The Giant Clock Radio by Leila Allison

Prologue

A psycho doesn’t need to explain her actions until the trial begins. And even then it is optional. Thus the answer to all things “Why?” in my make-believe land of Saragun Springs is almost always a case of a shrug and the words “shit happens”–a concept that is a byproduct of Free Will. Still, everything sounds fancier in Latin, and telling someone “Stercore Accidit ” gives one an air of scholarship; the following is a case of Stercore Accidit if there ever has been one.

Shaggy Clock Radio Story

There’s a new addition to the town square in the realm of Saragun Spring’s capital (and only) city, Agoville. It took a hundred Fictional Character (FC’s) actors in the realm to move the new object from the vicinity of the interdimensional vortex next to the fetid spring our realm is named after to Agoville. Rats, mainly (I believe I saw a Weasel or two in the mix), “borrowed” from the Witch HeXopatha–minions who were paid in tobacco and absinthe. Anyone who has glanced at the title of this production has probably figured (correctly) that the object is a Giant Clock Radio.

It required payment of a hundred shares in the metal rich asteroid 16 Psyche to bribe HeXopatha into letting me bribe her workforce. She trades magic and her employees’ labor for shares. Although it is all explained in another production altogether, we, the citizens of Saragun Springs, have put a claim on the space stone 16 Psyche, which is valued at more money than there is on Earth. We used the interdimensional vortex to get that deed done, and we barter our shares (which were split evenly–and have no monetary value yet) for goods and services. But that is neither here nor there as far as the Giant Clock Radio is concerned.

It is a 1975 Westclox, AM/FM, “new fangled” digital, encased in brown plastic. On Earth, the radio was about nine inches wide, six deep and three high. But when inanimate objects pass through the interdimensional vortex they tend to enlarge greatly; thus a shot of absinthe and a single pinch of tobacco can bribe an entire legion of Witch minions, and a clock radio can expand to the size of a house. The horde moved it along on a series of enlarged pencils and pulled it to Agoville with the clock’s own cord (this was aided by a lessening of inertia spell provided by HeXy for a “nominal fee”). If you can imagine a mob of intoxicated Black Rats (and Weasels), smoking, telling dirty jokes, constantly replacing pencils from rear to front in an effort to pull a Giant Clock Radio the size of a house as though it were a stone head to the shore on Easter Island, then you have the correct picture of the event. I envisioned it as Saragun Springs’ version of Big Ben. (I’ve since learned that Ben is only the bell in the Elizabeth Tower.)

Almost everything that comes through the vortex is put through by My Employer, who lives in your Earth realm. I place supply orders via the hotline on my desk and she sends them through (after a perfunctory amount of whining has passed). But occasionally, speaking scientifically, shit happens through the vortex that she claims to have no knowledge about. So it goes with the Giant Clock Radio (the pencils were requested for the move). The Boss claims innocence regarding the Giant Clock Radio. Personally, I am not convinced. I can see her disposing of unwanted belongings through the vortex–especially given her habit of black out drinking accompanied by Big Ideas, suggested by a Tippleganger Ghost. It is in the scope of her character. The field near the vortex is littered with a variety of items that are usually found at a garage sale.

After the Clock Radio was moved, it occurred to me (a bit late) that it would be useless without electricity. We have power, but no outlet large enough for a Giant Clock Radio. So I placed an order (this time by text, to curb the whining): Extension Cord (plugged in). It incurred the typical enlarging, and the Rat Team was bribed further (and more shares of asteroid stock were transferred to HeXopatha), and they pulled the Mile Long Extension Cord to the radio and joined it to the power cord.

Once plugged in only the extension plug itself remained. The cord vanished because the Boss texted me claiming it was a “safety hazard”–yet the arrangement works anyway–like a bluetooth working on something before it was invented. This resulted in an extremely bright blinking red 12:00 that could be seen throughout the realm. Fortunately Saragun Springs has no shortage of individuals who have the tech skills of small children. After one’s twentieth year one must find someone with the mindset of a six-year-old to set the time on a clock radio. Penrose the Flying Weasel (perpetually six) went up (Penrose too needed bribing because heasel/sheasel is also one of HeXy’s) did a tap dance on the controls and set the correct time. But unknown to all Penrose found it amusing to also set the alarm, which went off promptly at four in the morning. It produced an awful buzzing pulse. A flock of HeXopatha’s Owls was dispatched to hit the giant snooze bar (well worn due to years of pounding by what we figure must have been a Giant Fist). Somehow the timer got stuck and it goes off at four every night and can only be stopped by a bunch of well bribed Owls (whose master is getting richer by the day) landing on the thing every ten minutes until it stops at 4:30. Someone suggested pulling the plug, but I figured we should let well enough alone, besides the Owls were paid for.

Reversible Zipper on a Body Bag

Yesterday, four A.M. failed to go off like a bomb blast in Agoville. Instead the realm filled with the voice of Daisy Kloverleaf the Pygmy Goatess who said: “Goodly good morningly morning, Saragun Springs! A welcomely welcome to the firstly first Daisy and Penrose Show on WPDQ–sponsoredly sponsored by PDQ Pilsner! Broadcastly broadcasted from a secretly secret location to the Giant Clock Radio!”

