SaragunVision ’23 By Leila Allison

-1-

A Nocturnal Visit

I entered my office one morning and discovered a playbill pasted to the window. It was on the outside facing in. A quick check of the spy-cam I recently installed revealed that a Trans Weasel named Penrose had stuck the playbill to my window precisely at the stroke of midnight.

In Penrose’s case “Trans” doesn’t refer to gender (of which she or he is mysterious about). Penrose is a minion of the Witch HeXopatha; HeXy often endows her beloved animal toadies with abilities not normally associated with their species. In that context only, it was perfectly normal that Penrose had morphed into a Flying Weasel.

I noted that the little fiend’s wings had grown in nicely as the spy-cam footage showed the Sheasel or Heasel hovering outside the window, like a bizarre Hummingbird, clearly illuminated by the octarine light of our Moon, Ping, gluing the paper to the window with a generous glob of Weasel spit.

I need two cigarettes and a hundred milligrams of crushed Tramadol in my coffee before I’m ready to do stuff like read playbills stuck to windows by Flying Weasels. I’m funny that way.

When the junk kicked in, I had a look:

PDQ PILSNER PRESENTS

SaragunVision ‘23

Today Only in the Enchanted Woods

In keeping with your so-called “real world,” as the Penname of the make believe realm known as Saragun Springs, I am both in charge and the last to know. Leaders throughout the multiverse are noteworthy for an often convenient vacuity relating to current events, and I am no exception. But my second in command and holder of the position of Imaginary Friend, Renfield, knows everything. (She’s also never wrong, but I admit that is more a personal opinion than an established fact.)

I stopped calling Renfield to my office a long time ago. Two reasons: A.) It’s as futile as calling a Cat; B.) The things she shares lead to more cigarettes and Tramadol laced coffee. Besides, Renfield unerringly arrives when it is at long last time for me to know something that has been old news to everyone else for ages.

As though on cue, Renfield entered my office. I was at my desk, smoking a third cigarette. I greeted her with silence, but hooked a thumb in the direction of the playbill.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know,” she said, sarcastically, sitting down on the top of my desk.

“Oh, I know,” I lied. “But for the benefit of the readers I guess we should explain.”

“Ever hear of EuroVision?”

“Vaguely,” I replied. “I believe it involves slightly inbred Euro-trash dressed in ABBA onesies singing and dancing in front of hooligans gacked to the nines on Buckfast.”

Renfield smiled and then spoke directly at you, behind the “fourth wall.” leaving a message you will read…about…now…. “Hello to our fine fine European friends. We love you–well, most of us do. I want to go on record stating that the sentiment in the paragraph above is held only by Leila Allison and in no way reflects the views of the majority of Saragun Springs.”

“All right, fine, whatever. Way to cover your butt.”

“EuroVision is an annual song contest in which the citizens of the European nations enter an original new tune from their homeland,” Renfield said, as though speaking to a five year old. “The contest is held as a festival.”

“Where at?”

“Oh my, what a clever question. Hmmm, well, If I had to guess, I’d say somewhere in Europe.”

I again hooked a thumb in the direction of the playbill. “Not in the Enchanted Woods?”

“Let me google this year’s location,” she said, taking out her phone. “Does Liverpool have an Enchanted Woods?”

“Just Norwegian.”

Renfield went to the window and opened it. From the direction of the Enchanted Woods, I caught the distant sound of a chorus of high-pitched voices singing in harmony.

“Ah, the Rat Choir,” she said. “There’s nothing sweeter than the piping of Rodents on the glen. Brings a tear to my eye.”

I fished a flask, two packs of cigarettes and harder drugs from my desk and placed them in my pockets. “I guess this is the part where we go and find out what’s going on.”

“Indeed–especially since I see a bold-faced two coming up from below.”

-2-

And a Flying Weasel Shall Lead Them From Behind

The electric golf cart we usually use when going into the realm was still on the charger. But since we weren’t bringing along any of my reluctant to walk no farther than across the room, four-footed Fictional Characters (FC’s–who act in my productions and compose the population of Saragun Springs), we hiked through the Enchanted Woods, passing the flask to and fro. Like everything else in the realm the Enchanted Woods (HeXy’s domain) is “boutta mile” away from everything else–due to my poor conception of geometry.

There are two-hundred-twenty-eight FC’s in the realm. We have a total population of two-thirty-two, including me, Renfield, Daisy Cloverleaf and HeXopatha. Daisy has been promoted to Lead FC and Shop Steward for the Union of Imaginary Friends and Fictional Characters. HeXopatha is our resident Wiccan. Witches have an ancient union and I found out that I risked their wrath if I failed to elevate Her Evilness from being just another FC. I almost informed the Hags that being alive was already rough as things get, so, bring it on–But after thinking it over, I said if they took the eye-of-Newt out of their voices, I would see what I could do.

