The Wonderful Wizard of Reno...Part 5

I should like to begin by thanking everyone for reading, commenting, enjoying, and contributing to this literary pursuit. As I mentioned...Your shoes and car keys will be returned following the conclusion of this tale.

Towards that end...numerous outstanding ideas...from you the readers...have led this story to expand beyond my initial four, five, or six part series. I believe it will be an eight part series.

(Waits for the groans and moans to subside...)

(...Waits some more...)

There we go.

That said...if you are Joining our Tale now...Please take off your shoes and put your car keys in the basket on the table.

After that...CLICK HERE.

I Hope You Enjoy.

Dorothy, Cowardly Lion, Alastar, Tin man, and I follow the path indicated by Fork. We moved in single file along a narrow trail. Scarecrow follows a couple hundred feet back.

His progress is hindered by efforts to adjust his straw following the ravages of our search for the Ruby Slippers.

“Are you two thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask Kelly and Alastar.

Our single-file status causes me to miss the looks of horror that passes across their faces.

“I sure hope not.” Alastar says under his breath.

Kelly keeps her own council. The set of her shoulders, however, suggests that, she too, is burdened by this possibility.

“Oh.” I say...a little disappointed. “Well, remind me that I need to pick up four-pounds of a ‘fatty-type’ of meat once we find a store somewhere?”

Kelly’s shoulders slump. She exchanges a rueful look with Alastar who looks, equally, uncomfortable. I pick up on the non-verbal clues.

“So, you WERE thinking what I was thinking??” I ask excited. At their, begrudging, acknowledgement I do the math...

“So we need twelve-pounds of a ‘fatty-type’ of meat?”

“Yeah. Uh-huh.” They both agree dispiritedly.

Interesting...

As we moved through the woods, others add to the shopping list: WD-40 for Tin Man, pack of smokes for Cowardly Lion. We could all use some sodas and what not. Scarecrow makes several suggestions which are summarily ignored.

We were traveling through a wild land...

We come across a wide river. An Eskimo woman crouches down and gives birth in the snow on a small iceberg which silently floats past us. The afterbirth stains the snow as the sun flashes brightly against the ice.

Three Emperor penguins stand guard over the proceedings as we watch them drift with the current. One of the penguins plays a haunting melody on a flute...

Kelly falls into the river and after pulling her out, I’m forced to admit...

“You know,” I say surprised, “For a wet tourist, you don’t smell bad at all...?”

“Who the fuck said I did?” She retorts angrily, “I will straight give them bitches some stitches.”

Recalling how handy she was with a tazer, I mumbled something about reading it somewhere...

We continue the journey...

Our trail turns and twists and turns back in upon itself. I’m not going to lie...it’s a cluster fuck. When it wasn’t turning...it was narrowing...when not twisting...it was just doing other fucked up shit. The road sucked.

On the plus side? No dismembered dogs...

Having been led astray by Fork (in the concluding scenes of Part 4) we found ourselves in a tight spot now, in the beginnings of Part 5.

What the fuck Fork?

“You know?” I comment. “I thinks Fork, stuck it to us, by saying to go this way...clearly...we ain’t getting to Emerald City this way. Right? Is it me?”

I broached the subject as a vine was growing carnal with my left thigh. The tangled underbrush was feeling frisky. An unknown flora and fauna thing, with red flowers, had it hard for my flip-flops.

Tin man is using his ax to hew a path into the hinterland. He stops his labors to, breathlessly, say, “Still...I like the lack of dead dogs.” Before continuing his efforts...

“Right, Right...” The group agrees. Nobody likes a dead dog.

Speaking of dead dogs? The political career of Sarah Palin and any notions of Sharron Angle’s sanity.

Flying high above us were the winged-illegitimate offspring of Bristol Palin...

They can hardly be blamed. Theirs was a dysfunctional upbringing. I won’t even repeat the rumors. After all...I started most of them. Those seeds were planted long ago. The winged-illegitimate offspring of Bristol Palin were well-suited for their role in this phase of Operation Freak-Out.

They were to administer a sleeping potion. Little more. It was a concoction they were used to and comfortable with. Their mother (sister?) would use it on them when trolling the local bars of Wasilla, Alaska, in search of men, for indiscriminant sex...

The potion settled in on us slowly and the effects were at first...gradual. A yawn here...a passed out Cowardly Lion there...these were the signs of trouble...

My role as narrator becomes difficult. I have fallen asleep. I had fallen in to the most wonderful dream I would ever remember...

We were in a bed room that was far more bed than room. Flickering candles contribute the only light source which dances in the mirrors before being reflected back onto the bed. Betty, The Smoking-Hot, Good Witch of my Imagination, reclines upon an impressive array of pillows.

Her dark hair fans out across the pillows, creating a halo effect, which proves very complimentary to my opinions of her, as an angel...

To say that she looked like the cat's pajamas would suggest that the cat sleeps in the nude. She was wearing two toe rings and a smile. Oh my God. She beckons me towards her...

