The Brilliantly Rainbowed Adventure

        "The Wildside," they had named it. I guess that they knew what they were doing. It was a combination motel and roadhouse with the emphasis on the roadhouse. The motel was a typically woodsy wilderness flophouse, while the roadhouse was something altogether different.
        The Wildside Roadhouse and Deepfry Grille was a homey place where whole families could go in and listen to their favorite tunes. Of course, as is the case in most roadhouses, there was plenty of Fizzies to go around... limited, as always, to children and adults above the age of three.
        The roadhouse and the motel were well within the boundaries of the wilderness area, and Billy had told us that they were leased by the state of Florida to Emo and Wilmadene Butte for the princely sum of one dollar per year. I figured that the state got the better part of the deal.
        We strolled up to the motel and walked on over to the dilapidated office to rent rooms for the night. At first we were sort of hesitant to step inside, the place looked so deserted. But pretty soon there comes out a bellow, "Git the door. baby." It was a big voice that sort of boomed out through the dusty parking lot like the grunting call of a bull gator. A thin, reedy voice answered.
        "I'm going, honey," it squeaked. At this conjuncted sticking point the door was swung open by a nervous-looking little fellow with a New York Mets cap perched on the top of his barren, glossy head. He was wearing a green T-shirt that read "Save Wales" and an old pair of overalls, a traditional cracker ensemble that simply brimmed with Newly-Aged fashion cheek. For a bold fashion statement celebrating his ethnic heritage he wore upon his feet a pair of worn out work boots that slyly peeked out from under his frayed cuffs on the old wooden floor.
        "Who is it?" roared a booming, disembodied voice from somewhere in a back room. But the guy in front of us was too stunned to answer.
        "Why it's the world-famous Incredible Hootenannies," squeaked the mousy little fellow, looking as if he were about to faint. Perspiration sprung to the battlement of his brow and proceeded to dump kettles of burning liquid into his incredulous eyes.
        He was utterly discombobulated. Could his eyes be pulling his leg? Was he really seeing the famous country-western nitwits?
        "And Zeb Hendrix, too!" he gasped like a respiring fish, and straightaway he fell down with a clunk, right there on the floor of the office.
        Then, the hurricane struck. The room was turned into a bewildering swirl of blue and white. It was Wilmadene Butte, opening the windows with impressive haste.
        "Give him air!" she roared, and the band trembled before the bumptious buffets of her blasting klaxon-horn voice."Poor baby," she rumbled, kneeling beside her mate, caressing his head with her hand. As we looked at her we realized with amazement that she was even smaller than her husband. From the size of her voice we had adjudged that she was large enough to sink Kansas. Now she rose to her feet and fixed a baleful stare upon us, evidently preparing to chew us out properly for startling her baby.
        But then, as we shivered before the impending storm, her eyes were suddenly smitten with a shock of recognition. We really were the world-famous Hootenannies, after all! I'll tell you, it really carries weight with some of people that we are the most popular country-western entertainers on the face of the earth, although I can't for the life of me figure out why. Suddenly, Wilmadene herself was rendered breathless by our countenances (which I can easily understand, Stink being right there among us, and all).
        "Hootenannies," she whispered. Then Wilmadene pulled herself together, along with her face and both sides of her brain. "Hello," she said. She grinned tremendously. "It's so nice to meet you." The poor woman's smile was somewhat strained, however, and her eyes were watering. It was that sly rapscallion, Stink, again, afflicting the innocent as he is prone to do.
        "Stinker, why don't you go play over at the cattle crossing," said Egghead. He can say such things without hurting Stink's feelings because he is Stink's best friend, as well as mine.
        "Okey dokey," said Stink, and he left, shutting the door. We all breathed a sigh of relief. But just to remind us that he hadn't disappeared, Stink shoved his head back in through the doorway.
        "The shoe," he crooned, "the shoe. Remember Huck Finn, and remember the shoe." Then he departed with a laugh. We could all laugh freely too, since the abominable stench-man had moved downwind.
        "Yok-yoks," "hee-haws," and "har-de-har-hars" reverberated off of the ceiling and walls and clunked back onto our heads.
        "Can I have your autographs?" asked Wilmadene.
        "Where do we sign up?" replied Egghead, and we traded our scribbles and some scraps of dirty green paper for a few of the rooms that were in the back section of the old motel. There was only one cottage, and it went to you-know-who without the necessity of a vote.
        We all got cleaned up while Stinky took an air bath out by the cattle crossing. After we were spruced up and reeking with bay rum we had the idea of visiting the "WildSide Roadhouse and Deepfry Grille". Billy brought up the idea:

