Fairytale of Saragun Springs By Leila Allison

When a species becomes extinct on Earth, a male and female of the kaput species are secretly stored in the fantasy multiverse, and live and multiply serenely until it is time for their Big Comeback. A sort of reversed, time-released Ark concept. Such is the case with two Passenger Pigeons named Kirsty and Shane. Both are well over a hundred years old because there’s no such thing as permanent death in fantasy realms. No one around here looks too hard into the Why and How of the thing because that might lead to belief in an “Ineffable Hand” and the inevitable buzz-killing, organized religion start-up, which no one wants in a realm where “Do What Thou Wilt” sums up one’s daily To Do list.

Regardless, my realm of Saragun Springs recently became the muster point for the return of Kirsty and Shane, and Ineffable Hand knows how many of their progeny. The entire crew had assembled for “P-Day.”

Somehow the residents of North America managed to kill between three-and-a-half to five billion Passenger Pigeons in a remarkably short amount of time. But that isn’t as amazing when you consider that the Birds weren’t armed and tended to flock in a manner that made taking careful aim unnecessary. According to Google, the last Passenger Pigeon went beak up 1 September 1914.

Kirsty and Shane were plucked from the Earth on 31 August 1914 by that Ineffable Hand we choose to ignore until we want something. Currently, Saragun Springs has yet to celebrate its fifth birthday, but somewhere in the skies of one of the infinite planes of being, there is a place where Passenger Pigeons are immortal. An over the rainbow sort of place, minus people and muskets. That realm, however, does not take part in acts of aggression, directly. I say that sending them to me so I can send them to Earth and engage in a war of sorts is direct enough involvement. But they are run by an especially pettifogging government composed almost entirely of herbivore dinosaurs whose walnut-sized brains are perfect for parliament but cannot appreciate the finer points of logic. A one way dimensional flip sent the entire population of Passenger Pigeons to Saragun Springs. One moment there were none, the next featured masses of them perched on the range of Nameless Hills that encompass the Springs. This was when Kirsty and Shane flew in through my office window. They and the troops are good looking gray over orange Birds with red eyes and that iridescent oily color common in Pigeons on the back of their necks. Unlike the creatures native to Saragun Springs, they cannot speak English–but they appear sharp enough to understand the nature of long forestalled payback.

I spend most of my life exclaiming “What now?” I did such upon “meeting” Kirtsty and Shane (both sported name tags hanging from their necks). But within seconds came a text over the hotline that connects me to the dubious person to whom I am Pen. She gave me a “mission,” which was “explained” in a series of somewhat inebriated text messages.

I’ll spare you her misspellings and ignorant punctuation, but the gist of her communications said I was to wait until I received (and properly replied to) “HELLO, MY NAME IS INIGO MONTOYA” from her via text before sending the vast flock of Passenger Pigeon’s home to North America through the interdimensional vortex at the center of our realm. I foolishly asked what would prevent the Americans from killing them all over again? She informed me that the “Tree huggers got a law passed that forbids harming extinct species.” Only on Earth can such nonsense be authorized.

This presented a problem because of a pulsating stench bubble that recently formed around the vortex. If you can imagine a profoundly fetid and “juicy” giant septic tank uncorked for the first time in centuries and you will be on the right track of what the vile Spring smells like on a good day. The water is said to emanate from a crack in a subdivision in hell and when it reaches the surface the spray produces little spastic black rainbows in the shine of our Sun, Pong. Right beside the Spring is your basic interdimensional vortex. It is two-dimensional, round, silvery and shimmering. If you could buy an interdimensional vortex on Amazon, this style would be the one to get if you are on a budget.

The bubbles come and go but I feared that the current one would foil P-Day. The problem was that someone must activate the vortex manually. We are a poor fantasy realm and cannot afford dimensional flips, so the vortex is the only way out of the Springs. Gas masks are ineffective against the profound stink. But if I could get someone to go in there and open the vortex, it would suck a hole open in the bubble large enough for the flock to pass through (this was an untried theory, but the computer models said it was possible). Only Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon is immune to olfactory assaults in the realm, but being a two-dimensional cartoon Bird, he is unable to push buttons and move levers in material realms.

Then I remembered not just one, but two members of our realm who absolutely love horrible smells and seek such out for pleasure and are often seen on their way to the Spring to “catch a whiff.”

“The Braw Brothers Baw,” popped out of my mouth at the same instant the sound of loud, clicking, slipping toenails on linoleum came from in the kitchenette beside my office.

