​
THE ADVENTURE TEAM
 by TOM MILLER
​

Chapter 1
 
The phone rang. Fred answered it. It was Bob McGillicuty from the Rare Fish Society. When Bob was a kid, he used to deliver newspapers in his neighborhood until that fateful day when a badly tossed paper resulted in Harry Blackball, an amateur magician and pyrotechnics expert, losing his eye due to injury.
 
"My eye, my eye!" Harry screamed as the corner of the Daily Times Union pushed his eye clean out of the socket. "You God damned kid, now I got no eye! I'm half-blind because of your poorly thrown efforts to deliver my paper. And they pay you! They paid you to put out my eye! How's that for an irony in the polluted and crime ridden world we live in. What ever happened to the good old days when the paper boy would walk up to you and delicately place the paper into the willing hands of the recipient and then before leaving, he would invent some helpful phrase or poem to lighten the spirits of the customer, like for example, 'Don't worry about the tip sir, I just wanted to make sure you have your paper.' or, 'Have a beautiful day, sir, and I'll bring you a freshly baked cake from my mother's kitchen first thing in the morning, sir.' No, today it's a different world. Today, the paper is crammed into your eye and then the surgery, the horrible painful surgery. And while I'm shelling out money, you're going to get a raise, aren't you kid. They are going to give you a raise because you met your quota of eye damage for the week, isn't that right?"
 
"No sir," Bob said, as earnestly as he could, but there was no denying the small crowd of one-eyed neighbors running down the street to get the boy and stomp his little head into the dirt. Strangely, as fate would have it, a small bird in Nebraska was making quite an effort to imitate its mother and fly like the big birds. It stepped off the edge of the nest and fumble-dumped itself into the hard cold ground effectively breaking one of its wings and by coincidence, rendering one eye inoperative.
So anyway, Bob quickly got on his bike and pedaled extremely fast to escape the infuriated crowed. As he turned to assess their progress, he could have hardly seen that his speeding bike was heading for the opening door of a big fancy black limousine. Bob and his bike wound up in the lap of Millionaire Matheson Avenue. The door closed, and the car took off to Nebraska where a small baby bird was suffering.
 
Breaking from the flow of this novella, I, the writer, would like to espouse on the direction of the plot and somewhat develop the relationship between the characters so far introduced to the artistic integrity of the potential situations which will follow. So far, we have Fred answering the phone. We know that Bob McGillicuty was the caller and that he has an association with the Rare Fish Society or the R.F.S. We don't know why he called. At this time, I, the writer, chose to evoke a writing technique known as Sidestep Flashback, or S.F. in which a character just introduced in a narrative is sidestepped in the present time for a flashback of sorts to recap events in the history of the character which gives the reader a sense of where this person came from and why this person does the things he does.

The S.F. begins with the young Bob delivering papers, and apparently each paper thrown results in an injury to the recipient's (Harry Blackball's) eye. This is made clear at the beginning of the second paragraph as the crowd chases after the young bob to enact revenge. Though it is not expressly indicated, we can infer the possibility that this early eye damage situation so infuriates Harry Blackball, the magician and pyrotechnics expert, to the point that one could imagine him to hold such a grudge that he would in effect become the villain, using his magical and pyrotechnic skills to bring an end to Bob, who as was indicated in the first three sentences, will have some form of interaction with Fred. As yet, Fred is an unknown in this literary equation. More to follow on this Fred matter.
 
Next, Bob, in an effort to escape the crowd, inadvertently rides his bike into a Limousine that belongs to a millionaire named Matheson Avenue, obviously named as a humorous pun taken from the infamous street located in Midtown Manhattan as well as similarly named streets in other towns, but the Manhattan location is the really famous one and the very one parodied by the author, and that's me. Next, in a writing technique known as Parallel Interfused Extrapolation or P.I.E., the incident with the bird is added to juxtapose the meridian on which the plot device is confutiated and vermiculated into the construct of the vernacular.
 
With the Limousine on route to the same location as the bird, one can infer that the character of the baby bird and the Millionaire and Bob McGillicuty from the Rare Fish Society will meet. I hope the reader appreciates this diversion into the techniques of such a brilliant writer as me are, and now back to the story.
 
"So, what's your name, son?" Matheson Avenue asked. He was a well-dressed gentleman, handsome, big eyebrows, and lips so red one could swear he wore make-up. The pallor of his skin was that of fresh honeydew melons, yet the author am sure he know not what this peculiar analogy means in the context of the plot device construct S.F. vernacular vermiculated P.I.E. extrapolation.
 
"Bob." Bob replied, "But my friends call me Ralph."
 
"Very good, Bob," said Matheson, "then Ralph it shall be. Since we're friends now, why don't you call me West Boulevard? That's what my friends call me, and you can bet I have plenty of friends. After all, that's what money is for."
 
Matheson Avenue studied the boy for some time. He felt an instant bond for he had never a boy of his own, and also, Bob or Ralph reminded Matheson Avenue or West Boulevard of himself when he was a young boy.
 
 
S.F.
 
Matheson Avenue was only six years old when he opened his first lemonade stand on the corner of the block where he lived. At first, only one or two customers would grace his cardboard facility and exchange a dime for the delicious home made beverage. He had to think and be creative if he expected to become a millionaire selling lemonade. He had to add a twist, something that would be an instant sell and something that would provide his income base with value. Wait a minute, he thought to himself, that's it. A twist! A twist of lemon in his lemonade! It had never been done before. No mass-market drink had added such a personal touch. An authentic twist of lemon, peel and all, in the traditional beverage! What a brilliant idea!
 
 
In only three short years, Matheson Avenue Lemonade with a Twist O' Lemon became the number one selling drink in the United States and the Chairman of the corporation was only nine years old. Then Matheson Avenue came up with an even more brilliant idea that put his business in league with Edible Panty Shields, now appearing in new sweet and sour flavors. He set his plants up in impoverished countries where the labor was so cheap it wasn't even funny, and there was no law against using illegal immigrants and children to work fifteen, sixteen, twenty-two hours a day. Hell, you didn't even have to pay them. Just give them a cracker every so often to go with their allotment of one glass of Matheson Avenue Lemonade with a Twist O' Lemon per shift.
 
 
"Son," Avenue said to Bob in earnest, "Have I got a deal for you. Have you ever taken a small wedge of lemon and twisted it with your hands until the juice sprayed out, and then dropped this twist into a can of liquid?"
 
 
"No, sir." Bob replied, "But I'm willing to learn if I can hang out with a really rich guy."
 
 
"Son, money doesn't come from trees, you know that don't you? Money comes from sacrifice, hard work, dedication, raping the land, selling out to special interests, sex on the docks; you get me? What I'm offering to you, and pardon my eyebrows, is a chance to make something of yourself, something your parents can be proud of, something you can live with. Something that will allow you to feel the pride and joy in what you do. Something that will one day be the envy of the world and make me President of the United States." Avenue leaned in to add dramatic emphasis to his offer. "Boy, how would you like to pinch lemons into cans of soda, just because I asked you to?"

 
"Would I? Yes sir. I'd run my back through the spinning prop of a boat motor if I thought it would get me a new job. I was getting sick of newspaper delivery anyway."
 
 
"Apparently, so were your customers." added Matheson with a wink. "The answer to customer satisfaction is a twist 'O lemon. It's that kind of personal attention that gets you a nice car, a nice house, a nice plane, a nice golf course, and a nice harem of bitches to cater to your every whim while your wife is working at the Burger House. Stick with me, kid. I'll teach you the ropes. I'll show you the ins and outs. If you're really good, I'll let you touch my monkey."
 
"Boy, howdy!"
 

Chapter 2
 
     A sign on the door said, Adventure Team. None the less, nobody save for a select few clients knew exactly what the Adventure Team did. Inside, seated at the main computer console, was Ron Log; alias, The Messiah Guy. He had earned his nickname from a recent business trip in the Bowanian Jungle where circumstances caused him to find himself running for his life from an angry bull elephant. The pachyderm trampled three villages during the chase which culminated in Ron becoming trapped between the shore of the Nile and the oncoming onslaught. With no other choice, he turned and then ran across the top of the water to the other side. In a failed effort to trample its prey, the elephant followed but unfortunately the surface tension was not enough to maintain the quality of integrity necessary to support the weight of a ten ton mammal, and thus sank into a frenzy of prianha and bubbling blood. All who witnessed the event would swear later that as Ron ran across the surface of the water, he was performing the amazing disappearing quarter trick and by this act alone, from that day forward, he was referred to as The Messiah Guy.
 
     Before computer console #2 sat Frahn Melon. He had never been observed sleeping, ever. Rumor had it that Frahn never left the office, ever.
 
     On console #3 was Clairmont Miller; alias, The Monkey. Aptly named by the most notorious client of the firm, Race Borello, the tough talking omnipresent you-don't-wanna'-see-me-comin'-down-a-dark-alley Italian Mafia Representative. Best damn salesman in the city but if you didn't buy, he'd cut you. Three years ago, when Miller first joined The Adventure Team, Borello came into the office and said, "You! New guy! Where's my project? It was supposed to be finished yesterday and it isn't, and now you're here."
 
