Prefatory Remarks by Ms. Allison’s Employer
After almost three years in the making, Leila Allison Studios has informed me that something called Renfield Awesomenicitizes the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost: A Feeble Fable has opened its pitiless eyes and is currently slouching off to anywhere but Bethlehem to get itself born. Although this… whatever it is… exists in print only, Ms. Allison insists on bringing her productions forward as though they were motion pictures, complete with a cast, crew and an expense voucher that I am hesitant to look at.
According to an urban legend whose popularity exponentially expands with that of the increasing population of congenital idiots, it takes three years for swallowed chewing gum to pass. Ms. Allison feels that the audience should view Renfield Awesomenicitizes the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost: A Feeble Fable with the soul of that urban legend in mind. For reasons unchallenged by critical thinking, Ms. Allison is certain that any audience able to identify with a wad of Juicy Fruit, grimly determined to survive a perilous journey through untold miles of intestines only to wind up someplace a little less than heaven, is probably the sort of audience who will embrace Renfield Awesomenicitizes the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost: A Feeble Fable for whatever the hell it might be.
Her (here I make like Pilate and wash my hands of the affair) little whatever it might be “stars” four members of the Union of Pen-names, Imaginary Friends and Fictional Characters, to which Writer-Producer-Director Ms. Allison reluctantly belongs. The players include Renfield Stoker-Belle typecast as Renfield Stoker-Belle; a “literary turkey” named Krook briefly essays the role of the TomTom Ghost until he’s suddenly (and inexplicably) replaced by Miss Izzy (Queen of Shoeboxes), who chews the scenery (as well as a bit of Mr. Krook) as the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost. There’s also an old car named Lucille involved. She has no lines but I’m told that she drives the action. Ms. Allison so wanted a celebrity fictional car for the role, but union rules forced her to settle for one of her own construction. My guess is that Titty-Titty Gang Bang and Herpes the Love Bug were both unavailable.
Anyway, I figure that I should step in and issue this fair warning: Something in Leila Allison Studios has opened its pitiless eyes and has slouched off, possibly, in your direction.
Your Obedient Servant,
Ms. Allison’s Employer
Now For an Unscheduled Crafted Insincere Apology
I have returned to post a crafted insincere apology. The innocently meant “Titty-Titty Gang Bang” and “Herpes the Love Bug” comments shared above have provoked the ire of corporate congenital idiots. Someone in my organization leaked the prefatory remarks early, hence the necessity of a crafted insincere apology.
In this case the two injured parties (Chitty-Chitty so and so and Herbie the etc.– to both I’d meant only passing offense) work for “The Ears.” Disney has moles everywhere that regularly report instances of “non-Mouseketeerishness” to the head of Uncle Walt–which, according to reliable intel, is currently located in a meat locker outside Encino, California.
The Big Diz aimed to get tough with me and sent over a couple of goons with voices like Bob Hoskins and Mike Reid, but in form were actually interchangeable Goofy and Pluto in fedoras and raincoats. I had to think of something quick. Fortunately, I am in possession of a “sex-toon” in which a certain corporate fairie (whose name ryhmes with “jinkle hell”) is so jazzed up on pixie dust that she overlooks the age (mainly the lack of it) of a famous woodenboy/nosedildo.
My collection of sex- and sin-toons keeps me out of the mortuary. Just last year the teetering Speed Racer franchise got a small dollop of what a sin-toon can do when some person unable to come to an accord with virtual Edo-mafia posted a few cells which depicted Pops losing Spridel and Chim-Chim at a Casbah gambling den. I informed the comic-canine goons that I’d post the sex-toon and some serious #MeToo doggie-doo concerning their past hump-the-leg activities (some of it goes back to the 30s) that would Kevin Spacey both of them into an early retirement if we couldn’t work out a solution amenable to #MeOnly. Thus I got out of the tight spot by promising a crafted insincere apology.
I live a blessed life. I’ve managed to issue a crafted insincere apology without saying sorry to nobody nowhere nohow. I rock. Oh, yeah, don’t forget what I said about the slouching thing with the pitiless eyes. It’s definitely headed your way.
Always Your Obedient Servant,
Ms. Allison’s Employer
Ms. Allison’s Feeble Fable (aka, “The Slouching Thing With Pitiless Eyes”)
Renfield Stoker-Belle exited her haunted house in the wilds of Torqwamni County one sunny Saturday morning and cheerfully hopped in behind the wheel of a “cherry” 1967 Dodge Charger convertible named “Lucille.” She engaged the motor and spoke to her beloved automobile.
