer, who feared TH more than anything.

Upon closer examination, the dead body proved fake. He could not verify one way or the other whether the tangible hubris was genuine, but now he felt slightly better. One less victim of the scourge, perhaps a little less threat to his own well-being and, if he was lucky, maybe the others had called for help or were waiting outside.

He tried to work his way back to the corridor they had followed after discovering the very peculiar floor door and the bipedal canine. Finding it turned out to be really easy, what with the footsteps and voices. Two people, a young woman and an old man, burst from the corridor as he approached and the woman shouted at him.

"Hold it right there. Put your hands behind your head!"

And there it was. Jim complied after a brief pause, not certain whether to be grateful or frightened.

Twelve: Diamonds and Gaelic

Goofy Ridge resembled a post card of idyllic, desolate winter wasteland, with the bright sun shimmering off the smooth, white snow and the farmhouses and silos and barns resting silently as though they and the people inside them had not changed one iota since 1952. Norman Rockwell could not have painted it better. Nathanial Wildacre continued to drive with abundant confidence as he made his way toward the corporate office of the Monolithic Chemical Company along the lakeshore.

"The land that time forgot," murmured Agent Bygone.

"Looks that way," concurred Wildacre, "but of course, half these people probably have plasma TVs and Superspeed Internet. Spoils the illusion, I know."

"So what do you know about this place?"

"The town or the company?"

"I meant the company, but if you feel something about the town is relevant, that's fine too."

"First you'll have to explain to me what you're after," said Wildacre, "Or who. I would like to know what sort of work you're doing here."

"Well, as you know, there's a great deal of paranoia about tangible hubris and also a lot of it lying around disrupting every day life. Rumor has it the Monolithic Chemical Company figured out a safe way of disposing of this material."

"But not how to prevent it from happening in the first place."

"Right," said Agent Bygone, "That's not something anyone has figured out yet. Even the name is based on the assumption that it's caused by some combination of egotism and curiosity, of appointing yourself the determiner of what's best for everyone, which is why, it is supposed, so many politicians and reporters were infected with it so badly."

"But you're not investigating MCC, are you?"

"Actually, I am but that's only part of it. Four people from Indianapolis were on their way here as well, may already be here, so I'm supposed to look into their intentions."

"To find out, in effect, if their intentions are noble or illicit?"

"Well, I don't know. SpyCo sees plots everywhere. I think these people may be guilty of the same traits that are meant to have caused the TH outbreak before, but I can't fathom what their illicit intentions might be, can you? If these people have the same information as I have and are interested in disposing of tangible hubris, why assume their intentions are sinister?"

"But that's what power does, doesn't it? If someone catches onto something before they do, or even after they do but before they've chosen to share it with everyone else, they're suspicious, right?"

Tomatilla Bygone did not want to agree, but she heard a lot of truth in what Nathanial Wildacre said. They had now reached the headquarters, a place considerably smaller and not nearly as bustling as Agent Bygone presumed it would be.

"Looks abandoned," she remarked.

"It is, in a way," Wildacre said, "Over the last few years, MCC has been relocating much of its operation overseas, but not to the kind of countries one generally associates with cost-cutting."

"Go on."

"They opened one office in Botswana and one in Ireland."

Agent Bygone looked at the old man in utter puzzlement, wondering both how he knew this and why the Monolithic Chemical Company had selected the nations it had.

"Okay,"she said, "Botswana I can sort of see. I'm guessing land is cheap there and labor costs aren't too high either. I realize it isn't a hotspot like India and Mexico, but I could see some advantages."

"Nothing wrong with your logic, but that's not it. Botswana has very cheap land and reasonably cheap labor, but there's something else it has a lot of, and it's one of the few relatively peaceful countries that has them."

"Diamonds?"

"Diamonds."

"And what do they need diamonds for?"

"That, I'm afraid, is the extent of my knowledge, " said Nathanial Wildacre. "I could hazard a few guesses about it, but I'm not certain of any of them. You see, I did some security work for MCC after I retired, that's how I know some of what I know. But I never penetrated their inner circle, had no wish to at the time. But with your appearance here, I sort of wish I had."

"Okay, what about Ireland?"

"That's a lot simpler," he said. "An Irish holding company bought 49% interest in MCC six years ago. They were out to become majority owners, but settled for slightly less than half on the condition that MCC brought some jobs to Ireland. So now MCC is still considered an American-owned corporation, even though it now employs fewer Americans than it might have if it had become foreign-owned."

"The global economy is a convoluted mess," exclaimed Tomatilla Bygone.

"You can say that again."

Agent Bygone pondered doing exactly that, just for the fun of it, but by now three people and an apparently two legged dog--no, a four legged dog walking upright on two legs--burst from the MCC corporate office and dashed toward the only other car in the large parking lot, an ancient Buick Electra 225.

Eleven: Where Do We Go From Here?

Though the thought remained unspoken among them, the dog reminded all four of Wile E. Coyote, though it carried a more hunched gait. When the creature crossed the doorway, it let out a single bark that conveyed, most plausibly, a demand to know what these intruders were doing here. Its gaze swept over the room, never quite meeting the eyes of a particular person.

"Jim," said Nichelle, "have you got five dollars?"

"Sorry?" Jim uttered, clearly bewildered by this query.

"You're not suggesting we bribe this--"

"No, Elmer, shut up! Do you have the money, Jim?"