     "Gee sir, I'm sorry. I'm new. I don't know anything.
 
     Suddenly, Borello vigorously slapped him across the head. "You don't know nothin'? What are you, a monkey? That's your new name. Monkey!" And so from that day forward, Miller suffered the indignity and shame of the title; Monkey. Usually, folks just called him a faggot, but somehow Monkey cut to the primordial center of insult.
 
     "Well, I'll be shit-licked!" exclaimed Ron as the image of a beautiful spiny fish appeared on the computer screen. "There it is! The only one in the world. This is what we're after, gentlemen. The Mississippi Spiny Fish. Typically, a salt water specimen found in the ocean, but in this case what we're dealing with is a fresh water Mississippi Spiny Fish actually found in the Mississippi River, and that's what makes it so rare. The only other fish of this type known to have existed recently was accidentally eaten at a Girl Scout camp out. Though nothing could erase the tragedy of the event, the taste was so sweet and delicate that they made a cookie based on the flavor. Mississippi Spiny Fish and Chocolate Mint has since been their biggest seller." Frahn wheeled over in his chair for a better view.
 
     "What is that long brown object hanging at the tail?" Frahn asked.
 
     "String Poopy!" replied Ron. "This fish is going to make us a vast sum of money. Currently, it is located in the fish tank of one Matheson Avenue, CEO of Matheson Avenue Lemon Ade with a Twist O' Lemon. Unfortunately, as he is one of our clients, a conflict of interest seems to have reared its ugly mother. The challenge is this: How do we get the famous Gem of Life, secretly surgically planted within the fish by the medicine man from the Unka Hunka Tribe of the Amazon without killing the fish, and without Matheson Avenue getting wind of our plans?"
 
     "So what you're saying is that inside of that fish is the famous Gem of Life, rumored to have magical powers which would render the holder of the gem able to perform miracles?" asked Miller.
 
     "That's right, dicky boy. We needs to get that fish without blowing the deal. So the whole thing is to be kept under the table, so to speak. Got that Frahn?"
 
     "Got it." Frahn replied.
 
     "Say it back to me."
 
     "I got it." Frahn restated.
 
     "Say it so I know you have it."
 
     "Under the table." Frahn said, clearly expressing his annoyance at having to precisely reiterate the obvious. That being, he got it.
 
     "Say it to me like this: Say, 'We have to operate under the table so we don't lose our client over a conflict of interest.' Can you say it like that for me?"
 
     "Ok, ok... We have to operate under the table so we don't lose our client over a conflict of interest. I've got it, Ron. Say no more."
 
     "So you're saying that you are absolutely sure you understand what I'm saying, and the importance of this? Because I don't want to have to come back to this and tell you I told you so."
 
     "I'm sure."
 
     "And I won't have to say, I told you so?" Asked Ron.
 
     "No. I won't blow it."
 
     "Say that you're sure. Say, 'I'm Sure, Ron.'"
 
     "Look!" Frahn said. "When I tell you I'm sure once, I mean it. That's all you need to hear. I'm hearing what you're saying. I got it."
 
     "Yeah, but say, 'I'm Sure, Ron'. Just for me, so I know."
 
     "Ok! I'm SURE, RON! Are you happy now?"
 
     There was a long pause as Ron studied Frahn to be sure he understood. When he was satisfied his point had been made about not blowing the deal with Matheson Avenue, about not talking about the fish or their plans to get it, get the gem, and sell it to the highest bidder, which would be indeed an adventure and thus one of the many reasons the business was called, The Adventure Team, and when Ron was absolutely sure that Frahn had no way to misinterpret his earlier words of intending to make sure it was in no way revealed what they were going to do regarding Matheson Avenue, owner of the fish, and also that Matheson in no way knew the power of the Gem of Life or he certainly would have put it to use right away along with cashing in on the value of the fish, and remember that The adventure Team cares deeply for fish, Ron then said, "Yes."
 
     And then Ron said, "Oh. And Frahn... your mother."
 
     Turning to his computer console, Ron gave the command: "Alrighty boys, power up! We're going to Nebraska!" Frahn and Clairmont entered several commands into their interconnected computer system and the engines on the sides of the building emerged from their concealed locations and started up. Soon thereafter, the entire office building lifted off into the sky and flew Westward to the home of Matheson Avenue.
 

     In a small clearing, a lovely little girl of recently eight years old was playing with her new baby kitten, Buttons, which she had just received as a birthday present from her parents. The delicate and gentle kitten purred softly with each tender stroke of its fur that Little Betty performed. Placing the kitten int he soft grass, she backed off about ten feet and crouched down to call Buttons and see if she would come.
 
     "Here, Buttons." Little Betty called out. "Here, kitty kitty kitty."
 
     "Mew." The kitten said, sweetly.
 
     "Come, Buttons. I love you. You're my best and only friend in the whole wide world."
 
     Suddenly, the sound of several large screaming jet engines pierced the silence of the meadow and a gigantic flying office building plummeted downward toward the kitten and landed with a thunk on Button's screaming little skull. The office door opened and Clairmont Miller peered out.
 
     "You pressed the wrong button, Frahn. We're back on the ground again."
 
     "I told you," Ron shouted from within, "The blue one! I said the blue botton!" As Miller backed in and shut the door, the structure revved up again and lifted into the sky and out of sight.
 
     "My kitten!" Little Betty screamed as she ran to the red steaming puddle of pussy.


Chapter 3

"I'm sorry, Mr. Blackball. I'm afraid you are going to lose the eye." Doctor Scorn's concern was clearly evident along with his weariness from having to tell the same story to fourteen others that day. The Fake Eyeball Emporium at the Pedagogy Mall was currently out of stock and this was adding to the unpleasantness of the situation. I mean, it's not like eyeballs come rolling down the street when you need one.
 
 
"Great!" Harry Blackball said, "Now people will call me, One Eyeball Blackball and then laugh at me. They will probably assume that because I have only one eyeball that I also have only one testicle. Then they will infer that my one ball is in fact black, which I can assure you sir, it is not. I have two balls! You hear me? Both my balls are quite intact. I suppose you, a man of the medical profession, will have to operate to remove my eyeball, since I certainly don't want my eyeball hanging to the side of my face and drying up now, do I? Oh, I remember the days when doctors treated their patients like people and not like little dolls to play with. Yes doctor, it hurts when you jab your barbaric instruments into my flesh and rip away at the soul of man. Well, I don't need your sympathy or your Novocain. I don't need your gas, or your anesthesia. I don't need your pity sir, for the depth of my pain is so unfathomable that I should feel not a pinch if I were to rip the tattered eye from the frame with mine own hand sir!"
 
 
With that, Harry Blackball tore out his eye and threw it to the floor. "There! See that? I just saved myself about ten thousand dollars in medical expenses. Not even a twinge of pain so much as tickles me. Have your janitor toss my eye into the garbage along with the rest of humanity. I laugh at your pitiable… AHHHHH! MY EYE HOLE! THE PAIN! AHHHHHHHHHHHH! PLEASE GOD, HEROIN! MORPHINE! KILL ME! KILL ME! "
 
 
Bob held the lemon wedge in his right hand and he contemplated his future. He thought to himself, yes I can do this. I can begin here, pinching lemons into the lemonade, but then when I prove myself, Mr. Avenue will see how capable I am and promote me to Stirrer. When I show that I can indeed stir the lemonade as well as anyone, he will see my skill and promote me to Can Handler. When Mr. Matheson sees that I can sort and box cans as well as those starving children over there in Packing, he will give me a raise and put me in the Shipping Department. There, I will serve to the best of my ability and drive the shipping vehicle, moving boxes back and forth with unparalleled expertise. Soon I will rise in the ranks until I am making executive decisions about the lemonade, adding my unique ideas like, New Tropical Flavor Lemonade, or Pulpy Chunky Lemonade, or Calcium-Acidophilus All-Natural Fresh-Squeezed Vitamin-Fortified Ginseng-Herbal Vegan-Scented Blue-Green-Algae-Added Black Lemonade in the new Recycled Aluminum Can with the Coated Layer inside that makes it taste like it came right out of a glass container. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Avenue will have a heart attack or retire and I will own the company!


I will take the profits and use them to feed the hungry, help the sick, heal the dead, and return the earth to its original pristine unpolluted condition by an effective green space development plan. And it all comes down to this, my first lemon squeezing. Bob held the lemon between his thumb and forefinger as he had been meticulously instructed. With his other hand, he gripped the opposite side of the wedge and slowly, he began to pinch. In an unpredictable twist of events, the slippery wedge shot out from Bob's clumsy grasp and flew into the face of Pedro Conchito; the man assigned to maintain the conditioning of the canning machine gears.
 
 
"De lemon es en me con eyeballs! Ei dios meio!" Pedro exclaimed as he held his hands to his face and accidentally spun into the rotating metal disks that compressed his torso and began to chew. The abrupt stopping of the wheels in turn stopped the rotary belt that over forty impoverished worker children were standing on. They were pitched off into the opening of the aluminum shredder and spewed out the end in tiny fragments of blood and bone. The remaining staff of screaming humanity running for the exits, stumbled and bumbled into live wires, vats of flammable liquid, switches for chemical gasses that go toxic when mixed, and before too long everybody in Flatsacks had been made sick from the fumes and the resulting fires that brought this small town in Nebraska to an unsuspecting halt.
 