As my body moves towards the bed, my testicles take a few steps back into my butt cheeks so that they can have some running room to jump into this one...

First contact occurred when my hand cups the back of her leg, just above the ankle. It glides north along alabaster skin, over her calf; before changing its mind and its direction...begin with her toes...it's best to be thorough. Remember to breathe...

Toes, ankles, calves, knees, and creamy white thighs duly attended to...Betty arches her back while spreading her legs. A tender pink part is revealed as I dip my head....

“Dude? Dude...you awake?” Betty's legs begin to close.... “Hey man...?”

I fight this intrusion (at the cellular level) as I grasp for Betty's hand...she slowly disappears...

I open my eyes. Scarecrow. I close them again. Open them. Scarecrow...

The effects of the sleeping powder had had little impact on his scarred and battered pleasure receptors. Chemically speaking, it takes a lot to give a committed tweaker a good push one way or the other.

He was on the backside of a bad come down. His life-style choices and the travails of the journey had taken their collective toll. He was in desperate need of a cigarette, ten-dollars, or a car-battery to sell. He had taken a knee and was trying to get my attention to get, I assume, a cigarette, ten-dollars, or a car-battery to sell.

After fucking up my awesome dream...I chose to commiserate with him. By commiserate, of course, I mean conflagrate. I take out my lighter and set fire to Scarecrow’s left knee...He rolls away screaming in agony.

I don’t like camping and, at that moment, I was not a happy camper. Although, the tent I was pitching, as a result of that awesome dream, I mentioned, would suggest otherwise...I was unhappy...

Scarecrow's agonized screams wake the others...all but Alastar. Alastar apparently sleep-walks and had gotten himself off into the woods.

Kelly, a registered Polysomnographic Sleep Technologist, with a love for the science of sleep, goes after him. She finds him, wakes him, and they get lost together in the woods for awhile. They eventually come back and Alastar appears pleased with himself...

Meanwhile, I was frustrated. Taking the single-serve, snack-pack of butterscotch pudding, I had been given by Betty and, had been clutching since the beginning of Part three, I stalked off into the woods muttering. I needed some alone time with my pudding.

Something had to give...

Creative Voice wryly notes between yawns, “You know? If you’re off to get morning wood...you seem to already have some there.” He finishes with a chuckle...

“Fuck off!” I call over my shoulder...

The single-serve, snack-pack of butterscotch pudding didn’t cut it. I was licking the lid when I saw the message...rather...half a message...

...me...anine ...vel....Legacy...

...Co...rol...the Hob... (st...p)

Your...Sun...have the de...

...to swirl...Vortex as... (stop)

It occurred to me that the other half of the message was sitting on my tongue. It was important that my tongue not get wet and ruin the message. A difficult proposition. Tongues are, by their nature, wet and sloppy creatures...

I think of Sponge...

Clutching my empty pudding container, with the cryptic lid, I run back to the group with my tongue lolling out and slapping against my cheeks and chin...

I stop in front of Kelly as my tongue wags about self -importantly. I attempt to communicate the problem to her...

“SPl..sh?? SPLUT! Iff..FORMP...thay??” I convey...

Kelly pulls out her tazer and gives it to me in the chest. I collapse in a jellied heap while dropping my emptied, (formally) clutched, (now) crushed, single-serve, snack-pack of butterscotch pudding to the ground.

Far off in the distance...the Munchkins let loose with a ragged cheer...

“Yaay...”

As I lay there, twitching from the affections of Kelly’s tazer, my tongue remained out (nicely) air drying and telling the story...

“Sorry.” Says a sheepish Kelly when I regain consciousness. Everyone was gathered around me. Alastar still appears pleased with himself...

“SPl..sh?? SPLUT! Iff..FORMP...thay??” I begin to convey...

Kelly stops me. “Don’t worry! We figured it out...you had half a message on your tongue. You can put your tongue back in your mouth...we have the whole message. Please...put your tongue back in your mouth.”

I put my tongue back in my mouth and use it to ask...

“What does it say??”

The message read, in its entirety...

Midnight on the mezzanine level of Silver Legacy. (stop)

The Midgets are in Control. Fear the Hobbits. (stop)

Your Contact is Agent Sun Fish. She will have the details. (stop)

Remember to swirl. Remember to vortex as needed. (stop)

Remember to swirl? Remember to vortex as needed? I looked down at the forest floor...it was as cluttered and gaudy as any casino carpet. I apply the skills that Toto had taught me in Part one. A door opens and a set of stairs is revealed leading downward...

Things were starting to get weird...

Back in Reno. (sigh).

We found ourselves in the subterranean bowels of the city. It was a mirror view of the town above but, of course, different.

Alastar, Kelly, and Cowardly Lion were sent off to the pawn shops of Reno in search of the Ruby Slippers.

Scarecrow wanders off to an auto shop, which he knows about, that keeps unused car-batteries on a pallet out back. Internal CD Player and myself went in search of our contact...Agent Sun Fish...