To my shame I’d never thought to flip the switch on the back of the thing from alarm to radio.

Live and learn.

Stercore Accidit.

I have yet to iron out the little discrepancies between the laws of nature in Saragun Springs and the normal universe. One of which is the nature of enhanced sound. It plays across the realm at the same volume no matter where you are. For instance if you whisper something to someone, that works out in the usual way–but if you speak the same into a microphone, everyone will hear it at the same level no matter where he/she/it may be. Regardless, enlargement did not improve the quality of sound produced by the Giant Clock Radio’s cheap, tinny speaker.

I usually arrive at four AM with a half pot of coffee, two energy drinks and a fist full of Tramadol in my system. This is because the Boss insists that I must wake at three in the morning the way she does everyday. I usually arrive at three AM pretty much comatose due to my own conspicuous consumption of absinthe and tobacco during the scrum of the day. Some people stretch and greet the morning, I unzip my body bag and fall out. The Owls had apparently abandoned their post because the snooze bar was not applied. I simply sat there for a while and let the fresh hell of the experience engulf me in flames.

“Guess, what listenly listeners! I am herely here to advise you in matterly matters of lifely life,” said Daisy. “Just punchly punch WPDQ into your phone and ask me a question.”

I sighed and fished my phone out of the clutter on my desk.

Adverbially Yoursly Yours

“We have Leila in the Barnyard on line one,” I heard Penrose say–over the phone and “on air.”

“Well, goodly good morning, to our penly Penname,” (Daisy is addicted to adverbs. Unless she is speaking in a natural conversation, Daisy pours the scripted adverbs down on you the same way a thirteen-year-old in love for the first time might gush in a diary. From here, I’ll trim most of Daisy’s barragely barrage for the sake of the word count budget.)

There was no delay between our voices on the phone and the radio as there is on Earth (designed to prevent stray F-bombs and such). It’s another detail I’ve yet to perfect. But in my defense, Saragun Spring did not come with an instruction manual. Unless the Boss telling me “Here you go–good luck” can be considered helpful.

“You guys upply up earlily early,” I said. “What’s the gag?”

“We are prerecorded,” Penrose jumped in.

I blushed mentally and did not pursue that subject further. Telephone time phasing is another item in the Springs that was lost under the metaphorical sofa like an important bolt. Thus you can hold live conversations on the horn with someone who’s at yesterday, while you are now–or tomorrow as the other person sees it.

“Ah, yes, that makes sense,” I lied. “Tell me, where are you transmitting from?” I figured that Daisy and Penrose had traveled through the vortex to our sister realm of Other Earth, since the realm has neither radio stations nor transmission towers.

Instead of an answer I heard the following (edited for adverbs) Daisy said “It’s 1522 in the story count, do you know where your plot is headed? Fear not our exalted Pen, WPDQ is here for you!”

And before I could say anything, I heard the unmistakable crack of a beer can. This was followed by the equally unmistakable voice of Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon (my only FC who is native to Other Earth). “Make mine PDQ!”

Then Penrose said, “Welcome to Inspirational Scripture with Pie-Eyed Peety, brought to you by the fine folks at PDQ Pilsner.”

Another beer can was cracked and Peety (who only speaks via pitches for the beer he was born as the cartoon mascot for–and quotes from “slob-coms” and action flicks from the seventies and eighties) said: “‘You can take your thumb out of my ass any time now, Carmine,’–Mrs. Dean Vernon Wormer–Animal House.”

“This concludes today’s Inspirational Scripture segment with Pie-Eyed Peety,” said Penrose. “Remember whether you are blue, screwed or tattooed, always say, ‘Hey beer tender, make mine PDQ!’”

That answered my question as far as location went, because they do not have the FCC on Other Earth.

“Hey, was that remark meant for me?” I asked; it was my day for asking the obvious.

“It’s 1811 in the worldly word count,” said Daisy. “Timely time we movely move on to the next caller–buh-bye-ly buh-bye.”

There are times when getting hung up on isn’t the worst thing that can happen. I tossed my phone on the desk and listened to the show–not that I had much choice. Then I got philosophical. It was getting deep in the count; the three-thousand word limit was approaching faster than the hardpan desert floor toward Wile E Coyote falling off a mesa, yet what had I done with this story? Isn’t one’s make-believe realm supposed to be a refuge from the drudgery of clocks and schedules and limits and deadlines? Then it all became clear to me. At precisely 1900 in the word count I had a revelation.

The Revelation

I tapped the crystal ball that sits on my desk. It is my line to HeXopatha. When she calls me the ball flashes red, but not being a Wiccan I must give it a tap when I want to speak to her. And I have to tap it just right–neither too softly nor hard–because HeXy is a Goldilocks sort of person who just has to have things her own way.

“Darling, what a pleasant surprise,” HeXopatha said, her face, as lovely as Foxglove, Oleander and Wisteria, filled the crystal.

HeXopatha can read minds when it comes to descriptions of her mightiness. “Why compare me to poisonous flowers, darling?”