 
Little Betty, tears streaming down her face, walked along a path in the meadow fondly reminiscing about the short life of Buttons the kitten. She had tried to love that kitten and protect it from harm. If only she could have seen the flying office building coming, she might have been able to rescue her kitten in time, but now it was too late. All she could do was reflect on what this incident had to teach her about life. Maybe, it was a sign from God that all creatures are God's creatures and only he can own pets. Gee, she thought, that means that I'm God's pet too, and he can pet me. He can put me in a cage and lock me up. He can put me on a leash. He can hit me with a rolled up newspaper. He can put my nose in shit.
 
 
"I hate you, God!" she shouted, but in that moment of time, in that instant of reflection, she looked down and noticed an injured bird.
 
 
Thoughts of the bird:
 
Oh shit, she sees me… Can't run… Wing injured… Gonna' be her dinner…Big monster human gorilla coming at me… Reaching out… Cunt's gonna' break my other wing... Mother warned me…
 
 
"Oh my, a cute little bird." Little Betty said. "And you're hurt. A big office building killed my kitty, but I'm going to protect you from that mean old flying office building and help you get better." She carefully scooped up the bird and held it close.
 
 
The warmth of her body soothed the baby bird, or maybe it was just frightened into a coma, but Betty was determined to make up for her dead pussy. She ran home, found an old birdcage in the garage and put the bird in it. For days, she fed the bird with an eyedropper and affectionately stroked the bird's little head. Soon, she began to talk to the bird regularly in an effort to get it to speak.
 
 
"Say hello... hello... hello... say hello... hello..." The bird looked at her like she was becoming annoying.
 
 
"Hello... come on, say it. Hello... hello... hello... hello...hello..." The quieter the bird was, the more vigorously Betty tried.
 
 
"Hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello..." The bird thought to itself, mother never said anything about this. Fuck, if this bitch says hello one more time, I'm going to bite her fucking head off. Maybe if I try to tell her she's annoying the shit out of me, she'll have a little sympathy and shut the fuck up. The bird attempted to verbalize its thoughts, but the net effect of the effort was a squawk that sounded slightly like the word, hello. Of course, when Betty heard this, she was delighted.
 
 
"Yes. Good bird. Say it again! Hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello... hello..." She reached in the cage to stroke her newfound friend. After the bird chewed a bloody gouge out of her finger, Betty crushed it flat with a Holy Bible that was on a bookshelf next to the birdcage.
 
 
Suddenly things made all kinds of sense.

 
Chapter 4
 
"This is Fred, how may I help you?" Fred had just begun to sip his perfect martini with extra olives when the ring of the phone brought him out of his blissful state. He had been having a dream where all things are perfect, peaceful, loving, and calm; Where Children of all races, colors and creeds danced, played, and sang gaily together beneath the sun shining in the wondrously cloudless sky. The phone ring then was like a wet bean fart blowing half-digested shit across the serene painting of the vision, and needless to say Fred's temperament was not that of a nun.
 
 
"Fred, this is Bob McGillicuty from the Rare Fish Society. We have a situation here that requires immediate attention." Fred put his drink down. He recognized the seriousness on Bob's tone and knew instantly fish were in trouble.
 
 
"Go on." he said.
 
 
"You see Fred, there is a rare fish, the only one of its kind... The Mississippi Spiny Fish..."
 
 
"My God, the stuff of legend!" Fred exclaimed.
 
 
"Yes, Fred. And this fish is in the collection of one Matheson Avenue, the Lemonade king."
 
 
"The man whose empire you almost destroyed as a young child?"
 
 
"The same. And keep that little secret to yourself."
 
 
"A legendary man!" Fred commented. "Please go on."
 
 
"Matheson Avenue is not aware of the fact that this fish is unique for another reason besides just being the only one in existence. Many years ago, a medicine man from an ancient tribe surgically implanted a valuable stone within the fish. A stone rumored to posses magical powers. The famous Gem of Life!"
 
 
"My God, the stuff of legend!" Fred exclaimed.
 
 
"Yes and there's more. The Adventure Team is going in."
 
 
"My God, the stuff of legend!" There was a pause.
 
 
"Will you please stop saying that? The Adventure Team means to get the gem and sell it on the open market. The problem is that I fear for the life of the fish. Despite the impeccable reputation of the Adventure Team, I am not confident in their unorthodox techniques. And there's the human danger factor. The barbs of the Mississippi Spiny Fish are supposedly so toxic, no one knows what would happen if somebody got speared. But really... the fish. We have to consider the life of the fish! They didn't make me President of the Rare Fish Society because I want rare fish killed. Next it will be rare birds, then rare mammals, then rare plants, rare insects, and soon we'll be the only ones left to die. Can you imagine the horror?"
 
 
"How can I help?" asked Fred.
 
 
"Fred, your unique survival skills make you the prime candidate for this mission. Your twenty years in the field, surviving with only a canteen of water and three berries, and fending off the wilderness with a tree branch, making a two-way short wave radio out of some grass and elastic string from your sock, taking on an entire army of enemy forces with only a spork and thus earning the Medal of Metal for two hundred and thirty-five registered kills, who else could I turn to. I'd do it myself, but if Matheson ever saw me, I couldn't be responsible for what might happen." Bob began to sob as he implored his long time friend. "Please Fred, you've got to do it. Think of the fish. What's that poor fish going to do if some slip shod adventurers get hold of it and tear it open to get to the Gem of Life? What I am saying is No more Mississippi Spiny Fish for ever and ever and ever... AND EVER!"
 
 
Fred pondered the implications of the situation for some time. He had tried to avoid this kind of work since passing his prime, but this was for the good of humanity. How could he turn down humanity?
 
 
"Bob, you are my best friend, and that means more to me than any fish ever could. I respect your work and your love of fish, but remember this. I will make this sacrifice for you and you alone, not for the Mississippi Spiny Fish. I'm going to do it. But I'm doing it for you."
 
"Thank you, Fred. Thank you. You'll never live to regret this, I promise you that."
 
 
"All right, Bob. I'll gather my things and meet you at the Good Good Balloon Saloon at quarter past eight. Don't be late. Good-bye, Bob."
 
 
"Thank you." Bob said again, "See you there."
 
 
Fred turned to gather his belongings and prepare for the long journey to Nebraska, when he slipped on a puddle of refrigerator water, tumbled down the steps to the basement and landed face first on a dull rusty ax blade effectively splitting his skull open and spilling his surprised brain to either side of his heaving cadaver.
 
 
I can tell you Fred's dog Lucky had quite the meal that afternoon.
 
 
Quarter past eight at the Good Good Balloon Saloon
 
Bob McGillicuty was half way through his second drink. He had thought about ordering the Billy Boy Bladder Buster or the Potty Rider, or perhaps the Orange & Mango Funky Fandango, but had settled on the Chicken Skin Gin; a light and powerful concoction of broth and liquor. One hour later, Bob got the sinking feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. His phone calls to Fred's place went unanswered.
 
 
"Can I get you another drink?" asked Balinda, the waitress with the smile of bridgework and metal, "One more drink and I might look good enough to eat." Balinda had always admired Bob's work with fish. She knew one day they would get married and they would swim in the ocean together. They would look at fish, eat fish, smell fish, and glorify fish, all while in the passion of eternal love.
 
 
"A few more drinks, " replied Bob, "and I might consider brushing your hair."
 
 
"Six more drinks, and I might give you a kiss, if you're lucky."
 
 
"Seven more drinks, and I'll almost have you looking good enough for sex."
 
 
"Eight drinks," said Balinda, "And I'll tie you up with licorice whips and make a sundae on your engorged pontoon of a utility stick."
 
 
"Eight drinks would kill me."
 
 
"Have ten. I'll give you a lift to the grave."
 
 
"Fifteen drinks, and I'll rise from the dead and puke on your tits."
 
 
"Oh, Bob!" Balinda affectionately said as she smiled widely revealing a torn wasteland of ivory and tin, "You tickle me so with your witty repartee."
 
 
"Balinda," said Bob, "there's nothing wrong with you that a wrench and God couldn't fix. I think I hear the train coming, so get a life and I'll see you in a museum sometime, you old dusty bat."
 
Deep in the woods surrounding the estate of Matheson Avenue, a large flying office building slowly descended through the trees and made a soft landing in a small clearing. Inside the office, Miller, Melon, and Log were gearing up for the infiltration of the mansion. The gear included night scope glasses, hand held communicators, stun guns, explosive putty, fish clamps, surgical instruments, and lock picking devices. Also included in the array of equipment was a special survival bag with one canister of water, three dehydrated berries, and a stick. The standard issue Fred Pack was essential to basic survival on missions such as this.
 
 
"Everybody ready to go?" asked Ron as he positioned himself before the door.
 
