The Brilliantly Rainbowed Adventure

- Chapter 41 -
The Great White Bowl

        The R. W. Twilley Memorial Toilet was a massive monument that loomed like a mini-mountain, towering over the entire southern quadrant of the Florida World complex. Gleaming like a snow-white porcelain whale, it seemed a logical focal point for the not-so-literary climax of Frogstick's tumultuous adventure. Since it was near the southern border of Florida World, the Memorial Toilet was close to our tower, giving us an excellent view of the latest developments in the ongoing saga of a man and his gator.
        The huge toilet had a giddy history that simply swirled with soapy drama heightened by the draining pain of unrequited monomania. It seems that the developer of Florida World possessed a soft underbelly, a tender spot in his hardened shell of greed. He held a kindly affection toward his grandfather, Mr. R. W. Twilley.
        Reginald Wimplestein Twilley was the father of modern toiletry. After inventing Twilly Troublefree Toilet, he tirelessly promoted social progress through creative engineering. (What old timer among us can forget the slogan, "Flush with pride?") A canny capitalist and passable fiddler, R. W. Twilley single-handedly caused his family to surge powerfully from the ranks of the working classes and flow tastefully into the elevated platform shoes of the disgustingly (but enviably) wealthy.
        As a result of one man's soft spot for his inventive grandfather, a tremendous white monolith now stood as a memorial to R. W. Twilley, inventer extraordinaire. Frogstick sped toward this gigantic porcelain memorial, pressed hard by the merciless reptile. As he ran, he squealed like a rubber ducky squeezed too hard in the hand of a malicious tyke.
        Frogstick always was the excitable kind.
        "If my calculations are correct, events are now approaching a climactic resolution," opined Egghead from his perch below me. Distant sirens drew nigh and were shut off as more security personnel arrived, drawing their guns and sipping coffee.
        We watched agog as streams of elite Florida World Shock Troopers stormed into the now-empty streets. The streets were layed out before us in monotonously even crosshatched grid, providing an aesthetically bankrupt architectural model of the perfect city. A fickle breeze moaned through our tower, causing a resonant thrumming sound as we swayed eerily from east to west.
        At this pointy headspace in time, Zeb Hendrix began to sing. The tune was familiar. In fact, it was a country classic: "The Race is On," originally recorded by the Possum hisself, Mr. George Jones. Zeb's revised lyrics, however, were a bit shaky, if you grok my quibbling schlock.
        "Well the race is on and Sha-no-she-ba's on the back stretch, Frogstick's running to the inside. My stars! Ain't seen the likes, and I hope I don't again! Our band's high on a tower, groovin' on Frogstick's famous call. The race is on and it looks like the Gator - and the Frogger loses all!"
        Well, sir, I couldn't stop 'em. Joining in, Billy began to wail on the blues harp. Stinky whipped out a miniature ukulele and started playing rhythm, and even Egghead got into the act, jamming on the accordion that he had conveniently hidden inside of his wooden torso.
        "The race is on," we started singing, repeating the chorus, when I heard a long, drawn-out, "MOOOOOO!"
        I looked down on the tower below me. To my astonished surprise, I saw Steerius. Impossibly, he had managed to climb the tower. And if that wasn't enough, he had decided to join our impromptu concert.
        Steerius had somehow flicked a Bic lighter with his rough old hooves and was holding it up, waving it enthusiastically to let us know he was grooving on our sounds. He grinned at me vacantly and mooed in appreciation.
        The song sounded great. We were in fine form: musically untracked, sliding as slick as a salamander through a pocket of smooth, semi-unconscious groove.
        Suddenly, we heard a piteous shriek far below, and our song abruptly ceased. Frogstick was still in trouble. And what was worse, we were missing the show!
        Due north of our perch, the R. W Twilley Memorial Toilet squatted heavily on the groaning earth, glistening white in the bright morning sun. The sky was clear and blue, and the forests outside of Florida World were a vibrant tangle of gorgeous greens and browns and grays, boisterously alive and thankfully untamed. The tops of the trees glistened as the leaves rippled gently in the breeze.
        Our tower was only about fifty feet within the Servant's Entrance on the south side of Florida World, and it was comforting for us to see that the wilderness began a mere two hundred feet past the famous Inclusive Electric Fence. Servant Street approached from the east, hugging the Florida World border, and there were no other roads in sight. To the south of Servant Street stretched a pleasant sight: miles and miles of beautiful, unpolluted wilderness.
        A mere fifty feet or so from the edge of the woods and 100 yards south of our tower we could see the pure white, sun-bleached shores of a vast, spring-fed lake. The waters of the lake shimmered in the morning sun, offering a reminder of the remnant of Florida that the developers had not yet destroyed.
        I looked north, where Frogstick was running for his life. The far-off 'Stick figure stormed through the entrance of the R. W. Twilley Memorial screaming like a chicken in a blizzard. Behind him, resolute and relentless, Sha-no-she-ba the Great squeezed her swollen, slime-covered bulk through the entryway, crushing a turnstile and flattening a ticket cage.