Even the vapid honks of mewling fools,
If turned by art into music,
May be borne aloft on the breath
Of a breeze, giving tender rest
To weary wanderers.
The wastrel pilgrim spirit
Can cry without voice, remembering
The comforts of home: the downy pillow of youth.
There, in sweet, brief hours of succor and rest,
They linger in fair Arcadian nooks,
Beneath the tender leaf and bough,
The budding shoot and swaying bloom
And dizzying clouds of rich perfume;
At home in the quiet reveries
Inspired amidst the forest glens.
Such moments, and such gentle thoughts,
Can music at its best inspire,
Giving voice to the unuttered hope,
As when once we dwelt in careless ease,
Held safe in a hand that we could not see:
O'erwatched by a love that we cannot ken.
        (Taking on Airs, iv, iii, 93-111)

        "Such gracious words befit a titled king," quoth Slug. We gaped at him in utter amazement.
        "Since when did you start talking like Billy?" I asked him.
        "Hey, I can read, too," he replied. "I'm not as dumb as I look." Well sir, I had to agree with him. Nobody could be as dumb as he looked, unless it was Frogstick.
        "Hey, Sluggy," I offered, "I hope you don't mind if I agree with that."
        "ZZZZZZ....," replied Slug. He was out again like a blown bulb, taking another stroll through La-La Land.
        "Let's go," said Billy, and so we did. And I'll be blamed if old Slug didn't follow right along, a sort of figment of our collective fictive unconsciousness, walking in his sleep every step of the way.
        Slug was strange.
        The sun had just gone down when we walked through the swinging doors and into the roadhouse. Straightaway, we liked what we saw. The place seated about a two hundred people, and it was jam-packed to the gills: standing room only; there was sawdust on the floor, and all of the old-timers and young whippersnappers were sitting around talking and sipping Fizzies out of mason jars. The dance floor was jammed, and I saw several grandmas and grandpas dancing with their little granddaughters and grandsons; it was a whole passle of fun, and we were right there in the middle of it!
        We had no sooner seated Stink in front of a giant exhaust fan when a voice cried out, "Hey, rube!" Well, now, guess who it was. That's right! It was the security guard from the Nowhere County Campground and Ampitheater! He hurried on up to us through the crowd. "I'm a sergeant again," he told us. "Thanks for the good word, boys."
        "No sweat, O'Hannigan," I mouthed. "You were just doing your job."
        "They took away my gun," he said, "but who cares? I got a raise, anyway."
        "Well, you look better without the gun," I offered. "And I don't know about you, but I feel a lot safer."
        Suddenly I was seized firmly from behind by two gigantic hams masquerading as hands. I was being squeezed and lifted, higher and higher, up, up, and away.
        "Guess who?" asked a familiar southern drawl.
        "Why Double-Bubba Bilgewater, you dumb Redneck!" I boomed, whereupon his grip slipped and he dropped me onto his foot.
        "EEEEYAAGH!" hollered old Double-Bubba, doing the one-legged stork dance.I grabbed his hand and shook it.
        "It's good to see you," I blated.
        "Look who's here, Hoot," said Egghead. I lifted up my eyes and aimed them over at where he was pointing. I'll be blamed if it wasn't Bosco Bilgewater and the boys from the Triple Z!
        "They must let any old body in here," I cracked. Well, sir, here they came, walking over to us, and they just had to buy us a round of Fizzies, and then other people began to recognize us and pretty soon we were writing autographs for everyone and their kinfolks, right on down to their 4th and 5th cousins to the 15th generation, or at least that's how it seemed. I found out later that we had signed a few bills for some of the more enterprising patrons of the establishment, but at the time we had a whole lot of fun.
        But if we had only known what was coming next, we would have run like the very wind.