 
"I'm not going. I've got work to do in the office." replied Frahn.
 
 
"Fine." Ron replied, "Just tell me what I told you before Monkey and I go."
 
 
"What?"
 
 
"I want you to say, 'Matheson Avenue is not to know the plan. We don't want a conflict of interest here.'" Frahn appeared to be numb from being requested to again memorize instructions that by this time would in no way escape him. "Frahn, did you hear me? You won't compromise the mission, will you?"
 
 
"No."
 
 
"So what you're saying is that you won't tell Matheson. Right?"
 
 
"I won't tell Matheson anything." Frahn asserted.
 
 
"You're sure about that?"
 
 
"Yes. You don't have to tell me again, for Christ's sake. I've got it. It is very clear to me!"
 
 
"OK," replied Ron, "If we're not back in two hours, take the office back to base and file a report with headquarters. Let's go, Monkey. You're with me."
 
 
Miller and Log opened the door and set out on their journey through the complicated security systems of the Matheson estate grounds, into the mansion, and to the fish of their desire. Within the fish was the Gem of Life and the untold magic it contained was sure to compel the reader to continue reading this book instead of blowing it off as some poorly executed schlock spew by some untalented writer lacking in thought or merit.
 
 
Chapter 5
 
Miller and Log crouched behind the bushes overlooking the Avenue Mansion. Two security guards were pacing the perimeter and several Great Danes were roaming the yard, waiting for the taste of raw flesh.
 
 
"You know, Claremont, this is just the type of challenge I love in a mission the Adventure Team takes on." Ron Log studied the yard, paying special attention to details that might reveal some trap or security system as yet undiscovered.
 
 
"Are you going to surprise the guards with some plan, or do we wait them out." asked Miller.
 
 
"Don't you worry your little pus maggot on this one. Who do you think you're talking to? I make the impossible possible. That's why they call me the Messiah Guy."
 
 
"I know, I know. Just let me in on the plan. What are you going to do to get past the guards?"
 
 
"Wouldn't you love to know. I bet you'd like to know how I plan to get past the guards, wouldn't you."
 
 
"Yes, actually. That's what I was getting at. What's the plan?"
 
 
"Only if you really want to know."
 
 
"I really do. You should tell me the plan so I know what I'm doing."
 
 
"You don't know what you're doing?" Ron peered into Miller's eyes digging deep for the shadow of doubt he thought he had just heard.
 
 
"I know what I'm doing," Claremont corrected, "I just don't know what you're doing. If I don't know what you're doing, what I do might screw you up. So why don't you tell me what you're doing so I know."
 
"Ah ha, you'd like that wouldn't you." Then slyly, "But maybe there's a reason I'm not telling you. You didn't consider that, did you? Maybe I'm trying to get you to figure out what I'm doing so you'll learn something from this. Did you think of that?"
 
 
"Are you going to tell me what you're doing or not?"
 
 
"Maybe."
 
 
"Just tell me the friggin' plan."
 
 
"No."
 
 
"All right, fine. Never mind. Forget it. If you want me to screw things up and then blame it on me because you didn't tell me the plan, then that's fine. I don't care anymore."
 
 
"Oh, so now you don't care. Is that it?"
 
 
"I care, but I don't care about what you have to tell me." Claremont was reaching an emotional height of anxiety, a height to which only high wire artists or those who ride in airplanes, or other professions that require great heights aspire.
 
 
"You don't care," said Ron.
 
 
"Yes I do. Just forget it."
 
 
"Do you want to know the plan?" teased Ron.
 
 
"No. Not anymore."
 
 
"Sure? I'll tell you if you want to know. I was just kidding before."
 
 
"Forget it." Claremont said.
 
"OK," said Ron, "never mind."
 
 
"Good."
 
 
"Fine."
 
 
And so things would seem to have reached a natural conclusion, but it was not to be. Some moments went by before Miller's curiosity having been peaked, caused him to break the silence.
 
 
"OK, tell me the plan."
 
 
"Never mind now, you said you don't care."
 
 
"You said you would tell me."
 
 
"No I didn't, I asked if you wanted to know. I didn't say I would tell you."
 
 
"Look," said Miller, "will you or will you not tell me the plan?"
 
 
"Do you or do you not want me to?"
 
 
"I do. Tell me."
 
 
"No."
 
 
"Fine then. Fuck. Forget it." Claremont gestured in disgust.
 
 
"All right, I'll tell you."
 
 
"Forget it."
 
"No, let me tell you."
 
 
"TELL ME!" Miller shouted. And then, after an awkward moment of silence, Ron Log dropped his head and began to fidget for something in his pocket.
 
 
"I don't actually have a plan yet," Ron said.
 
 
Miller reeled back in awe, his mouth open, his eyes wide. "You just put me through this whole extended diatribe, and you never had a plan to begin with?"
 
 
"I was just kidding."
 
 
"Well it's not funny!"
 
 
"I thought it was funny."
 
 
"It made me angry. It makes me angry and frustrated. Can't you tell I'm angry and frustrated?"
 
 
"I thought you were playing around. I was just having fun. Don't you like fun? Let the child in you come out."
 
 
"I love fun, but if I am shaking with anger like this, and raising my voice and being upset and speaking with a tonality similar to an angry upset person, then you might infer that maybe I am not having any kind of fun at all."
 
 
"Oh," Ron interjected, "I thought you were putting on an act. I didn't read you weren't having fun, I thought you were joking around."
 
 
"Well you just aren't real sensitive, I guess."
 
 
"Claremont, couldn't that just maybe be your perception? Isn't it possible that I am actually a very sensitive person, and maybe your perception of how you think I am, isn't the completely reality? Isn't it just possible that you're not really mad at me, but you just think you're mad at me based on your own experiences of what it means to be angry, which isn't the same as my experience of what it means to be happy, and maybe if you were me given the same situation, you might interpret yourself as only kidding around whether you were mad at me or not?"
 
 
"Well, I don't know what you just said Ron, but maybe so. I didn't realize however that such a simple question could turn into a philosophical debate of absurd proportion. Perhaps, and I cite quantum mechanics here, everything in the universe is all made from the same basic quantum matter, or empty stuff as it were, and therefore I am possibly simply having an argument with myself in the darkness of infinite potentiality.
 
 
"Who's arguing? It's just a spirited debate."
 
 
"Perhaps," continued Miller, "we are, in fact, just the dream of some butterfly flying around in a beautiful meadow, and neither one of us perceives any true reality at all, because the only reality going on is that of the butterfly. Maybe we're just a butterfly dream."
 
 
"When your butterfly wakes up Monkey, you'll have some serious subjective explaining to do it since given your quantum theory, you are the dreamer and the dream. Besides, I'm paying your salary, so you have to listen to me philosophize."
 
 
"Hey, I could leave any time I want to and simply get another job."
 
 
"So fine, leave."
 
 
"No." Miller said.
 
 
"Why not?"
 
 
"I like it here."
 
 
"Well I like you working here too, even though you are a dick licking pus sucking monkey boy."
 
 
"I say, we wait until nightfall and go in under cover of darkness." Miller said.
 
 
"That's a great plan!" Ron replied.
 
 
 
Meanwhile, back in the office, the phone rang.
 
 
"The incredible and amazing Adventure Team, this is Frahn speaking, how may I help you?"
 
 
"Frahn," came the strong deep voice on the other end of the line, "You're always working. Take a break for Christ's sake. This is Matheson Avenue. I was calling in regard to my ad campaign to get Matheson Avenue Lemonade with a Twist 'O Lemon into the markets of Asia. Have you had a chance to fly the office over and speak with the ambassador on this matter?"
 
 
It's Matheson, Frahn thought to himself. Don't tell him about the fish. Don't tell him about the stakeout or about the Gem. Don't compromise the client. Conflict of interest. Conflict of interest. Conflict of interest.
 
 
"Well," Frahn replied, "We've been checking into it, but as yet no response. There's no reason why it couldn't happen, though. It's a brilliant idea and as a representative of the Adventure Team, I can assure you we will follow up and score the deal. No gem-laden fish is going to stand in our way… oops.
 
 
"What was that?" asked Avenue, "That last bit..."
 
 
"I said… uh… no uh… germ ridden fist is going to get up in our way. Yes, that's what I said, all right."
 
 
"What's this about a fish?"
 
 
"Nothing about a fish. Fish? Who said fish?"
 
 
"You said, 'gem laden fish,' clearly."
 
 
"Well," Fragn continued in a failed effort to correct his horrible blunder, "It's not like Ron and Claremont are sneaking into your house to cut your rare fish open and get some magical gem or something… oops."
 
 
-CLICK-


 
Chapter 6
 
As a teenager, Bob Joined a gang of ruffians who's primary task it was to play the very popular, yet dangerous, Dive Bomb the Schools of Sting Rays, a devious and harmful exercise where teen boys jump off the docks into the schools of stingrays in an effort to take a few out. Usually a well placed heel to the head would render the desired effect, but every so often, the rays would get in a point or two by the quick thrusts of their venomous tails.
 