Destiny.

-2-

Beezer Baw is a British Bulldog until his “brother” Barkevious (a Scottish Terrier) offends him; then Beezer makes a unique Brexit and becomes an English Bulldog to underscore his displeasure with the Scotty. Neither have been to the UK, but are nonetheless staunch anti-royalists (don’t much care for the parliament either). Although they are lifelong residents of Saragun Springs, it might interest you to learn that the Canine diaspora has reached the outer realms of the magic multiverse–it has spread to wildly flung make believe lands where choirs of Irish Setters are often heard howling Galway Bay.

The boys belong to my Imaginary Friend Renfield (who also owns a highly amoral Black Cat named Professor Moriarty) and they are a self-styled comedy team whose adventures tend to follow a few set comic patterns. The main “Braw Bros Baw” shtick involves Barkevious being temporarily in charge of Beezer’s relationship with gravity, then getting distracted, which immediately results in Beezer falling from high and landing hard (but to change it up sometimes Barkevious is mostly responsible for stuff landing hard from the high on Beezer, aided by a cameo by the Prof). Although the Bulldog is never harmed he becomes irate and bellows a peculiar insult that threatens to “make” Barkevious into an unlikely item to be “used” by UK royalty (and PM’s), present and past. Barkevious laughs those off with a snide remark about either Beezer’s thickness of body or thinness of character. Nearly everything they do is related to the acquisition of between-meals’ snacks.

As I entered the kitchenette, Barkervious, who was “spinning his wheels” in an effort to hold up Beezer (who was precariously balanced on the crisper drawer while looking for snacks) saw me. He correctly associates me with the sack of Putrid Pup Dog Treats I keep in a cupboard beyond the boy’s reach.

We all have our little parts to play in Braw Bros Baw skits and distracting Barkevious is my role.

“Hi fellas,” I said as I used a grabber to reach for the treat sack.

On cue, Barkevious removed himself from the task of holding Beezer up and ran over to me. Beezer dropped like a stone but quickly rose, angrily rubbing his well padded butt, and said, “I will make you Prince Andy’s Hello Kitty codpiece for that!”

Barkevious at first ignored the remark, and was about to say something that in some way compared his brother to a tin of Crisco, but this time a thoughtful expression entered his face. “Wonder if Meghan wears a codpiece?”

“Ha!” said Beezer, “that’s where she keeps Harry’s jewels.”

“Aye–Not that he’s using them,” Barkevious added.

I gave both a treat. I fished them out with tongs. Putrid Pup Treats are especially gruesome to smell and touch. The boys have made a little game of guessing the flavor.

“Oooh, Squirrel runs,” said Barkevious.

“Rancid globster here,” said Beezer. “A seaside classic.”

That sort of talk can put you off your feed, but Dogs will be Dogs.

There was a plate of fish tacos in the fridge, which I divided between the boys. I grabbed myself a bottle of PDQ Faerie Ale and considered the choice of feeding extra spicy food to Dogs, but since I didn’t have to live with them, I let the thought go.

“Fellas, gotta mission for you–up yonder at the head of shit creek,” I said. “In the great scope of things there are those born to accomplish bizarre actions and those who have the task of bizarre actions thrust upon them. Strange work long remembered by history until such a thing displeases the spoiled, over-educated, entitled snots of tomorrow. Regardless, today is your day of destiny. The fickle finger of peculiarity points at the Braw Brothers Baw.”

As usual, however, in Saragun Springs it takes a lot of palm and paw greasing to bring destiny (peculiar or otherwise) to fruition. The Baw Boys were easy to motivate because all I had to do was pay them with a considerable amount of fast food and a ride to the nasty Spring. But there was their owner, Renfield, to contend with. To win her permission required several hundred shares of the precious metal rich asteroid, 16 Psyche, that we placed a claim on a while back. And she demanded a role for Professor Moriarty. I got out of that by offering him a case of tuna (and his image at the header) in exchange for not appearing further in the adventure. Since that involved gain without effort, it appealed to his feline sensibilities.

The next morning I awoke at my desk precisely at three AM, a stonehenge of empty PDQ Faerie Ales around my head. The hotline was alerting me to an incoming text. I first cracked open the ale I had stashed in my desk for an eye opener, washed down a couple Tramadol and lit a cigarette before I opened the christless thing:

HELLO, MY NAME IS INIGO MONTOYA

“U Killed My Father, Prepare to die,” I texted back with shaky thumbs.