“Because you are a Witch. If you were a playful Sprite or a goddam Meadow Fairie I’d throw Lavender and Johnny-jump-ups at you–but you are a Witch; be thankful you are not of the cackling, greenskin variety.”

Appeased, she smiled, “Am I to assume that you have more shares burning a hole in your pocket?”

“Depends–Are you listening to the radio?”

“I did for a while, but I turned it down after your interview.”

“That’s what I hoped for–I knew that you would have a way to tune out the program that cannot be avoided until the kids go off air.”

“Well, you could unplug the thing or turn down the main volume knob…”

“Never mind snooping for plot holes, at the 2144th word,” I said. “A thousand shares of the asteroid for your secret technology.”

She laughed and faded away, but not without saying, “Done! An, um, associate in need of a tithe will be at your door …anon…”

Hemlock The Handy-Wallaby

Tithe and bribe kinda sorta rhyme for a good reason. HeXy’s minions usually enjoy the same sort of vices, so I fished a pint of Yukon Jack, a reasonably clean corn cob pipe and a pouch of shake tobacco from my desk and said “It’s open,” when the “um, associate” knocked on the door about a minute after HeXopatha had signed off.

I looked up and saw a tiny, adorable Black Kangaroo, wearing a Robin Hood hat, a work shirt with the name “Hemlock” embroidered on one pocket and carrying a small toolbox.

“My what a cute Roo,” I said. “How ya’ doin little shaver?”

The “little shaver” dropped the toolbox, leapt onto my desk and grabbed me by the collar and said “I’m a full-sized male Wallaby, see?” in a voice surprisingly like that of Humphrey Bogart.

“You’re gonna be a full sized eunuch Wallaby if you don’t let go of my collar, see?” He did just that and I offered him the pint.

“Sorry about that sister,” he said, letting go, stepping back and extending a paw, “Hemlock.”

“Leila. Pleased to meetcha, Hemlock.”

He tipped back the pint and did an impressive amount of damage to his tiny macropod liver from the size of the swallow I saw him sink. I handed him the pipe and lit the bowl.

“Much obliged. Magnificent Master sent me.” He hopped off the desk and opened the toolbox and removed a large plastic dial. “Where do ya want it?”

I hemmed and hawed and decided that the desk was too busy as it was. My second in command, Renfield usually arranges such things, but it was her opium den vacation. “Um, by the window,” I said, “good as anywhere.”

It’s 2500 in the Word Count

At four o’clock this morning the Giant Clock Radio again spouted a chorus of adverbs. The Daisy and Penrose Show plans to air Monday through Friday, and they say that it will grow every day. Every episode will contain a Dear Daisy segment (advice that will, I believe, almost always ends with the caveat “I strongly encourage you not to reproduce”) and then there will be the “Inspirational Quotations” given by Peety–which he recites like holy scripture. And Penrose has the makings of a regular media gadfly, already conducting snarky interview segments with the realm’s citizens–Penrose Lane–already conducting “Theme Shows,” like Oprah or Dr. Phil.

“Good morning, Listeners,” Penrose said. “On a very special Penrose Lane we discuss the under-known tragedy of Small Marsupial Syndrome–or SMS, with my guest Hemlock the Handy-Wallaby.–welcome Hemlock.”

“Macropod,” Hemlock replied with his Bogey voice. Before he left I filled his little tool box with pints of Yukon and tobacco. You could smell both coming off him over the radio.

“Macropod?”

“Yeah, pal–I’m a Macropod, not a Marsupial.”

“Actually, I’d say you are a Micro-pod, lil shaver.”

The insults escalated toward physical violence until I realized that the whole thing was “produced” like pro wrestling and the mental war crime that is known as “Reality TV.” I went to the window and turned the volume low. The crystal ball on my desk flashed red, meaning HeXopatha was reaching out–or more likely about to reach into my pocket for more shares.

“Hello Lily of the Valley,” I said, returning to my desk, looking for my smokes. “Tough guy Handy-Wallaby you got on your staff.”

“Darling Hemlock never backs down.”

“What’s with the Robin Hood hat?–I meant to ask him but he’s a little touchy.”

“He found it near the vortex and liked the way it looked on him.”

“I see,” I said. “Hmmm, you called me, right?”

“Yes, Leila, I did.”

“Better make it quick,” I said, “we are near the last hundred in the word budget.”

“For another thousand shares, I might be inclined to do something about that,” she said, her eyes glancing toward my window with the slightest movement. “I’m afraid that the dial is already obsolete.”

I returned to the window and saw a Giant Beige Box standing on the horizon in the direction of the vortex. It too had a speaker, and the screen, which had to be the size of an airport hangar, was standing on its side containing Daisy’s face. “A welcomely welcome to the Daisy and Penrose podly podcast.” In the background I saw Penrose and Hemlock squaring off like combatants on the Jerry Springer Show, much to the delight of a studio audience composed mainly of Black Rats.

“Great, more junk the Boss is too cheap to recycle,” I muttered. I then checked the word counter on my belt, which I wear like a pedometer. With all that–and this paragraph included–it stood at 2996.

“Deal,” I sighly sighed.

Leila