 
One day at the conclusion of such a game, as the gang was dispersing to go about independent rebellious activities, Bob happened to notice a priest walking along the pier.
 
 
"I saw what you were doing to those poor animals," the priest shouted out to Bob in his Evangelical quivering voice. "But soon you'll come to know that what ye do unto others shall also be done unto ye."
 
 
"Kiss my hairy dick, you slimy money pinching TV charlatan. Take your preaching hole to Jesus. I'll jump on sea life any time I please and there ain't nothing you can do about it." Bob began to vigorously rub himself dry with a towel. The Father approached him where he stood and continued the sermon.
 
 
"Thy evil ways must be repented for. I pray for your soul, oh torturer of fish and flesh. Perhaps in the future, the Lord will endow thee with the wisdom to see the errors of thy ways. After all young devil, how would you like it if I did this." The preacher bent down, got himself a fist full of sand, and hurled it into Bob's eyes just as he moved the towel away from his face.
 
"God, my eyes. My eyes!" Bob screamed.
 
"Suddenly not so funny, the pain of suffering. Imagine how hurt and angry thy would be if I did this!" The priest grabbed Bob by the ears and pulled and tugged. "This ear tugging is to show you that pain can be very hurtful. It's not your fault, poor misguided instrument of Satan. You are an innocent in this morality play we call life. You can't help that the devil is inside you. Your parents did this to you. Society did this to you. You were made into a rapscallion and a hoodlum but today the Lord has sent me, on behalf of the sting ray, to knee you forcefully in the man's place of shame."
 
 
The man of the cloth pumped his sturdy knee into the soft and sensitive tissue known as the balls, and sent Bob to his knees in the misery of hot and cold flashes coupled with blinding white and yellow bursts of throbbing intense pain.
 
 
"As I strike you down, Bob McGillicuty of Nazareth, see the vision of Mother Mary of God and weep for the fish, for your evil ways shall be cast out of you this very day as I break your nose with my holy elbow of redemption." The Reverend brought down his arm again and again until Bob was a bleeding broken nose boy.
 
 
"Do you repent? Do you repent?" asked the priest.
 
 
"Yes! Anything to get you to stop beating me."
 
 
"I say again, do you repent? Say it like you mean it."
 
 
"YES! I'm sorry! I was just doing what my peer group told me to do. How could I resist? They were going to call me chicken." Bob's face became flooded with tears. Suddenly the beating stopped. The reverend clutched Bob's shirt at the shoulders and held him close, face to face, eye to eye.
 
 
A cold silence commenced, and then he spoke.
 
 
"Listen to me boy, it is no accident that I am here with you right now. The universe has many mysteries untold to you. Ask yourself, why do one eared people still know from which direction sound comes? Why can a multiple personality sufferer get drunk, and then suddenly become sober when another personality surfaces. Did an alien space craft really crash in Roswell, New Mexico, or is the Government covering it up? Where is President Kennedy's brain? Boy, life is Karma. You will receive ten-fold what you dish out. Don't be surprised when one day, you're just minding your own business and suddenly sea life drops down upon your head from above. Unless you change your ways right now by quitting your gang and finding your higher self, I'm afraid you stand to lose yourself in a fog of disillusion and regret."
 
 
The preacher continued, "You must understand that people are lonely little islands separated by distance and water. But islands have a few things in common. They all have sand, and somebody is usually stranded on them. So start loving yourself right now, and by this you will love others. Stop focusing on our differences and by this you will start focusing on what we have in common. Just because a sting-ray is triangular and has not much of a personality and poison barbs on its tail, that doesn't make it wrong."
 
 
"Yes, Reverend! I'm suddenly beginning to see." Bob's face became flushed with joy as the light of sudden awareness and enlightenment flooded into his brain. "I must love everybody and treat them as I wish to be treated. No more shall I harm another fish. I shall learn to love and protect them. I shall found a new organization specifically to protect and empower fish with all the peace and love they deserve. I shall learn the ways of Karma and make my living through giving instead of my making from taking. I shall love even mine enemies and learn to turn the other cheek. This is the break I've been waiting for! Thank you, mysterious priest. You have saved me. You have shown me a different path, and that path is good."
 
 
"Great." the preacher replied, "Glad to hear it. Oh, and here's something for your face!" The Reverend jammed his boot heel into Bob's mouth until the back of his head was buried in the sand. Then he stole Bob's wallet, ran into the lighthouse and killed as many people as he could with his machine gun until old Barney, Beach Security staff of one, managed to draw his heavy Colt 45 and pump a couple of lugs into the man's neck.
 
 
In his last words before biting the big one, the reverend was heard to weakly say, "Tell the boy, this is just what I was talking about. On a divinely inspired whim, I went and shot a bunch of innocent people who just wanted to see how a lighthouse works, and look what happened to me. I'm not even permitted the dignity of shooting myself in the head. Some old fuck with a gun, probably couldn't hit the broad side of the Great Wall of China, pegs me twice in the neck, directly in the jugular. What's the chance of that? That's not luck. That's God talking through the barrel of a gun. Tell the boy… Argelouf… haack… wrahank…"
 
And that's how Bob McGillicuty became the founder of the Rare Fish Society.
 
The End
 
And now, back to The Adventure Team
 
Nightfall came, the guards were nowhere to be seen, and only the dogs were left to defend the perimeter of Matheson mansion. Miller and Log made their move, behind the cover of trees to the fence.
 
"What are we going to do about the dogs?" asked Miller.
 
"Simple." Ron replied, "We'll simply will them into a deep sleep."
 
"Will them into a deep sleep?" Miller said with a surprised look on his face, "What is that supposed to mean?"
 
"Take a few deep breaths and then concentrate on an image of the dogs falling asleep."
 
"That's ridiculous. Are you kidding?"
 
"Do it." Ron insisted, "Submit to my orders. I've been doing this for lots longer than you have. People pay me big money to do shit like this."
 
"Will them to sleep, he says. You know what Ron?"
 
"What."
 
"I'm going to close my eyes and help you will the dogs to sleep. I'm going to put all my effort into it just so I can prove to you that this won't possibly work."
 
"Claremont, you can't have any doubt. If you do, it really won't work. Remove your doubt."
 
"This is ridiculous."
 
"What do you mean by that? My ideas are ridiculous?"
 
"No," Claremont said, "this particular idea is ridiculous. I didn't say all of your ideas were ridiculous."
 
"Well, you certainly made my feel that way."
 
"I didn't make you feel any way. You make your own feelings, Ron. You just used what I said, blew it out of proportion, and then decided to make yourself feel bad."
 
"I didn't say I felt bad, I just don't appreciate your doubt in a situation where faith is clearly called for."
 
"You said I made you feel ridiculous. I'm saying that it's you making yourself feel that way."
 
"I never said I feel ridiculous. You said my ideas are ridiculous."
 
"No I didn't."
 
"Then I told you I feel a certain way, meaning ridiculous, not bad. I feel fine. I'm just trying to understand why you don't believe me when I tell you I can will the dogs to sleep."
 
"How are you going to will the dogs to sleep? That's impossible."
 
"Nothing is impossible."
 
"Impossible!" Claremont asserted.
 
"Not with these knockout pills, it's not." Ron pulled out a small bottle of pills from his pocket. "Aha! See, you don't know everything."
 
"Hey, you didn't tell me about any knock-out pills."
 
"Well I don't always tell you everything, do I? Otherwise how can you be expected to learn anything about life."
 
"You said you were going to will them to sleep with your mind."
 
"No I didn't. I just said will them to sleep. You interpreted or inferred that I was going to use psychic ability, but you were wrong. Face it, Miller. There are just some things that I have a better grasp on. That's why you're the Monkey, and I'm the Messiah Guy."
 
Ron turned to the dogs, closed his eyes, pointed his finger, and the dogs appeared to magically fall asleep, much to the dismay of Claremont Miller.
 
"Wow," Ron said, guess we won't be needing the pills." Ron said.
 
"I'm afraid I must agree, your worship." Miller replied.
 
 
They climbed the fence and covertly made their way to the door. Suddenly, the door flew open and standing in the archway was Matheson Avenue, and several armed guards.
 
"Hello there, gentlemen," he said. "Welcome to Matheson Avenue Manor, heroes of the Adventure Team. Perhaps we should sit down over tea and discuss our recent conflict of interest, which I fear brings our lucrative contract to an abrupt and bitter end."
 
"Guess you talked to Frahn." Ron said as he offered his wrists for the metal restraints that the guards were now securing.
 
 
It was a beautiful and sunny day in the park. A crowd of children had collected to witness the magic show which was being performed in the down town plaza by one Harry Blackball, one-eyed magician and pyrotechnics expert. His devious mind was spinning as he excitedly imagined the grand finale of his dastardly plans for Bob McGillicuty, President of the Rare Fish Society. He remembered the searing pain as the corner of the morning paper displaced his eye so very long ago.
 
 
Bob, he thought to himself, soon my wrath shall come to bear on your wicked soul. I shall smite thee with the magic sword trick. But I have to make sure that nothing shall go wrong. So here, in the park, I shall test my latest trick on one of these unsuspecting youngsters. After all, practice makes perfect.
 
