The Brilliantly Rainbowed Adventure

- Chapter 40 -
The Race is On

        Well, folks, Billy has had his fun - at our expense, I might add. I reckon that we are paid in full on his account. His plays are pretty good, I reckon; nobody can fill a disguised Duke's mouth like 'The Beard.' His plays are fine, I say, and he should stick to them and leave the book writing to people with more sense of the common kind (if you know what I mean as my keyboard leaks ink into words that fire the engine in your stunningly refined cerebral vortex).
        In other words, Billy's a two-trick pony. Unless it's poetry or plays, you'd be best served to shun the fruit of his pen.
        Just kidding, Billy, in case you're reading this! Hahahahahahah!
        After we were turned away from the front gate, we hitched a bus ride to the Servant's Entrance and tried to bluff our way in. The chief security figment, however, wasn't buying what we were selling.
        We begged shamelessly, but he refused to let us in. Zeb's transportation (the famous bovine courser, Steerius) didn't exactly lend us any credibility, either, if you happen to snag my grovelling grist.
        Billy argued for a while, but by and by he got winded and ran out of hot air, which was a first. Even Egghead was coming up short, unable to pierce the well-insulated skulls of the guards at the gate with an X-ray sympathetic insight.
        We were about to give up on getting into Florida World, and were beginning to think about bending a regulation from the Quasi-Governmental Book of Fictive Statutes. We were in quite a pickle, as you can see. About this time the Old Coot commenced to cry, which we couldn't have stood even if we had substance, which we didn't according to Egghead, but we couldn't stand it anyway.
        We were stalling desperately, ten feet or so inside the Servant's Entrance, surrounded by an angry pack of tense, uptight company men. Things didn't look too good. Egghead, perceiving that the iron was hot, made a final attempt to convert the chief thug to our point of view.
        "Sir," he expostulated, "you have no idea of the depth of the events in which we are all involved, or of their shallowness." The old boy eyed Egghead warily. "You and I, sir," he continued, "are merely fantastic fictional characters in a novel of dubious origin. Without a reader, we would not even exist as imaginary creations. Ipso facto, you have no authority over our group. We can enter lawfully with or without your permission. It is not up to you… it is up to the mysterious conspiracy of author and reader who dwell in a realm more real than our own."
        I nudged Billy as Egghead bleated his wacky, ridiculous speech. This was great!
        "When the ambulance arrives to take Egghead to a rubber room, we can sneak in while they're distracted," I whispered to Billy.         Well, sir, it was obvious that the guard was offended by Eggy's ridiculous theory. He looked suspiciously at us, and he suddenly barked at Eggy, "We'll have no more fanatical fiction theories out of you! You are breathing without a permit, you nearsighted, bug-eyed pipsqueak."
        "Clean the waxing gobs out of your ears, kind sir, "chimed Billy, as dependable as the cuckoo on the wall. "That's fantastic fiction, not fanatical fiction."
        "Enough!" the hot-headed watchdog yelped in anger and dismay, "you guys are nuts!" He slapped hot leather, coming up with a whopping big cannon of a pistol that he pointed in our direction. "These guys are Rednecks!" he hollered to his men. "Florida Worldians, I call upon your innate sense of patriotism and decency! Sic 'em, boys!"
        "Kill!" the men cried. Rushing upon us and seizing us with their powerful, hairy palms, they began to kick and pummel us happily with a brutal succession of heavy blows. As they beat us, they began to sing the classic tune, "Whistle while you work."
        Egghead and I were inadvertently thrust together in the midst of the melee. "Sha-no-she-ba!" he yelled as I keeled over from a sharp blow to the head. My mind reeled. Steely-toed boots were silently jolting my ribcage, but I was too shocked to feel the pain.
        Things seemed to be happening far away in the cloudy, ethereal reaches of the outer limits. A distant movie of the event rolled before me; sounds swirled, lights spun, pain turned to light, and light melted into the soundless void between my ears.
        I rolled over.
        "WAAAAAAOOOOGH!!!"
        Something shook the earth beneath me. The guards fled in fear.
        Why are they running? There must be a reason, I idly thought. I rolled over again.
        "WAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOGH!!!!"
        I looked up. A giant alligator towered over me, lifting up its gargantuan head to challenge the world to a fight. I watched it in detached curiosity. My head, clanging from the hot shower of heavy blows, began to throb with fiery pain. Perceiving the agony, I suddenly came to myself.
