the bailiwick ball of the ballywick billigits by Leila Allison
-1-
A little *Bird told me about a movement in Saragun Springs calling for the legitimization for the common misspellings of commonly misspelled words. For example, “mispelled”, for some, should carry the same weight as the correct item that appeared in the opening sentence. The instant I heard about it my mind drifted toward the billigits, our resident four wee winged orange folk. The billies not only eschew the use of capital letters and punctuation, they also are usually the last to receive their participation trophies at the yearly Spelling Bee, if you catch my drift.
(*For the record, the little Bird is a Goldfinch named Gordon.)
‘T was an ugsome tiding. I have always felt that ignorance should be vanquished by education and attentiveness; but nowadays it is easier to give up and grant it mental citizenship–better than to have someone go on Instagram and link your education stand to racism or Epstein. The earthly Powers That Be (from here, PTB) have always used unsavory methods to control the masses. Religion used to be the main go to, but as science crumbles the altars, the PTB now relies on Fear to herd the Elders and Ignorance (and a generous amount of wacky tobacky) to keep a lid on the Youth. I, the Chief Pen of the Springs, have been able to keep a handle on this sort of thing.
“Renfield!” I called out, all in charge like, using my mighty voice to summon my Second in Command and the Only Imaginary Friend in the realm. But all sense of gravitas evaporated when I *leapt two feet in the air upon her yelling “What!” in my ear, because, unbeknownst to this Mighty Pen, she was standing behind me as I stood gazing out my office window, pondering weighty matters.
(*Oh all right, let’s say the soul skied while the soles stayed low.)
After the perfunctory exchange of expected comments (which took eleven more from the word budget than this sentence), Renfield and I discussed what she told me was the “Ebrace Ignance End Instruckshun Origanization”–from here the EIEIO.
Renfield has been working on her Ph.D. in Film Gangsterology, online. She’s as attracted to online doctorates as Charlie Sheen is to stupidity. Therefore, for the past month or so, nearly everything she says traces to a mafia flick.
“I believe that the billigits might be the Tataglia Family in this caper,” she said. “But I wager that the powers in Lambistan are the wooly Barzinis pulling the strings–they figure you a Fredo.”
I had seen the Godfather enough times to make sense of what she said. But it made no overall sense. I mean if the Lambs of Lambistan were involved, directing the so-called movement from the shadows, why disguise it.
“This requires an investigation,” I said. “How about you assemble a team and head to Lambistan to figure out the mess.”
“What’s the magic word?”
“Five-hundred shares of stock for you and your henches.” (To avoid a pause in the effortless flow of this production, the “stock” and its value will be elaborated on later, like in part two, three at the latest.)
Stoney silence. She knew five hundred would always be the max, but she needed to hear something else with it.
“All right, apiece–but for no more than what you can fit in the cart.” I’ve yet to catch her unawares in the fine print of things. I should have wished for an Imaginary Friend who was not every bit as intelligent and devious as I. And maybe I should have wished that I was always as smart as her, considering the whopper of a loophole I’d foolishly left open.
-2-
Renfield named the team she headed for the trip to Lambistan the Sensational Six (hence the loophole, I did not place a limit on the number of accomplices. Thus, for me, it was more like the Expensive Three-Thousand, and their effectiveness reminded me more of the “troops” Falstaff gathered in King Henry IV Part Two).
It figured that she would pile as many as she could in our tiny electric cart, each one earning Five hundred shares of stock in the metal rich asteroid 16 Psyche that only the realm of Saragun Springs was smart enough to call “dibbs” on, making each one of us an instant “virtual” gazillionaire (remember the explanation promised earlier? Ha! Done deal.)
Renfield’s main woe involved the cart’s maximum weight capacity. It has slowly drifted down to two hundred-fifty pounds from three hundred, decreasing exactly one pound after every trip (according to a counter on the dash), even though there is not a damn thing wrong with it. I figure it is developing sentience and the better it thinks the more it considers taking passengers from here to there unworthy of its magnificence. Soon it will reach the point of intelligence at which it will be of no use like the rest of us. That is the same degree of brain activity which empowers a human being to do nothing because “My rap creds gonna blow up and pay for everything. Just wait and see.”
Renfield probably weighs a hundred ten (she does that on purpose, to spite me, she is also six inches taller). Daisy Kloverleaf decided to pass on the adventure. She claimed that she has begun studying for the role of a lifetime. She says she’s studying the “Method.” Actually, Daisy intensely dislikes the Lambs and the antipathy is mutual and placing them together usually causes a shit storm. But she volunteered her twin brother Fenwick, who weighs about fifteen pounds.
The rest of the crew involved two Ghosts, whose combined weight was forty-two grams . They were Omar the Oraclespectre (a ghost who is able to interact with extremely lightweight physical objects, for the purpose of fortune telling; he cannot foretell a damn thing, but he says he helps) and Misophynx (a Spirit who can create annoying musical noises. He’s convinced that he is a regular Beethoven, but he’s not even an irregular Nancy Vicious).
