The Brilliantly Rainbowed Adventure

- Chapter 30 -
Egghead's Wild Theory

        In the silence after the earthquake, Egghead spoke up first.
        "It appears as though our author is vehemently opposed to the recklessly hasty razing of the pristrine woodlands of Florida," he harped.
        "What does he mean?" asked Sneb.
        "Oh, Egghead's developed this-here theory that we are all just fictional characters in some sort of novel," I told him.
        "What?" asked Sneb, "Well, I'll be dogged!" He tapped his head knowingly. "a little too much exposure to cosmic rays, I'll wager," he aspirated. Sneb glumly appraised my pal Egghead and shook his head.
        I could have told Sneb about Egghead's amazing affirmation of his theory, of his dramatic demonstration on the prairie, but I decided not to. After all, if we were just fictional characters, he didn't need to know it, anyway.
        "Desist, friend Egghead," Billy strummed on the bejeweled lyre of his throat:

'Tis an uncommonly boorish lout,
Or a wise man annulling his own bright light,
Who tosses subtle insights,
(Out-pricing the treasure of kings),
Before those whose fey distemper
And angry infection of pride
Leads them to sniff at the precious gift.

Truth is given shortest shrift
When the hordes of snuffling Snebs,
Devoid of wisdom and of sound discretion,
Battle in the troughs for their ration of slop,
Totally trampling underfoot those things
That they cannot comprehend. They cannot discern
The value of your words, and will most
Be given to despise
Those things that they cannot devour.
        Isle of White, V. III, 80-96.

        "That was a good one," said Sneb, "no wonder they like his plays." Old Sneb pitched his steely gaze over at Billy, where it clanged to a halt.
        "I stand corrected," he said. He turned to Egghead. "Please forgive my mockery of your theory," Sneb flapped to the old Egg-Thing. That Sneb could get downright proper at times. Of course, he didn't pile on the verbiage like Billy. Thank goodness.
        Sneb was an unusual Hick. He had wavered in his younger days between choosing a career as a cowboy or pursuing a high degree of mischief in the college of his choice. He had been offered an academic scholarship to a prominent university, but had turned it down to savor the romantic, dirt-poor, hard-scrabble life of your average Florida cowboy.
        Sneb was touched in the head.
        Now a rasping drawl broke into the silence. It was Stink.
        "I don't know anything about these-here theories and such," he told us, "but I reckon that it's time that I told y'all my life's story, seein' as how I've known y'all fer nigh unto fifteen years, durin' which you've none of you never asked me anything about my life before the band." He was right.
        We had heard a little bit about Stink's life from his brother Clemson, and that had seemed like enough. Unfortunately, however, Stinky wouldn't drop the subject.
        "I reckon that I ought to tell you the whole story, whether you want me to or not," Stinky squirted. As his breath drifted our way, Sneb and the other cowpokes fought back their gags and coughs manfully.
        Sneb whipped a piece of newspaper off of the ground beside the fire and lit it in the flames. Knocking out the lit newspaper against his britches, he waved the smoking bundle around in the breeze, making a bold yet largely futile attempt to deodorize the immediate environs. He went over and fetched a whole stack of newspapers from the chuck wagon and, putting them close to the campfire, sat down beside the pile.
        "Go ahead," Sneb said, "I'm all ears." With a pitiable gaze Stink glumly appraised the gathered throng.
        Opening the dreaded cavity in his head that passed for a mouth, Stinky Mugtussle put the pedal to the mental and poured on the gas.
        This, then, is his story.