It’s your standard Enchanted Woods, complete with weird foliage, gingerbread structures, leering trees and the occasional Witch’s Familiar peeping at you from a cover of the bushes. Friend Penrose usually secretly tracks individuals who wander into the Enchanted Woods, but her/his recent acquisition of wings makes it harder for her/him to move with normal Stoat-like stealth. And Penrose is too damn lazy to walk, you can hear a buzz like a model plane when the Androgynous One is nearby, which was exactly what we heard, a bit behind us, sticking to the shadows cast by the Enchanted Trees.

An ugsome vision filled my mind. “Renfield, since every individual in Saragun Springs is a ‘Nation’ in her/his/its own right. Tell me that doesn’t mean over two-hundred songs to sit through,” I said, clearly enough, but knowing it wasn’t the sort of question I’d ask if you weren’t reading this. Sounds more like a TV interviewer than natural conversation, right?

“Hell, no,” she said. “Just the Seven Territories.”

“Oh,” I said. “So only the Barnyard, Nameless Hills, the studio city of Ago-a-go-go, the Hoosegow, Turkey Pen, Enchanted Woods and the Spring itself have entries?”

“Still sounding like a TV interviewer, darling,” Renfield said.

“Yeah, I know,” I sighed.

“Maybe I can help,” said Penrose, in a gender neutral tone. Regardless of the androgyny, it was dripping with avarice. Penrose must’ve guessed that we had “made” her/him. And like all FC’s she/he can smell a potential bribe even better than a congressperson.

“Shock and dismay,” Renfield said. “How long have you been there?”

“Betcha’ long enough to set a price,” I said. “All right Ziggy Moonbeam, how much will it cost for you to spill the backstory?” No need to be coy with venal FC’s, they are open about their corruptibility.

“Depends on how much you got.”

“One bag of Weasel Snax, twelve cents American, three Canadian, a dented thimble and a reproduction of a 1962 World’s Fair keychain.”

“Make it two bags, you keep the thimble, and we have a deal.”

“Done.”

Penrose took his pay, flew off into the woods to stash it and returned with one of the bags of Weasel Snax. He politely offered us some, we politely said no thank you. The Weasel diet is somewhat heavy on Fish entrails.

We resumed our course, Penrose just behind and above us. “The Seven Territories have been busy selecting their songs,” Penrose said. “Today, each one will present their tune and then we will vote for the SaragunVision winner.”

“That would be fairer if the populations were evenly distributed,” I said. “Renfield, what’s the latest census numbers?”

She pulled the data up on her phone. “There is one citizen in Ago-a-Go-Go; two each in the Nameless Hills and the Spring; thirty-five call the Turkey Pen home; another fifty in the Barnyard, including you and me; no one at all currently in the Hoosegow, and a hundred and forty two in the Enchanted Woods.”

“See what I mean?”

“Since when is life fair? Should we all win?” Penrose said with a little Weasel laugh. “Participation trophies are like assholes, everybody gets one whether they earn it or not.”

“How profound,” I sighed.

The Rat Choir was getting louder; they sounded as though they were just beyond the next rise. They weren’t singing words, but chanting, somewhat like what you hear in The Exorcist.

“Oh, Penrose, tell her about our Sponsor and the grand prize,” Renfield said.

“PDQ Pilsner is giving away a holiday trip to Other Earth for the lucky winners,” Penrose said.

“As you know, Other Earth is our sister realm. And PDQ Pilsner is the amoral corporation that owns the place–just as soulless and evil as regular Earth’s Amazon.”

“Great,” I said. “Brilliant way to lay in the rest of the backstory–although we can probably kiss that Amazon deal bye-bye.”

“At least he didn’t call Jeffy inbred Euro-trash,” Renfield said.

“Point taken.”

We crested the rise and saw a huge stage on which every available Rat in the realm were chanting sweetly, well as sweetly as Witch’s Rats can chant. Then everything became dark when our little Sun, Pong, focused all his light on the stage only.

“Behold the awe and majesty of SaragunVision ‘23,” Penrose said.

-3-

The Diversion

The audience was divided into sections, which were marked by the flag of their home territory. Penrose zipped off to the large Enchanted Woods Section, Renfield and I made our way to the Barnyard, but all the seats were taken, so we opted for the vacant Hoosegow area.