Then there was Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon. Due to being a living dimension hopping cartoon, Peety weighs negative sixteen ounces. And Renfield enlisted a newcomer: it was (I guess is until this is read) the debut for a young Piglet named Porknoy, the youngest son of Tallywhacker and Taffypuller, Berkshire Hogs who weigh as much as a SUV combined. Fortunately, the Piglet was three weeks old and his rapidly accumulating girth was not yet enough to put the team overlimit. Although very young, Porknoy already possessed the education, communication skills and vocabulary of a ten-year-old boy. Unlike most ten-year-old boys, however, he is extremely polite and indigestibly cute, which is saying something for a person who greatly enjoys wallowing in shit.
At slightly over a thousand in the word count the team headed to Lambistan.
-3-
Berkshire Hogs in Saragun Springs are quite chatty–they are effulgent orators (we are introducing new Word of the Production in the Springs. Effulgent has been chosen for this piece. For those of you ignorant of the word, that most people cannot even misspell, please look after the credits roll for its definition). Even Berky Piglets no older than your last software update have, in their words, the “giftiest gab.” This was fortunate (which it is not always) because Porknoy’s arrival coincided with a serious need for backstory.
The cart tutted (yes, tutted, that is the sound it makes as it tuts not putts along) its way through the Woak Grove that marks the western boundary of the Great and Powerful Witch HeXopahta’s Enchanted Wood (she gets real pissy when I write “Woods” so we will save that for James). Renfield was at the wheel, which made sense because four of the crew were essentially massless and neither Porknoy nor Fenwick were tall enough to see above the steering wheel. Actually, Fenwick knows how to drive, but he also knows the miracles of jellies, mushroom tea, Mountain Dew and record setting morning bong hits (the dubious one to whom I am Pen, and who resides in your Earth, sends supplies to us through the interdimensional vortex in the center of our realm. One lid of shake weed was transformed into endless bales of the “Good Stuff”). Fenwick is utterly unlike his go-getter twin Daisy–but he’s a fine little guy, a beret wearing beatnik who sees the universe through a mildly euphoric, THC enhanced fog that is fun for him but not so useful when it comes to holding a lane.
The set up of the six persons in the cart (a four seater, not designed for adults any larger than slight Miss Renfield, who is five-three, eight stone for you UK folks) looked like three because the Ghosts were invisible at the time (that’s by choice; casting physical shapes takes a lot of needless energy, so they just don’t do it much) and Peety, who is two dimensional and about the size of a Big Mac usually goes unseen unless he flickers into your view. He was sitting on top of Fenwick’s head in the back seat, drinking PDQ and singing little songs he knew from the Great Era of American Slob Coms (circa 1978 to 1989). His favorite that day came from a flick called The Hollywood Knights (believe it or not, a very young Michelle Pfeiffer was in it along with Robert Wuhl and Fran Drescher). The words go like this: “Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia. He was an English guy who came to fight the Tur-kish.”
The tune appealed to Fenwick, whose personality is best described as a stoner beatnik. Think Kerouac on a surf board–like Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High–another of Peety’s beloved classics. Fenwick may be fairly useless as a worker but he is genuinely nice to all and that’s a hell of a lot better than most people I know.
Spherical Porknoy road shotgun, beside Renfield, who just loves to squeeze his cheeks. “You are so cuuute,” she said. “Are you ready for your big debut?” The cart was dutifully chugging along at under normal walking speed. It was about to pass through the Woak Grove which abuts the Enchanted Wood and the little road that leads to Lambistan.
Porknoy produced a script someone gave to him (probably as a practical joke, since there are no scripts in the Springs). Cleared his throat and–
Said nothing because the four billigits swept in from the Woak Grove. The billies are mostly identical, deny the existence of capital letters, androgynous (although we call them “the boys”) winged folk, orange skinned (as in Sunkist not you know who) and (usually) clad blue polo shirts, khaki shorts and hemp slippers that fall off in flight (a collection of facts I have typed at least a hundred times). This was the case this time around, except each billie was “riding” a Horsey (of the type of toy once popular before the need for an imagination was omitted from playthings) and all had a different letter printed on his shirt. The billigits normally known as flounder, pinto and weasel wore shirts that featured an f, p and w respectfully, which made sense, but mothball sported a d on his chest.
“You’re in the wrong shirt, unless you’ve changed your name to doofus,” said Renfield, pointing at mothball.
“Pardon me, Miss Renfield,” said Porknoy. “If I am not mistaken, I believe we are looking at the fabled four billigits of the apocalypse: pestilence, famine, war and death.”
The billies bowed with as much dignity being four wee, winged orange folk riding stick Horsies allowed.
“Oooooh,” said Renfield, a fine person, but not overly keen on being corrected. “Cuuuute and he’s gotta big ol’ juicy fatbacky brain.”