 
"Good afternoon children and parents of the Maryville Park, and welcome to Blackball's Magic Show." A small monkey with a gurney appeared from behind the curtains and began to jump and spin and crank his handle, causing the carnival like accompaniment music to begin playing.
 
"For my next trick, I shall need a volunteer from the audience who is not afraid to be penetrated with razor sharp swords." That's my disclaimer, Blackball thought to himself, I tell them exactly what I am going to do. No mystery here, they ask for it. They beg for it. They clap for it. Let's see anybody try and sue me.
 
 
A small little girl of approximately six years old, at the urging of her mother, stepped up to the stage.
 
 
"Brave little child," Harry remarked aloud. "Let's give her a round of applause as I help her into the coffin... I mean, the box." The beaming faces of the audience, as they appeared to be mystified, warmed the magician's heart. He helped the little girl into the tiny compartment and being sure not to catch her tiny fingers in the latch, he shut and locked the door. Her mother waved to her with delight and looked on as the magic continued.
 
 
"Now ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, I hold before you a razor sharp sword. Just to prove it, keep your eye on Juggles, the Spider Monkey, as I magically sever his head."
 
The small brown monkey had but a moment to reflect on the shame of begging for money with a tiny red hat when suddenly, the edge of the sword passed swiftly through his neck and his view of Harry Blackball began to spin around rapidly as Juggles' head bounced down a stairwell, out into the street, and beneath the spinning wheel of motorbike, where it popped. The audience broke out in thunderous applause.
 
"Yes," the magician continued, "but of course there's quite a difference between a monkey and a little girl. Not much though, but definitely a difference."
 
 
The audience gasped as the magician positioned the first of nine swords in the guide hole leading to the little girl's waist. "One!" Blackball began to count, bringing high drama to the performance of the magic. "Two!" he continued as the crowd leaned in on the edge of their seats. "THREE!" and with a gallant thrust, the sword passed through the girl and out the other side where only the profuse bleeding seemed to draw attention away from the magic, and to the suspicion that perhaps the little girl was really speared through the buttocks.
 
 
"My, oh my." the mother said to her husband, Stan, "He makes it all look so real."
 
 
"And now, another sword!" and again a quick flurry sent another sharp sword up through the asshole and out the back of the head."
 
 
"Whraank!" the little girl screamed.
 
 
"Little Wendy is putting on quite the show to add realism to the act, isn't she Stan."
 
"Indeed she is," Stan replied. "She's acting as if she's really been speared. I love magic. It's so dramatic."
 
 
"And now folks, swords number three, four and five." With a flurry, Harry Blackball had inserted the swords and by now, Wendy was kicking and convulsing. The audience applauded at the wonder of the performance.
 
 
"Finally ladies and gentlemen, the remainder of the swords!" and in they went. Wendy's mother gave Stan, her husband, a gentle hug. Their daughter was the star of the park. Harry Blackball positioned himself in front of the door and, unlatching the latch to reveal that the volunteer was quite unharmed, he threw open the door and parts of the heaving pulpy blood ball that used to be Wendy fell out and rolled into the laps of several people in the front row as they screamed in horror and began to run.
 
 
"Wait!" Harry shouted, "This is the best part." Harry pulled out a flare gun and fired it into the dynamite he had packed into the base of the sword box earlier that day, and the whole mess blew sky high in a powerful explosion that scattered little Wendy bits across the park grounds.
 
I can tell you the squirrels had quite the meal that day, and Harry Blackball disappeared in a cloud of smoke as the remainder of the audience trampled over each other to get away from the carnage and blood.
 
 
"It works! It works! Bob McGillicuty sleeps with the fishes!" Shouted Harry Blackball from his secret backstage hideaway. "My God, The glory...the glory!"
 
 
Chapter 7
 
Gentle reader, you have arrived at the intermission of the book. Let me say, it has been a pleasure to bring these characters to life for you, to add the color and depth of experience to their existence, to create the many interactions and dialogues between them that help present the larger message of the text. This new literary breakthrough which I have named Author Explanato or E.A. will no doubt be seen in literary works to come, for every reader at one time or another wonders what the writer meant or how the writer felt during the creative process.
 
Notice that we have several entities all intertwined together by the Mississippi Spiny Fish. The Adventure Team, Claremont Miller, Fragn Melon, and the leader of the group, Ron Log, search for the fish to get the gem to sell on the open market. Matheson Avenue, the lemonade king, owner of the fish who only now as the story unfolds has any idea of the existence of the gem or the legend surrounding its supposed magical powers.
 
Harry Blackball, the magician and pyrotechnics expert, quite mad with Bob McGillicuty for the damage inflicted to his eye by a badly tossed morning paper, harboring anguish and pain of such depth and magnitude, it has rendered him vengefully insane enough to use magic and explosives to take the life of his nemesis.
 
Then, there is Little Betty, present during the death of a cat and a bird. Also the prophetic apocalyptic priest turned maniac, clearly the metaphor for the Yin/Yang oneness of duality inherent in the order of the universe. And what of Balinda, the forlorn lover of Bob and waitress at the Good Good Balloon Saloon, the Saloon where every drink has a funny name, and finally Fred, his untimely death and the seemingly non sequitur nature of his appearance in the book has a profound impact in the big picture as the implications of his wilderness training culminates in the invention of the Fred Survival Pack which will ultimately save the lives of thousands of individuals.
 
My own offering to your interpretation of the words you read as you plow through this complicated yet simple text, is that everything is a story, and no one is free from the ravages of time. To place into the picture of words what are in effect the dynamics of time, and to hold these thoughts to the printed page and then to have the words picked up by the reader who in turn may write his own book, and to have that book read by another reader who in turn may write his own book, on and on, and to all the fish in the ocean or headless spider monkeys we shall encounter in our twisted wretched lives, it is my profound hope that the reader will be left with all the hope there is to give to our fellow human beings and all the love and hope and hope we can share with the boundless manifestations of the universe, from the lowly worm, to the sort of mid-range sting-ray and right up to the creature of all creatures, the Mississippi Spiny Fish, beautiful to look at but you don't want to touch one, and the technique designed to draw the reader in to the richness and texture of the novel through the use of the run-on Sentence or the R.O.S., one letter short of rose… I give you part two of, The Adventure Team!
 
 
Chapter 8
 
Miller and Log were escorted by the security guards to a gigantic white marble room. The ornate stained glass ceiling was an awe inspiring piece, hand made by a ninety year old woman named Stella Moscowitz who spent half her life piecing together the complex patterns that made this window the envy of all stained glass windows in the world.
 
Matheson Avenue had seated himself at the head of the long shiny oak table. In the center of the table was an octagonal one hundred gallon tank, and swimming in circles in the tank was the Mississippi Spiny Fish. The Long Menacing black tines were extended along the center of its back, and the beautiful bright neon blue, yellow, red, and green fins waved elegantly in the flow of the aerator.
 
 
"Tell me about this gem." said Matheson. "How much is it worth?"
 
 
"You'll get nothing out of us, you slimy land raping polluting lecherous animal abusing bastard!" said Ron sternly.
 
 
"Wait a minute," Matheson interjected, "I worked night and day from the time I was six years old to get what I have. My immigrant family had not a penny to eat with until I began my roadside lemonade service. I give seventy-five percent of my money to charities such as, Food for the Homeless, Research for Incurable Diseases, Save Our Planet, Help the Dolphins and the Whales and Other Animals, Minority Education, and countless more. My factory operates far and above the federal standards for waste and pollution making us America's number one contributor to the Green Space Program. I have been married faithfully for over twenty years to my beautiful wife, and my children work as missionaries in the Bowanian Jungle. In fact my wife happens to be a Ph.D. in Astronomy and is performing research to increase our natural resources and save the ozone layer, moonlighting on her job at Burger House. I attend church every Sunday and pray that all the evil in the world will one day come to an end, and I occasionally dress as a clown to entertain children who have to stay in the hospital, so don't you two dirty-ass mother-fuckers come into my house and take a big greasy shit on my accomplishments because you are too fucked up and retarded to read the titty-licking facts and treat me with just a tiny shit ball of Goddamn respect when I'm doing so much to wipe the ass of the world with my dirty fuck rag and bring it some corn pussy integrity, you dickless maggot licking butt fucking prick licking snorkos!"
 
Miller and Ron had no choice but to apologize for their misinformed remarks.
 
"Now that we have an understanding, tell me about the money. How much is the Gem of Life worth? Because if there's some money to be had, I say we rip that fucking fish open and tear out the gem, then have you two clots killed off, and then have my butler prepare me a money bath so I can toss and turn naked in crisp new hundred dollar bills. Praise God."
 
"Ah HA!" Miller exclaims, "You really are a twisted freak, aren't you."
 
"Eat my shit, monkey boy. I'll ream your ass with a sand paper baton if you don't come clean about that gem."
 
Suddenly, the glass ceiling shattered in with a deafening explosion. It was the Adventure Team office building. The cyclone winds of the engine stirred up the room to such an extent that it gave an opportunity for Miller and Log to jump from their seats and bash the guards with their handcuffed fists. They quickly broke away and ran for the door as the office landed.
 