I checked the camera that keeps an eye on the Spring and saw that the bubble was still there.

It was time for heroes; but I had to settle for the Braw Bros Baw.

-4-

I drove the Baws, the Pigeons and Pie-Eyed Peety to the perimeter of the stench bubble later that morning. Although Peety is a useless charmer, he does speak Pigeon and I figured he’d be a fine interpreter. The cart tops out at three miles an hour and is reluctant to move up hills of any grade. Fortunately, save for the Nameless Hills most of the realm is as flat as a Twiggy impersonator, so we made decent time.

Being Dogs in a vehicle, both of the Baws instantly went into car mode. They sat in back with their eyes glazed and tongues out, heads out the window (or where windows would be if the cart had a top) despite the creeping speed.

Fittingly the Pigeons shared the passenger seat with Peety. This proved to be a miscalculation on my part because Peety is perpetually pickled on PDQ Pilsner and tends to sweet talk the ladies with crude come-ons he has memorized from the slob-coms of the 80’s. Shane took exception to Peety’s flirting with Kirsty and attempted to bore a hole through his head. But being a cartoon, physical assaults have no effect on Peety.

Witness a brief translation (The lines were borrowed from the film “Animal House.”)

Peety (pointing at a cucumber, forgotten in the cart by one of the herbivores after a previous journey): “Mine’s bigger than that.”

Kirsty: “Excuse me?”

Peety: “Vegetables can be really sensuous don’t you think?”

Kirsty: “No, vegetables are sensual. Pigeons are sensuous.”

Shane: “Take that, you fucking cunt!”

Somehow we arrived at the perimeter of the stench bubble without further drama. The bubble was perfectly round, pulsating and looked like a rotten apple.

Upon arrival Kirsty and Shane flew high and signaled to the others that it was time. Soon the sky was black with Pigeons, each and every one a direct descendant of the sole survivors.

Beezer and Barkevious bounded into the bubble and began to roll on the ground.

“Focus, boy, focus,” I called out. And after a few minutes, Barkevious boosted Beezer up so he could reach the lever. I almost called out that the larger Dog should boost the smaller, but logic is not a strong element in the Baw universe.

The computer model was correct. Once engaged, the vortex cleared a hole wide enough for the Pigeons to pass through. Kirsty and Shane led the way. It took about a half hour before the final Bird flew through.

I called out “Excellent work boys.” And I shook a “fresh” sack of Putrid Pup treats. Naturally, this caused Barkevious to run to me and left Beezer, once again, to the somewhat unimaginative hand of gravity. He landed on his butt and bellowed “I will photoshop you a new one for that!”

“Ah you are harder to hold up than Camilla’s face,” Barkevious said.

I gave him a treat. “Oooh, Tabby Cat hairball.”

Beezer arrived and tasted one. “Bootheel Surprise,” he said. “A farmyard staple.”

“Um, thanks for sharing boys,” I said. “And thanks to Ineffable Hand for allowing this mission to be over.”

Peety, who did not join the others, tipped back his bottle and said. “Over? Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?”

After I engaged the cart to take us home, my phone rang. It was Renfield, who was in the office monitoring the news from Earth.

“The United States government is in greater disarray than normal,” she said. “Apparently the vortex has increased the Pigeon army from several thousand to eight billion. There’s already six inches of Pigeon guano standing in Washington DC, and the soldiers who refused to obey the don’t harm law discovered that the vortex has made the Birds impervious to all weapons.”

“It will be alright,” I said. “As soon as the team gets their fill of payback they will return to their home dimension without delay–they’ll never suspect it was us.”

“Wrong-O,” Renfield said. She then sent an image captured from the news feed sent over from one of the many spy-cams helmets fixed to reporter Passenger Pigeon’s heads. Several flocks had begun a sky writing campaign. The messages were similar:

WE ARE FROM SARAGUN SPRINGS, YOU KILLED OUR ANCESTORS, PREPARE TO DIE.

“Well, it might take a bit longer than I thought to sate their appetite for vengeance–plus we are poor–no one pays attention to working class realms,” I said. And I hung up and turned off my ringer.

Peety was drinking and enjoying the scenery.

The boys were in the back, heads out the window, tongues lolling.

In my mind, drunk driving begins at faster than walking speed, and the cart was losing juice by the moment. I removed a bottle of Fairy Ale from the glovebox and whistled Galway Bay.

Leila