Renfied officially stopped the cart, a hard thing to tell from a distance; I was viewing them on the crystal ball that connects my office to the Enchanted Wood because my chromebook needed charging. As long as they were on HeXy’s land I could see and hear what they were up to. Yet despite the small aid this was to keeping them in my somewhat rounded field of vision I despaired because Woak Trees, unlike Dinosaurs, detect the stoppage of motion. When you keep things moving they ignore you, but when you loiter they will assault you with opinions one may associate with an Oak Tree that has developed a highly annoying sense of social consciousness. HeXopatha planted the grove in effort to deter lingerers on her land.
Woaks speak via waving their branches in a collective effort. The grove is a single mind formed of many trees who manipulate the wind as it passes through their boughs; airy words assault from all around. There is no lifeform (or deathform, remember we have Ghosts) in Saragun Springs more capable of locating an insult in a comment than the Woak Grove. It used to be that just saying stuff whether you moved or not was enough to wake them. It cost ten thousand shares to get HeXy to amend the spell.
And the Woak Grove whispered “Fat shamer!”
Meanwhile back at the office…
-4-
“Fuck! Cunt! Cocksucker! Motherfucker!” I roared, hurling the crystal across the room. There used to be seven Deadly Dirty Words, but shit, tits and piss aren’t the heavies they used to be.
No violence in any fantasy world can do damage to a crystal enchanted by HeXopatha, but I must throw unbreakable stuff when enraged because only rich fucking writers can “Go like The Who” on stuff. Therefore the goddam thing bounced off the wall (in which there was a new hole–getting to be more hole than fucking wall anymore), rolled up the small critter ramp that leads to my desk stop, re-seated itself in its holder, flashed red and contained the splendidmand somehow wholesomely evil face of the Great Witch herself.
“Now, now, darling,” she cooed. “Remeber your blood pressure and language that will eliminate underage readers.”
I scowled and whispered, “I needta know the word count.”
“Do you mean this particular piece or in general?” Anita Know’s voice asked. She was coming out of a tablet I did not like much anyway. I opened a drawer, removed a pint of Yukon Jack, my cigs, lighter and the small yet effective sledge hammer I use to threaten Anita with whenever she turns smart-ass on me.
“2443,” she croaked and vanished. Most likely into a more expensive device.
I lit a smoke, took a pull of Yukon and resumed scowling at HeXopatha. “I got something like five hundred words left in the fucking budget. And it pisses me off. It will be like fitting War and Peace into a haiku.”
“Oh you mortals and your subservience to numbers,” she laughed. “Let me help you out–this one is on the house.”
-5-
All of a sudden, you, dear reader, feel all groovy inside. It’s like that first beer or bong hit or pill the dentist gave you all over again. And you now see a Piglet who’s either prancing, mincing, capering or frolicking (your mind, your choice, dear reader). He is doing such in a meadow accompanied by the four billigits. You feel so groovy that you wish to copy and paste this paragraph to your cerebellum so that you never again will suffer the Awful Truth of Life.
“Hello Dear Reader,” says the Piglet. He is new and wears a name tag claiming the name Porknoy.
The four billigits begin snapping their fingers like beatniks at a 1962 poetry beat meet. For a moment your normal personality asks “Like meat beat?” but the mojo is powerful and you soon forget that puerile voice. The four billies are riding toy stick Horsies that you no longer remember the why of that situation and do not care much….
(“2683,” croaks a terrible distant female voice, to which a less offensive female voice hisses “Shut the fuck up!” But they fade and are forgotten.)
Porknoy now spouts a little song and the billies dance aboard thor stick Horsies like the Chi-lites and ooh and ah, in harmony. Everything that is sung reminds you of the Chi-Lites’ hit Have You Seen Her, but not enough to make you consider dropping a dime to the group’s legal team.
“Gordon the little Bird told the tale,
That took the wind out of Leila’s sails–” (Porknoy)
“Shoulda seen her, Yeah, shoulda seen her” (the billigits)
“It was about misspelling words and not getting bad marks,
At the Lamb School” (Porknoy)
“Yeah, at the Lamb School, the funky Lamb School” (the billigits)
Right here, Porknoy’s voice soars so high that the realm’s two Dogs, Beezer and Barkvevious come a-running–oops, never mind–only so many words left–that part is a dream, only a dream. But the Piglet really climbs the scales.
“Way up high on Wild Turkey, did she fly then Leila sent us to get the troo-ooth”
“Yeah the funky troo-ooth, the funkadelic troo-ooth”
Right now, Beezer and Barkevious, who refused to bow out as dreams, begin playing a solo on a kazoos.
-6-
Meanwhile, back at my office…
“All right, Anita, I know you’re dying to tell me–what’s the word count at?” I said as I dusted off the old fax machine I used to send documents to Lambistan.
“I think I need to hear some magic words first.”
I ran an estimate based on her last alert and figured that it would be cheaper yet less fun to apologize than to mention the hammer again. So, let’s just assume I did one or the other to a degree of effectiveness that got me the desired reply.
“2987.”
“Lucky thirteen.” I muttered as I faxed a bribe to the Lambs. “That’ll end it.”
“Overdrawn.”
“Yeah, and quartered.”
Finis
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