 
"What the hell is this!" Shouted Avenue, "Get them GET THEM!"
 
The guards responded in chase, withdrawing their guns and preparing to fire. The Office door opened and silhouetted in the doorframe stood Frahn, with a gun in each of his hands.
 
 
"Get down!' he shouted triumphantly, and as Miller and Log dove for cover, Frahn began shooting with incredibly phenomenal inaccuracy. Shortly thereafter, both guns were out of bullets and as Frahn continued clicking on the empty chambers, the guards realized that every shot had somehow missed every possible target.
 
 
"Oh darn me." Frahn said as he turned his guns around, grips out, and offered them over to the guards, "It was just a thought." He was pulled from the office and handcuffed as the others were. They dragged him before Matheson Avenue who studied him dispassionately.
 
"You broke my very expensive roof, you bitch!" Matheson bellowed. He positioned himself uncomfortably close to Fragn's frightened face. "Maybe Frahn, you will tell me the secret of the gem if I ask properly, since you were so kind to share with me earlier. Maybe you will tell me... if I ask you properly. How much is the gem in my fish worth!" Matheson held a revolver to Fragn's head. "How much for the rock in the fish?"
 
 
"Don't tell him!" Shouted Miller.
 
 
"Tell him, and you're fired." said Ron.
 
 
"Don't worry," Fragn said confidentially, "You won't hear a word about ten million dollars, and there's no way in hell I'll tell you about the magical powers. And you can shoot me if you want to, but it will take more than your little popgun there to get me to say anything about the ten million or the magical powers. So fire away, pooty boy… oops."
 
 
Suddenly, the expensive marble wall to the West Side of the room exploded sending bits of debris flying through the room.
 
 
"What the hell..." Matheson shouted as he and the guards dove for cover.
 
 
"That's it!" shouted Frahn, "Run! This is our chance. Run for the office." And the Adventure Team bolted inside the building and shut and locked the door behind them. In the rubble of what was formerly the west wall stood Bob McGillicuty, President of the Rare Fish Society. He was armed with a semi-automatic machine gun and had his sights trained directly on Matheson Avenue.
 
 
"Nobody move!" He shouted aggressively. "Any of you move, and the millionaire gets it!" Matheson Avenue slowly raised his hands and indicated with subtle movements of his head for the guards to drop their weapons and do as the intruder suggests.
 
 
"Play smart, Matheson. I'm not here to kill you; I'm just here to save the fish. Move away from the fish."
 
 
"But it's my fish." Matheson complained. "I paid for it fair and square, and it's my house. You can't order me around in my own house."
"Oh, but I can." McGillicuty corrected, "Because I am issuing you a legal search warrant which permits me to be in your mansion, and a legal document stating that the Rare Fish Society, due to the rarity of the Mississippi Spiny Fish, is now the rightful owner of said fish. Any attempt to stop me from taking that fish out of the building will result in serious criminal charges to your person, so I say again, move away from the fish."
 
 
"You may have a permit for the fish," Matheson coyly sneered, "but you don't have a permit to take my fish tank. If you try to take the fish without the fish tank, the fish will suffocate and then you, sir, will be charged with criminal negligence. You don't even have a bag of water."
 
 
McGillicuty thought about that for a moment. "You may have a point there," he said, "but if you don't let me take the fish tank, knowing full well in advance that I must take the fish, and that your action in holding on to the fish tank would ultimately result in the death of the fish due to suffocation because I am required by law to take it, then again it would be you, sir, who would be charged with a crime. I have eyewitnesses right here in this room. Your own guards have heard you clearly. They heard you admit that if you didn't give me the fish tank, then the fish would die of suffocation, and you know I ethically, legally, and morally have to take the fish. I'm not leaving without the fish."
 
 
"Witnesses?" said Matheson as he began to laugh. "You've got nothing on me. I don't see any witnesses here. Let's ask my security guards to see what they saw." Turning to security guard number one, Matheson asked, "Security guard number one, did you hear anything about depriving a confiscated rare fish its fish tank?"
 
 
"No sir," number one replied, "I didn't hear a single word."
 
 
"Really? Fascinating. Number two? Did you hear me say anything? Anything at all having to do with keeping a fish from its tank?"
 
 
"No sir, "Number two replied, "I'm temporarily deaf from the explosion."
 
 
"I see." Matheson gave a sly glance to Bob as he continued his dialogue. "Number three, did you hear the faintest inkling of a comment I might have made moments ago to implicate me in the murder of a rare fish?"
 
 
 
"Yes sir. I sure did." said Dumb Ernie, the guard who bumped his head every day on his own knee. "Clear as day. You said if you didn't give him the tank, he'd end up with a dead fish." Matheson raised his pistol and shot number three in the neck. Dumb Ernie fell to the floor striking his head on his own knee.
 
 
"I guess he won't be making the trial!" said Matheson.
 
 
"My God, MURDER! You sick twisted fuck!" exclaimed Bob, "My God, you just killed a man in cold blood."
 
 
"I didn't see anything," said guard number one.
 
 
"Neither did I," said guard number two, "I'm deaf from the explosion
 
 
Matheson Avenue turned quickly and aimed his pistol directly into the face of Bob McGullicuty, and cocked the weapon. "It's you and me, kid. Who's the fastest gun in the West? You haven't got the guts to pull the trigger on that machine gun, do you. Let's see if you're willing to die for the life of a fish."
 
 
 
Suddenly, a thunderous explosion blew in the South wall in a spray of fragments and powder.
 
 
"Well, color me fucked!" screamed Matheson as he again dove for cover along with everyone else in the room. Standing in the disaster that was the south wall stood Harry Blackball, Sword-Through-The-Box Trick close by his side. Bob slowly got to his feet and starred at the looming shadow of darkness in disbelief.
 
 
"Bob McGillicuty," said the magician and pyrotechnics expert, "President of the Rare Fish Society! So good to see you with the one eye I have left, after you denied me the right to binocular vision! Now is the time for my satisfaction, sir. Prepare yourself for my famous Sword Trick. I got you now, fish man. I got you!" Slowly, the menace known as Harry Blackball moved in for the kill.
 
 
Chapter 9
 
Little Betty walked down the hallway. She had her heart set on feeding the pet fish her father had bought her as a present to replace the bird she smashed to pulp with her Holy Bible. She had named her fish Booger to prevent anyone from cooking and eating it. As she rounded the corner, shaking her fish food container to some obscure rhythm only a child could clap to, she could swear the odor of smoke was in the air. Running quickly to the door, she threw it open, ran inside, and found herself in the middle of Bob McGillicuty, President of the Rare Fish Society, and Harry Blackball, professional Magician and pyrotechnics expert.
 
 
"Booger!" Little Betty shouted, and she ran for the tank.
 
 
"Stop that girl!" shouted Bob. "She's heading for the fish!" But before he could get a running start after her, Blackball had him around the neck and with incredible strength, tossed him into the Sword Trick Box that slammed closed on impact. In what seemed like seconds, Blackball placed the lock on the door and prepared to penetrate his captured prey with a gleaming metal sword, freshly sharpened just for the occasion.
 
 
Inside the Adventure Team office, Ron and Miller had suited up in their bulletproof protective gear as Frahn monitored the activity on the view screen.
 
 
"Little girl going for the fish!" Frahn shouted. "Get out there!'
 
 
Miller was first to the door. Gun in hand, he bolted from the office after the girl. Matheson was up, and he too took off running to the tank. "If I can't have it, nobody can!" he shouted as he ran.
 
 
Ron chased out the door after Claremont and began shooting at the guards, who ran from the room to avoid the barrage of gunfire. Claremont jumped, going horizontal with his outstretched hands and tackled Little Betty. She fumbled her steps, pitched forward, and rolled down a stairway into Bixie, the family poodle, crushing the poor animal between her head and the wall.
 
 
"You made me kill my dog, mister!" she screamed in terror.
 
 
Fraghn tore out of the Adventure Team office and, observing the horrific spectacle of a flamboyant wave of the hands by Harry Blackball, he reached into his pocket for some kind of projectile he could throw to prevent the magician from filleting his unwilling volunteer.
 
 
The two-day-old peanut butter and jelly sandwich had little effect.
 
 
"Step away from that box and drop the sword!" Frahn shouted. He began to cartwheel, choosing this technique over several others as the quickest method to reach his target. Blackball, stunned briefly by the full-grown man cart wheeling toward him, performed a reverse loop-a-dee-loop, effectively relocating out of the path of the oncoming fiasco.
 
 
"Ha! You missed me!" Blackball asserted, and he placed the sword along the edge of the guide hole. "Soon," he snarled to Bob in a Box, "you shall feel the taste of sweet revenge." He flourished his left hand as he made ready to push the sword through the chest of Bob McGillicuty when, to Blackball's shocking amazement, he himself had suddenly been speared from the rear with one of his own swords, as evidenced by the pointed metal tip protruding from out of his stomach. He turned slowly around and came face to face with Frahn Melon.
 
