Can You Experience Flop Sweat Without The Flopping Around On That Sticky Barroom Floor?

So Many Existential Trick Questions

Chapter 27

One day while the bar expanded and contracted, during one of the expanded periods, Wayne came in and leaned his elbow against the counter beside the author.

“Working again, huh?” Wayne smirked, “Some people work all the time.”

“It’s nothing,” the author replied, “Just making some notes,” he said, suppressing his true alarm.

“You can’t fool me,” Wayne said. “I know work when I see it. I wasn’t born yesterday. How much are you getting paid for this?” he asked slyly, patting the author’s pad while checking to see his tie-tack was jabbed precisely in the middle of his chest in a level-headed way.

The tie-tack looked like this:

WET

It was only recently discovered these initials stood for Wayne Elijah Trout, the great-grandfather of the man who adopted the man who adopted Wayne. This last man bought Wayne a telescope for his 14th birthday shortly before becoming one of only two Clemson fatalities caused by a collision between an automobile and a meteorite.

Everyone had always assumed the tie-tack was Wayne’s inane way of expressing his support for a proposal to allow liquor by the drink in South Carolina, the most widely deliberated political issue in the state since secession.

Wayne had been awarded the tie-tack along with the matching cufflinks, stick-pin, belt-buckle, collar-bar, wrist bracelet, and desk set in the same settlement that brought him the house in Cateechee and a guaranteed income for life.

“For what?” the author asked.

“For whatever they’re paying you for, of course,” Wayne smiled. “I know we can’t all be Independent Insurance Agents. But I know work when I see it.”

“Excuse me a second,“ the author said, getting up to take a leak. He was confused. Wayne didn’t seem at all like himself. He had ordered a Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda and some popcorn. Granted, he was dressed like Wayne. He even looked and sounded like Wayne. But something was terribly wrong.

Sure, baseball season was nearly over and the question was whether or not coach Thorp could convince Milford authorities to hold off prosecuting Chipper D’Rocco for another week. D‘Rocco’s brutal slide during Milford’s semifinal victory over Central had separated the head of Knute Vladappen from his shoulders. That much made sense.

But the author made notes in the john to indicate his uneasiness with Wayne’s odd behavior. As he returned to his station in front of the jukebox near the door, he noted Wayne was still propped in the same odd pose.

At the moment the author took his seat, however, Wayne smiled and said: “Hi,” plopping down on the stool he had stood beside for the past 15 minutes, “Anybody sitting here?”

Later that night, Wayne was run over by a truck driven by his Libyan roommate, Amin. One of the standard jokes in Clemson was to ask Amin where he’d left his legs, he was so short.

***

On the rear wall of the Palace Bi-Lo, beside a glowing red and yellow exit sign over the frozen meat pie display case, there is a monstrous portrait of the President of the United States which masterfully captures the full grandeur of his loveless and malignant smile. It is assumed this portrait was at one time intended to hang behind the speaker’s platform in the Civic Auditorium, but the President of the United States was rendered obsolete on the morning of August 16th, having frozen fast to a deck chair in southern California.

As for the 160 close personal friends the President expected to spend the next 20,000 years with—none of them can be counted among those living in the Palace.

Those who are among the living, by the way, share a single distinction: all were in the same bar in Clemson, South Carolina, on the night Gottlieb Goforth implemented the master program so Cindy Gnomoure wouldn’t miss the opening sequence in Jaws.

***

The United States government actually awarded Clemson University’s Civilian Computation Center a grant of $2.5 billion a few years prior to the climactic appearance of the current ice age. What the grant paid for was the development of Materex’s Master Program. The program is supposed to ensure the doors on this time vault slide open on cue at the end of 20,000 years. It is also supposed to assure that the treasure ensconced within the Palace shall be properly cared for, even pampered, in a manner befitting its incomparable worth.

The future of the human race depends upon the Master Program, and, incredible as it seems, the Master Program was given to Gottlieb for final debugging prior to implementation. It is no wonder then that the lunacy in the Palace has become every bit as familiar to the palatial occupants as the American Way once was to followers of the President of the United States.