        I was almost directly beneath an angry Sha-no-she-ba.
        "Yeeeaaaghh!" I squealed, leaping to my feet in front of her face.
        "WAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOGH!!!!" she roared hotly in my direction. Her bright purple tonsils quivered with a brittle death-rattle as the rank air slammed my head with the not-so-subtle scent of Eau De Dead Swampland.
        I ran for my life. But I needn't have worried. Sha-no-she-ba was ignoring me.
        She was after froggier bait.
        We discovered later that the detachment of security guards had been doubled that morning to search for Frogstick, whose unlikely escape and bugle-like cry of defiance had stirred the place to its rotten roots. Little had we suspected that Sha-no-she-ba was still intent on wreaking vengeance upon our pal. He had injured her pride, and she couldn't abide it, so she had tracked him to this gate. She had become the laughing stock of the Grizzly Dismal Rotting Swamp, and she aimed to do something about it!
        If we had been able to read ahead, we would have known that Frogstick was trying to sneak out of the Servant's Entrance while were trying to sneak in. He was less than fifty feet from freedom when he saw our melee with the guards and witnessed the impressive entrance of Sha-no-she-ba.
        Oh, Florida World! Your inglorious end was set in the spars once this slimy lizard slid through your plastic gates! No sooner had I fled in panic before her than the gator saw Frogstick.
        Without further adieu, she charged.
        He ran.
        They flew.
        They made a lovely blur of a couple. It was almost as good as the race between Stinky and Miss Irma.
        As soon as I lost sight of them, I decided to climb to the top of the communications tower that was just inside of the Servants Entrance. I didn't want to miss a thing. There was a fence around the base of the tower, but the security folks had abandoned the area in their haste to vacate the premises. The gate was unlocked, so I just sort of moseyed on over and began to ascend.
        It was best seat in the house. I was enjoying the show, and quite a show it was. This was better than Mugtussle vs. Kirkpatrick, Dempsey vs. Tunney, and Kermit vs. Piggy. This was the real thing: man against gator: claw against sinew: skin against slime.
        I could hear Billy wheezing just below me, climbing hastily in fear that he might miss part of the show.
        "Who do you think'll win?" I hollered down to him.
        "I'll bet you fifty Monopoly dollars on the gator, even money." Of course, I knew better than to take those odds. We climbed higher and higher up that old tower. It was tall.
        After a few minutes, we had reached the high point of the Florida World experience. We could see for miles, and we watched the drama unfold below us in detached bemusement. The tourists looked like ditsy little ants scattering before an irate lizard, while up ahead of the lizard I saw Frogstick. He was running like a toy army man, only he yelled, and his terrified shrieks echoed through the streets.
        It was lovely up on top of that tower. We swayed gently up there in the breeze that hummed through the structure; it was all real calm and peacable-like. Billy broke out his mouth-harp, and he'd have played it if I'd'a let him.
        By and by they headed east. The streets were pretty empty now, giving them clear sledding, and Sha-no-she-ba let out a roar that would deafen a rock band. The booming sound traveled up and down the empty avenues and then headed right on up to us. The effect was a bit like the old Echo-Plex tape delay units. In fact, it sounded like the variant tape/digital delay combination used by Emo Thigpen on his "Hamburger Helper in E Minor" CD. (The incorporation of casual devo-hick post-opry angst into a classic country rad-red-chic off-the-cuff style has made Emo Thigpen a contemporary country-western idyll. I was amazed that the reptilian quadraped chasing Frogstick was able to attain the same effect. It was impressive.)
        "I wish I had my video camera," said Billy.
        "Don't worry, I've got my digital," I said, pulling out my camera. "It shoots movies."
        I heared a clang and looked down. The boys had discovered our perch and were climbing up to meet us. We must have been close to eight hundred feet up by now, just sort of lollygagging there at the tippy-top of that big steel tower.
        "This tower's getting top heavy," I said, and sure enough, we were starting to sway pretty badly in the wind. I just hoped that this structure was well anchored. Little did I know that it was a relic of World War II and was anchored in 100 tons of concrete.
        "Look at Frogstick!" said Billy. Frogstick had rounded the northeastern border of the Billy Hill Authentic Boondocks Bayou and was headed our way, making a beeline for Florida World's largest exhibit, the R. W. Twilley Memorial Toilet.