 
"You." he said, "You...you ruined everything." He took a staggering step forward.
"He deserves to die. He took half the world away from me. He delivered unto me the word, and left me with but one eye to read it."
 
 
Blackball coughed a ball of blood and fell to his head, which caused his glass eye to pop free and roll into the next room where Little Betty's new cat, Buttons 2, batted it around several hours.
 
 
"My God." Ron Log shouted, "Don't do it!" Matheson Avenue had his gun pointed directly at the Mississippi Spiny Fish. "Let's cut a deal. We can work it out so everybody's happy."
 
 
"No deal! This fish dies, and then you die with it! I get the Gem of Life and then kill you and all your miserable little Team of freaks." Matheson pulled the hammer back until it clicked into place. His hand was shaking and sweat was running down his brow. "No more bullshit here, a decision has been made!"
 
 
He turned to the fish, eyes widening, and he began to apply pressure to the trigger when a soft voice tenderly broke the silence of the room.
 
 
"Please daddy," Little Betty said as she tried to remain standing after her violent concussion, "please don't kill my fish."
 
 
Matheson was determined to put an end to the tragedy that had become his life and the symbol of that life which had become this fish, but the love of a daughter and the voice of a child began to break his heart.
 
 
"Daddy, Booger is my only friend. Please don't kill Booger, because I love my fish, daddy." The tears streamed down her face. It was too much to bear; the pain of loss that Matheson had the power to inflict on an innocent. Such as in his own life, the pain of loss when the Matheson Avenue Lemonade With a Twist 'O Lemon Factory mysteriously blew up, and the boy, Bob, whom Matheson had come to know as a son was never seen again.
 
 
Matheson uncocked the hammer and slowly put the gun on the table.
 
 
"I won't kill Booger, honey. No I won't. Come and give your daddy a hug." He held his arms outstretched to her, and she ran to him, stumbling once, and jumped into his arms and they hugged as tenderly and lovingly as only a daughter and father could.
 
 
Frahn stuck a sword into the lock mechanism and twisted it off, thus freeing Bob McGillicuty from his capture. McGillicuty was dazed as he stepped out, but not too dazed to notice the rubble and the bodies and the blood. "Holy shit! I was almost skewered like a shish kabob. You, sir, you have saved my life."
 
 
"No thanks necessary," Fragn said, "That's what the adventure team is all about. It's what we do. We may not have a conventional approach to problem solving, but we damn sure get the job done."
 
 
"But there is still the matter of the fish, and there's still the matter of the Gem of Life. Maybe we could all sit down and discuss this matter like reasonable people instead of just shooting at each other. The world would be a better place if business were handled like that."
 
 
Bob walked over to the big table and took a seat. He gazed with wonder and admiration at the Mississippi Spiny Fish, swimming back and forth as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
 
 
Thoughts of the fish
Big blurry gorilla man… looking at me funny… probably going to try and eat me… not going out without a fight!
 
 
In a most unprecedented and unusual event, Booger performed a convulsive thrust of its body, propelling itself skyward from the tank at least ten feet up into the air. Matheson, Miller, Frahn, Ron, and Little Betty, mouths agape, eyes wide, faces filled with terror, watched helplessly as the fish reached the zenith of its height and then began to drop.
 
 
Bob McGillicutty, hands instinctively in the air for protection as the dawning realization of what was about to happen, hit him like a ton of bricks. The prophecy, Bob thought to himself as a burst of light preceded a flashback that seemed like days but occurred in an instant;
 
 
The Priest, his hand on Bob's cheek…
Don't be surprised when one day, you're just minding your own business and suddenly sea life drops down upon your head…
 
 
 
"Booger!" shouted Little Betty. Bob could swear he could see Booger's eyes, see the fish aiming for him, going for the kill. There wasn't even enough time to scream. Booger, all ten pounds of it, struck Bob McGillicutty's face and stuck in good and hard, pumping the venom, smiling at the thought that he was the last, and the best of them all.
 
 
"Mufma," Bob gargled, as the narcotic effects of the poison began to produce their painful and hallucinatory effect. The Adventure Team, moving quickly to act, removed their fish clamps from their belts and latched on to the flapping scaly monster and cast it across the room where it hit the marble wall. At that precise moment in time, a pink fluorescent stone shot from Booger's asshole back across the room and into the open mouth of Harry Blackball.
 
 
His dead eyes immediately opened. He reached around and pulled the bloody sword slowly right out of his own back. Blackball got to his feet as the Adventure Team reeled back in horror.
 
 
"He's alive! He's coming to kill us all. Shoot him! Somebody shoot him!" Everyone got a weapon and began to fire as Zombie Blackball lurched forward against the piercing bullets. One shot took out a chunk of face and left a bleeding hole. Another shot blew open his chest. Another ripped off Blackball's black ball, sending it spiraling into the white marble wall where it slid down, peeled off, and then dropped to the floor.
 
 
The kitty, Buttons 2, abandoned the eyeball and ran for the blackball.
 
 
"Jesus, he's not stopping! Run for cover!" Everyone scurried for the office as Blackball, hands outstretched and looking like creeping death, made his way toward the convulsing President of the Rare Fish Society.
 
 
Blackball issued a scream of incredible magnitude and ferocity, but then he leaned down and whispered something softly in Bob McGillicutty's ear. Walking over to Booger, the Mississippi Spiny Fish, zombie Blackball returned it to the tank. He pointed his finger at the floating dead carcass and a white shaft of light emerged from it, passing across the pale flesh of the fish and bringing forth new life where life had ceased to be. Gradually, the color began to return. Booger began to swim around in circles again and seemed none the worse for wear.
 
 
Then, Zombie Blackball looked through the broken ceiling and out to the night's sky and held his hands toward the full moon. "I can see!" he loudly exclaimed. "I see everything!"
 
 
And then Harry Blackball simply disappeared.
 
 
Bob McGillicuty began to strangely revive from what should have been certain death, as the Adventure Team, Matheson Avenue and his daughter, Little Betty, emerged from the office.
 
 
Matheson made his way over to Bob and helped him to his feet.
 
 
"Holy Moses," Bob exclaimed, "what happened? Am I dead?"
 
 
"No." Matheson replied, "Your here with us. Everything's OK. The fish is fine."
 
 
"Christ, for a minute, I thought I was dreaming. I felt myself falling through the sky and into the ocean where I swam with the stingrays. We were talking together about life and love and respect for one another, and about families. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw.
 
 
Did you know when you look at a stingray from underneath, you'll see they are always smiling. The universe is not this cold unfeeling place. I think the universe is happy. You can see the happiness when you look at the dolphins playing in the surf. You can see the happiness in the waves of the ocean, in the color of the coral, in the movement of the fish, and in the grandeur and magnificence of the whale.
 
 
With every breath I take, I thank the universe for the abundance offered to me through my island of experience, and I shall share it with everyone I meet." With these words, Bob turned to Matheson and said, "Matheson, there's a secret I've been keeping from you for many years, but now I can tell you the truth. Remember the little boy who rode his bike into your limousine? The boy you thought you lost in that explosion in your Lemonade with a Twist 'O Lemon? Well Matheson, that boy was me. I'm the son you never had.
 
 
Then, you went and got married and had yourself this beautiful little daughter. Well you have her now, and I have fish. Sometimes, the gems of life can be the little things we love, and not just some expensive stones. I hope when you get out of jail for the security guard murder, you'll have the happiness and freedom that you've always wanted."
 
 
The words of Bob so touched Matheson that he decided to continue his business relationship with the Adventure Team and he continued to be their best client for many years to come providing income which in the long run, far outweighed the value of the gem.
 
 
Bob took care of Little Betty while Matheson served his four-month term for murder. During that time, nineteen small pets suffered an untimely demise. Matheson's lawyers, after breaking his bank, managed to befuddle the jury into a verdict of maybe, and the whole thing was eventually thrown out of court. At this point, Matheson sent the Adventure Team on one last mission: To take Little Betty and Bob McGillicuty to the Mississippi River, and release Booger into the wild. There had been a sighting recently of another Mississippi Spiny Fish and perhaps Mother Nature would take care of the details.
 
 
As the flying office descended to the Mississippi shore, and Miller, Melon, and Log joined Bob McGillicuty and Little Betty for the ceremonial release of Booger, tears of joy ran down their faces. They released booger into the freedom of the water, and it swam around in circles several times before finally heading out.
 
 
"Good-bye Booger," Little Betty said as she waved. Bob McGillicuty left Little Betty and the Adventure Team to their own devices and stepped into the office to reflect on all he had been through. He fondly remembered the newspaper delivery job, and he wondered about all those people he had blinded.
 
 
He thought about blowing up Matheson's Lemonade factory with a poorly twisted wedge of lemon. He remembered the gang and the joys of Dive Bomb the Schools of Stingrays. He imagined the possibilities of drinking enough liquor to settle down with Balinda, waitress at the Good Good Balloon Saloon.
 
 
He thought about the admonition of the strange priest who killed all those people, but most of all, he remembered the last secret words of Harry Blackball, just before he merged with the fabric of the universe.
 
 
"Ala Peanut Butter Sandwiches!"
 
THE END