***

One day while Wayne sat at the bar not talking to anyone while the bar filled up and emptied, during a transitional period, Pablo Juan Caracas walked in with Amin and shouted: “Hola, Ramon, rapido, andele, bring dos cervezas.”

“You know what we got, beanbreath,” said Rapid Ray, wiping down the counter with a nicotine-stained rag. “We got beer. We got horse piss. What’ll it be.”

“Jesus Christo!” Juan muttered, smacking his forehead with his palm, “What is the matter for everyone? Why are you all so angry? This boorish midget here,” he said, pointing at Amin, who stood with his back to the counter, studying the sandwich menu on the blackboard near the pinball machine, “He wants to blow up the tire factory because it is owned by the French.

“He says he bought a defective condom in Paris once, and it made his girlfriend pregnant. He demands an apology. He also wants the French to withdraw from Algeria.”

“Listen, chiliface,” Rapid Ray lunged, “The French haven’t been in Algeria for 20 years.”

“Try telling him that,” Pablo said, gesturing at Amin.

Wanda Japan was talking with Harriet Tupperells about vampire cats. Paul Bare had just given Wanda Japan a collection of cat cartoons for her birthday, although it was early August and everyone suspected Wanda was born at the beginning of winter.

“Aren’t his drawings simply marvelous?” said Harriet, “and so primitive too. I often think he has managed to capture the very essence of feline consciousness, don’t you?”

“Beats me,” said Wanda, “but then I don’t give a gimp-assed fuck for cats. Most cats are nothing but drinking, eating, bitching, and sleeping machines. Only one cat I ever met had anything right about it, and that dude disappeared like a spook when the old man checked out. It was a bummer. Just him and that cat in that great big house. It’s no wonder he killed himself.

“Where I come from, most people die of starvation to death, and if you asked one what he thought about cats just before he turned into a corpse, he’d probably say, sure, he’d eat one to stay alive. But he’d also tell you a cat is either a god or a devil, depending on which side you’re on. There isn’t much meat on a cat, so what good is it? You can see where I’m coming from.”

“No, I can’t say I do,” Harriet smiled.

“Never mind,” said Wanda, “Just be thankful you don’t have to deal with vampire cats…”

“Oh come on, Wanda,” said Harriet, “Surely you mean vampire bats, not cats. Don’t you?”

“I mean exactly what I say, Harriet,” Wanda said, nodding her mug to make her point. “I ask you: who could be afraid of a vampire bat? You ever see one? Even a picture? It’s this bald little mouse with wings made out of foreskin. They have to sneak up to their victims while they’re sleeping, like skinny men in overcoats looking for cigarette butts. But let me tell you about vampire cats. They can flat do the job on you.

“My grandfather killed one weighed 33 pounds. No one sees many go that big anymore, but a fifteen-pounder can kill an elephant. An eight-pounder can tear a bull’s neck open to the top of the spine with a single swipe, and I’m talking Brahma now, not Jersey, not Holstein…”

“Where did you say you’re from?” Harriet said.

***

Just then, Wayne lurched straight up on his stool and began blathering straight into the author’s face: “You know what tomorrow is? I’ll tell you what tomorrow is. It’s just another goddamned day. That’s what it is. It’s global Just Another Goddamned Day. That’s all it is,” he said and toppled back onto the counter, spilling his half-empty mug in his lap before sliding off the stool and tumbling to the sticky floor where he flopped and wriggled like a salted slug.

“Jesus Christ,” Ray told the author as he slid a draft to Pablo, “Why can’t you and your friends learn to act like normal human beings?”

—30—

Epilog In Media Res

It occurs to me that some straggler might want to read all of Trout’s Tale in its God-given order, assuming I live long enough to publish all of it. I guess I could start another stack and publish it in order there, but where’s the fun in that?

Instead, what I’ve currently decided to do is add this epilog as an index to previous posts in the order in which they were not written, but in the most recent order they have appeared in the Hall of Records. Links will become active as new URLs are generated.

Pataphysics is the science of imaginary solutions.

Trout’s Tale thus far…

Frontal Matter And Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33