Ago-a-Go-Go was represented by the gold gilt gavel in which contains the Ghost of my Great to the fourth Grandfather, Judge Jasper P. Montague. Ago-a-Go-Go is where he runs a sham publishing outfit, and is where we shoot most of our productions (for this shoot we were on location in the Enchanted Woods). Tallywacker, the Berkshire Hog, and his wife, Taffypuller, represented the Saragun Spring itself; they do not mind foul smells, and since the Spring has often been compared to demonic flatulence, you must admire their lack of distaste. The Nameless Hills are solely inhabited by Pong and his brother, our Moon Ping. When it got dark, I glimpsed Ping sneak a quick peek above his daytime place behind the southern Nameless Hills(where he spends the day absorbing Pingshine). He saw what Pong was up to and dropped back behind the hills. For a time, he was the only member of the realm not present at the event.

“Psst, what’s the word count,” I asked Renfield. This piece, like most, has a three-thousand word budget.

“A touch past eighteen-hundred,” said HeXopatha, who had taken Renfield’s place unbeknownst to me.

“Where’s Renfield?”

“You know that I and that other person you mentioned refuse to work together,” HeXopatha said.

The Witch and Renfield bear a remarkable resemblance to each other. And it’s no use quizzing either on the root of their problem, which is convenient for someone, like me, who doesn’t care. It’s a matter of course when one shows the other goes. I figured Renfield had gone to the Barnyard. I only wish she hadn’t taken the flask with her.

“Why are we bothering with this sham contest?” I said. “Your territory has the votes.”

“Hush,” HeXy said, “our sponsor has important words.”

The Rat Choir ended its chant and sang: “PDQ.” They held the Q for a long time. Maybe ten seconds.

Pong’s blue light then illuminated the persons of Daisy Cloverleaf, the Pygmy Goatess and Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon. Peety is the cartoon mascot for PDQ (a brand of budget beer for sale at Other Earth only). He’s alive in the Springs pretty much the same way Roger Rabbit was in his movie. Unless extolling the virtues of PDQ, Peety speaks only in quotes from slob-coms and action movies of the 70’s and 80’s.

A trio composed of Penrose, A Rat named Abner and a Black Cat I knew to be Lady Hisskit appeared behind Daisy and Peety. Penrose had a banjo, Abner a harmonica and Hisskit “played” an empty jug which she hissed into and created bass notes. The three began playing a hillbilly tune and Daisy and Peety began to sing:

Daisy: “Hey beertender, don’t you sass, or I’ll break a hoof off in your–”

Peety: “Glass of PDQ.”

Daisy: “I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough, I’ll slap you and you’ll love–”

Peety- “That PDQ.”

Together: “PDQ, PDQ, PDQ! Jesus walked on water for you!”

“PDQ, PDQ, PDQ! Listen punk, you spell respect PDQ, PDQ, PDQ”!

“Say it, boy, it’s PDQ, PDQ, PDQ!”

HeXopatha whispered into my ear: “You have seven-hundred words left to save this thing from the death spiral it appears to be in–or, maybe I can help.”

Then it was clear to me. This wasn’t about some crooked contest, it was another ploy by HeXy to seize control of the realm from me. As it is in your world, everyone here is also a goddam writer.

I cast about my mind seeking something that could end this thing before the budget ran out and had to ask HeXy to help. I continued to throw good words after bad, until it came to me.

As Peety and the gang exited the stage, a loud rumbling began in the south. All heads turned and saw Ping roll toward the stage at a height of twenty feet above the ground. At that distance he’s about the size of a yoga ball. At any distance he’s a glowing purple/green orb. This was an odd enough sight on its own, made stranger because Renfiled was standing on rotating Ping, remaining upright by moving her feet like a log roller, juggling burning bowling pins. And the four billigits, wee winged orange folk, were with her. Each one was dressed in a powder blue tuxedo ala 1972 and dancing in the air like the Temptations.

I have no idea what happened after that, because I seized on the diversion to beat my way home back to the Barnyard as quickly as possible.

Upon arriving back at my office, I saw that another playbill had been pasted to the window, replacing the old one I saw wadded on the ground. I knew that the spy-cam would again show Penrose, due to what appeared to be a fresh glob of Weasel spit on the corners of the document. I entered and made a pitcher of martinis before having a look.

It said:

End This Story Contest

A.) Love conquers all

B.) Car chase and bloodbath

C.) Gender Revealing Party for Penrose

D.) Second verse of PDQ Jingle

I made my choice and in the distant Enchanted Woods came the following:

Daisy: “Marriage? I’ve had too much, but I can never get enough…”

Peety: “Of that PDQ”!

Daisy:“So what if they take the kids away, it’s not like we’re close anyway…”

Peety:“As I am to my PDQ!”

Together: “PDQ! PDQ! PDQ! Can’t cartwheel to my grave fast enough for you!

PDQ! PDQ! PDQ! I will die alone for my PDQ”!

Then the Rat Choir began to sing Danny Boy. We are big on public domain use in Saragun Springs.

And sitting there, I realized that Renfield was right. The sweet voices of Rodents piping in the glen does bring a tear to the eye.

Leila