We had a couple hours to kill until midnight. We decide to catch a show...

Snow White on Ice...

“You know this is a musical, right?” Internal CD Player informs me after we had already purchased the tickets...

I actually did not know that...

“Not on my watch, it isn’t.” I resolutely inform him. It wasn’t. I changed the tickets to read...Snow White IS Nice...

We entered the stage door to see the production being filmed. It was a dwarf-based porno. Snow White was lying on the bed and covered in Dwarves. Happy was, obviously, Happy. Sleepy had already taken his shot (literally) and was asleep. Sneezy was annoying Snow White by continuously sneezing on her back. Bashful was having a hard time getting his clothes off...

Doc was sitting at a table reviewing the performer’s medical records. Dopey and Grumpy were missing. During a break in shooting, I ask the director, Victor Fleming, where they were...

“Oh they’re next door.” Fleming reports. “We are also shooting a gay-Dwarf porn sequence this afternoon.”

“SHUT UP?!” Says Internal CD Player before asking, “Can we watch that too?”

“Really...?” I inquire of him.

I look around at the set we were on. Happy is grinning from ear to ear while Sleepy snores away. Sneezy was off to get an antihistamine while Snow White angrily wipes Sneezy snot from the small of her back...

“This isn’t weird enough?” I finish...

He is chagrined. “That is Creative Voice behavior, huh?”

“Right?” I agree, before admitting, “Creative Voice would want a report though, huh?”

We wander into the next room...

The director...Mark Ewbie...was cajoling the actors into another shot. He was working with a new Dwarf...Premature...

There were three Dwarfs in attendance. Grumpy, Dopey, and the new guy...Premature. Premature had just rushed his “lines” and ruined the shot...with a premature shot. This was the reason for Grumpy’s grumpiness...

The gay-dwarf porn “fluff girls” ...a local guy I had seen around town...I believe his name's Justin, who, along with Levi Johnston, began orally servicing Premature and Grumpy in anticipation of the next take...

Dopey tries to orally service himself and chips a tooth...

“Hey?” I turn to Tin man and ask, “Is that that Justin guy?”

“No.” Tin man replies. “That’s the guy you always think ...is named Justin...and so you call him Justin.”

“Right, right, right. I do that.” I admit. “It’s close to Justin though!” I affirm...

“Mark??” I yell out. “When did you start directing gay-Dwarf porn dude?”

“Hey Thomas!” He calls out before walking over and shaking hands with the Tin man and myself.

He admits, “It’s the whole philosophy of having to direct gay-Dwarf porn before you get a chance to direct straight-Dwarf porn thing.”

He was right. The fact of having to direct gay-Dwarf porn, before getting a chance to direct straight-Dwarf porn, was just one, of four factors, holding back my straight-Dwarf porn directing career...

An Official Committee of Midgets walk into the room and present paperwork that effectively shuts down production of Snow White IS Nice...

They were dressed nicely and were clearly used to being in charge. Mark looks at the paperwork and notes all the legal seals, signatures, and notaries...

“Bollocks!” He grumbles before calling out to the film crew to stop filming. The two gay-dwarf porn “fluff girls” ... Levi Johnston and Justin (?)...wipe their mouths and leave......

“Wasn’t that Levi Johnston, Bristol Palin’s baby-daddy?” Tin man asks.

Mark confirms what he’s heard on the streets, “Word on the street says that the Palin fatted cow got killed and now they all have to get real jobs.”

“No!” I reply aghast.

“What’s you talking about, Willis?” From Tin man...

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Mark defends his statement.

“How did the cow get killed?” Tin man.

“A whore fell on her.”

Reno is an odd town with odd happenings. Still, I felt some compulsion for clarity...

“A whore?”

“That’s the story I heard.”

Far off in the distance...the Munchkins let loose with a ragged cheer...

“Yaay...”

Reno Police...Vice Squad...moves in and begins enforcing a municipal code that specifically targets Dwarfs by arresting every, non-midget, under 4’ 6”.

Mark, Tin man, and I all assume perfect postures as the officers come by with their tape measures...

After they pass, our postures slump and we continue our conversation...

“So, Mark...” I begin. “What’s up with the midgets? They seem to be little people with big attitudes.”

Mark looks at me like I had just crawled from a cave.

“You just crawl from a cave, mate? The midgets are tied into everything here. Porn, Russian brides, bribes, and illegal crustacean smuggling...these guys are into everything! Horse meat...all of it!” He hisses...

I ask about the Wizard of Reno and Hobbits. With a quizzical look...Mark looks at me quizzically. Our conversation is ended when Mark is called over to account to the Official Committee of Midgets...

When Internal CD Player and I leave, we hear one of the midgets mention, Operation Snow White...

Unbeknownst to us...our exit was being monitored...by Fork.

We don’t recognize him because he is wearing a beret, burgundy trench coat, and sunglasses...he follows us...

(End Part 5)

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4)(Part 6)(Part 7) (Part 8)(Part 9)(Part 10)