"Sure," he said.

"Take the car and go to a store, any store you can find, and get some... you know, dog treats."

"Uh huh."

"You don't like it?"

"Don't like what?"

"My idea about the dog treats."

"Honestly, I have no idea," Jim stammered. "On one hand, I'm glad somebody thought of something, but it seems like a very peculiar--"

"Well, I don't like it," interrupted Elmer.

"You don't like much of anything these days, do you?" snapped Nichelle.

"What do you think, Tott?" asked Jim, more out of courtesy than curiosity.

"Doesn't matter to me."

The dog waved one of its forelegs and barked again, perhaps as though indicating something. Upon close examination, the animal did not appear especially unpleasant. Besides walking on its rear legs, nothing seemed wrong with it. It was clearly some sort of mixed breed, perhaps part retriever and part terrier. And part human, some might have said.

"We don't actually seem to be under threat here, do we?" Jim asked.

"Not really," agreed Nichelle.

Suddenly, Tott clapped his hands and called the dog. The dog heeded in a machine-like manner, without resentment or alacrity, lowering its head as Tott patted it gently.

"I say we take the dog, go through the door, and see what's there. Otherwise, what's the point of making the trip? Anyone disagree?"

"Yes and no," said Elmer, cautiously. "I know I've been oppositional here, but it's... you know."

They did know. Maybe Tott hadn't made the connection, but the others had. Of the four, Elmer had choked up the most tangible hubris during the initial outbreak and, as a former member of the media, felt the most anxiety about investigating anything. There was no definite proof that a correlation existed between inquisitiveness and tangible hubris, no clear proof that hubris as a trait led directly to hubris as a periodically fatal condition, but there was circumstantial evidence. Nichelle and Jim realized this, but their difficulty with the ailment had been minimal; Elmer, however, had become very gun shy. Jim had as well, but only for a while. Nichelle's motivation seemed to snap him out of his complacency.

"Look, never mind," Elmer said, "We can't stay this way all our lives and we can't live forever, can we? Let's do it."

"Well said, Elmer," commended Jim.

They moved toward the door and the dog barked. When they stopped, it sauntered in front of them, not to prevent their entry, but to lead.

"So no dog treats?"

"No dog treats, Tott," said Nichelle.

Ten: The Right Car Comes Along

Agent Tomatilla Bygone ran along the shoulder of an unknown road just outside Goofy Ridge, Illinois. Her legs burned at first, then they went numb, but she kept moving as fast she could to generate as much heat as possible.

She had never before questioned Rapunzel Archback's judgment, but this seemed to her a hare-brained notion, one with unclear objectives and puzzling contingencies. Missions like this were typical of government work, of any kind of work, but Chief Archback had heretofore brought a kind of ruthless, narrow efficiency to espionage. Now she was pursuing the nebulous, the hypothetical. Granted, the case offered intrigue but Agent Bygone had never known intrigue alone to hook someone as cold and clinical as her superior. Perhaps Rapunzel Archback had grown sentimental, or maybe she didn't want to uncover too much, think too much, for fear of falling victim to TH. Agent Bygone also worried about tangible hubris, especially since she seemed to be investigating a disposal method for TH, but such risks came with the territory.

Only four cars had passed her, three of which had been headed in the wrong direction. The fourth blazed by too quickly for her to get in front of. At last, a late model sedan slowed alongside her and an elderly, brown-faced man lowered his window to address her.

"Need a ride, young lady?"

"If you're going to Goofy Ridge, I do."

"Not my final destination, as they say, but I'll be passing through," he said.

"Works for me," she said, abandoning immediately the notion of commandeering this kindly old man's car.

"What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?" he asked Agent Bygone as she climbed into the passenger side.

"It's a long story," she said, "Let's just say I'm in law enforcement."

The old brown man, whose race she could not quite determine, laughed.

"I remember a time when a woman as young and pretty as you couldn't be in law enforcement. More's the pity. We could have used your type as police officers."

Agent Bygone nodded politely. In spite of his age, the man seemed quick of both mind and body. He accelerated the car smoothly and drew up to eighty miles an hour, all the while appearing relaxed and in complete control.

"Were you a police officer?" she asked.

"I was a special investigator for the state of Missouri," he said, proudly, "First one who wasn't white, so they told me, though I never knew if that was officially true."

"Fascinating. When was this?"

"I started in Kansas City doing administration work for the police department. That was 1949, and about seven or eight years later I was doing fraud investigations. I retired in 1990."

"Sounds like a long, illustrious career," said Agent Bygone, and she meant it.

"I did good work," he agreed, "but nothing special or notable, nothing big. I miss it sometimes, cracking the case, you know."

"You said you weren't white, which I could kind of tell. I'm not quite white either, half Puerto Rican. What about you?"

"Oh, where do I start? Father was black and Cherokee, mother was Mexican and Irish and something else, so I guess that makes me a mutt like everyone else. Except in the old days, I wasn't the kind of mutt people wanted to associate with. Ain't so bad anymore, you know."

"No, not like it used to be."

She thought for a moment.

"What's your name, sir?"

"Nathanial Wildacre," he said, softly.

"Well, Mr. Wildacre, your abilities may help me quite a lot, if you're willing to share them. What do you know about the Monolithic Chemical Company?"

The man glanced toward her with a knowing grin and something in his eyes that could only be described as a gleam.