“There’s awesomenicity in the air,” Lucille,” she said. “At long last we are off to the Great Torqwamni County Leftover Food Storage Device Symposium–where I, the one and only Renfield Stoker-Belle, will proceed to awesomenicitize the gathering with my revolutionary double-smack corner burping system.”
The location of the symposium was in a part of the county unfamiliar to her, so Renfield plugged the coordinates into her TomTom. The instant she did that a weird little voice that sounded like a cross between John Geilgud and Porky Pig blurted “Hulululu-lah-too-too” out of the TomTom.
An extremely perplexed, vexed and perhaps even hexed WTF expression entered Renfield’s pretty face. This condition was in no way eased by a snap of static and the sudden emergence of a purring second voice inside the TomTom, who growled “Get out before I fricase you.” This was followed by what sounded like the panicky ruffling of feathers and the beat of tiny talons running off into the distance.
“What the hell’s going on in there?” Renfield asked as she beat on the TomTom with her fists.
“Stop that, woman,” the purring voice said. “I am the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost. I demand that you take me to a wishing well that’s on the way to your asinine convention. There I will assume my vocation as a Wishingwellwraith.”
After a couple of years living in a house that’s a portal routinely used by ghosts to cross-over from one side of reality to the other and back, Renfield sighed with the same degree of annoyance one displays when encountering an encampment of cookie selling Girl Scouts strategically placed at the supermarket’s main entrance.
“We ain’t going nowhere until you tell me A, what happened to the other dude, and B, how can you be a ghost of a ghost?” Renfield said. As an experienced supernaturalist (as well as a leftover food storage device icon) she knew that the best way to deal with ghosts was to keep them talking. For whatever reason, ghosts cannot lie.
“The ‘other dude’ is a pain in the ass who cut the line and hopped this device even though I had already laid my claim to it long ago. I’d kill him if it were possible, but since he’s dead to start with the best I could do was give him a good whack of electricity, which, as you know, can be highly uncomfortable to accept no matter what side of the grave you call home.”
Renfield considered the situation. She eventually whatever shrugged and placed Lucille in gear. “All right, fiend,” she said, “I’ll take you where you want to go, but it better be on my way, or I’ll plug your butt into a wet generator.”
It was three miles north to the well where the Ghost of the TomTom Ghost wanted to go. It lay at the end of a reasonably level dirt road, which Lucille didn’t find objectionable. The well looked as though it had fallen out of a fairy tale, with its little stone circle, bucket draw and thatched roof. Somebody had even affixed a quaint wooden sign with “WISHES TAKEN FOR A FEE” engraved on it to the tiny roof.
“How do you know about this?” Renfield asked, still seated behind the wheel.
“This is my property and I had it built before I died,” the purring voice said as it vacated the TomTom and began speaking from the well. “Thanks for the ride. Hope you awesomenicitize them at the dumbass meeting of yours.”
“Just a minute, buster,” Renfield said. “Why a wishing well?”
“In life I was the president of a large payday loan company,” the former Ghost of the TomTom Ghost, now a Wishingwellwriath, said. “I so love taking other people’s money away from them. Just watching it stack, don’t you know?”
“I get it, it’s all clear to me now,” Renfield said. “You’re an asshole. It explains everything. Tell me, wishy, do you have the power to grant wishes?”
“After the ‘asshole’ crack, I’m afraid that answer will cost you,” the Wishingwellwraith said. “We both know I cannot lie, but I’m not required to reply.”
Renfield laughed and reached into her purse then flung a dollar coin into the well and listened for the splash. She replugged the coordinates to the symposium into her TomTom and placed Lucille in gear.
“Oh, hell no,” the Wishingwellwraith said. “But I do sell them false hope, which, nowadays, is a marketable commodity.”
Renfield gave the wishing well and its contents the Finger before spinning Lucille around and driving off to make awesomenistic history.
The Moral to the Feeble Fable:
The Optimist forgets that things are only at their brightest when the sun explodes.
One More Crafted Insincere Apology For the Road.
Just heard from an indignant Wishing Well Ghost who objected to the character of miserly, grifting Ghost of the TomTom Ghost/Wishingwellwraith just presented. Told him I’d say sorry for real if for fifty grand if he could either triple the president’s IQ or endow him with a sense of taste. I even gave this ghost a method of accomplishing both at the same time: “Just turn the S.O.B. into a Spam sandwich.”
If we should see this event unfold before the next election, then I’ll say sorry. Until then I will reach out to the readership to raise the necessary funds.
Awesomenistically Your Faithful Servant,
Ms. Allison’s Employer
FastbackJon at English Wikipedia [Public domain]