        "Run, Frogstick!" hollered Egghead.
        "Fight, fight, fight," I boomed. "Make the gator growl! Get down with your own bad self!"
        "Run bravely, dauntless coward!" cried Billy, "We knew thee better that aught we wot!"
        "Sis-boom-bah!" cheered Slug, "Kick 'em when they're up; kick 'em when they're down!"
        "Slime-feathered mega-lizard spat upon the street. He stood and roared for a Frog to eat," rapped Zeb. "Shattered shards of thought I have brought you, gently fried in the cozy kitchen corner of my mind."
        "Moooo!" agreed Zeb's legendary mount, the world-renowned charger, Steerius. This was the noble steer's moment of glory, and he was making the most of it. His deeds would be recounted for millennia, and he would one day enter the rarified realm of mythic bovine heroes. But for now, he savored the joy of the moment, dressed in his stunning letter-cow sweater ensemble - topped by an adorable frog-shaped cowboy hat - waving an impenitent green and yellow pennant that gabbed, "GO BIG 'STICK!"
        I gazed down at Steerius, marveling at his tenacity. Not only had he followed us 800 feet straight up a steel tower, he had somehow managed to dress for the occasion. It was the ultimate stupid pet trick. Little did I suspect that his feat smacked of instinctive self-preservation.
        By now, Frogstick was running up the escalator toward the Rimwalk. The Clorox Drop-In Rimwalk was an observation platform surrounding the world-famous Royal Flush Super Bowl. The Rimwalk was more than halfway to the top of the towering colossus, but it wasn't high enough to hide a Frog, because that's where Sha-no-she-ba jumped Frogstick Gutchins.
        By that time, I reckon he had become disoriented. He wandered back toward the escalator just as she was rocketing off of it, heading in his direction: a slimy, loathsome bobsled of ravenous lizarddom, bellowing her familiar roar directly into his deathly pale face.
        Frogstick reversed his trajectory like a bunny shot out of a cannon. He smashed into the steel fence that ran around the rim and somehow broke right through it, barreling out onto the rim. He would have fallen into the bowl if his belt hadn't gotten hung up on the fence and slammed him back into the shattered wire.
        He fought with the tangled fence like a madman, trying to free himself from the snag. But here she came!
        He whipped out his pocketknife, cut his belt in two, and took off around the slippery rim. It had a slick, flattop porcelain surface about three feet wide. It sloped downward sharply on either side of the flattop, creating an oval racetrack more dangerous than a NASCAR race with restrictor plates. A single slip would land poor Frogstick in the bowl or on the earth far below. If he fell, he would quickly become terminally nil, if you snatch my scintillating smatter of witty patter.
        The giant gator followed Frogstick onto the rim, carefully sliding out onto the slick surface.
        "I don't believe this," whispered Egghead. I had to agree with The Big Yolk. This was unbelievable.
        Below us, the Florida World Shock Troops were clearing and securing the area. We were beginning to sing another chorus of "The Race is On" when a thin, reedy bullhorn piped up far below.
        "Attention, you people on the tower," a man said in the bullhorn. "The situation is under control. Come down immediately. I repeat, the situation is under control. It is safe to come down."
        "Sure," said Egghead.
        "Lies," hissed Billy.
        "Far out," squibbed Zeb.
        "ZZZZZZ..." snored Slug.
        "Mooooo," lowed Steerius. I glanced down at Zeb's latest pal, and he grinned broadly in response.
        "Climb down to those security guys, Steerius," I suggested. "Tell 'em we want an airplane, a million boxes of unmarked Fizzies, and most of all, we want our state back."
        "Moooo," it lowed accusingly, with suspicion showing in its stupid brown eyes.
        "Eat more beef," said Billy, who was promptly horned in the foot for his impetuosity. "Ow!" he blorbed.
        It appeared that another point-of view was about to ruin our plans for future barbeques and steak dinners. We just didn't lack the heart or the sense to tell Steerius that he wasn't one of us, and it probably wasn't true, anyway.
        By now Frogstick had reached the upright seat of the giant toilet. He tried to climb onto it, desperately using those funny knobs on the bottom of the seat to boost himself up.
        Frogstick had always been a good climber, but this was mere wishful thinking, I figured. Sha-no-she-ba drew near to him as he grabbed the second knob and tried to pull himself up.
        It all looked pretty hopeless, but we were rooting for him faithfully. Zeb dug some popcorn out of his backpack, and we passed it around, watching the scene unfold with eyes as big as saucers. In fact, Zeb passed a few saucers around for our popcorn, and I was able to confirm that our eyes were that big.
        Circumstances were a little too close for Frogstick's comfort, but I must admit that it made for good theater. Straightaway the gator reached the bottom of the upright seat and tried to climb up after Frogstick. He kicked her once, then twice, but it looked like his time was up.
        "I wonder if that thing flushes," I said aloud. As if in answer to my question, Frogstick leaned back and saw the steel flush-handle, behind and above him.
        "Jump!" said Billy, catching the gist of my frizzling fizz. "Leap! Forsooth!"
        "Jump!" hollered Egghead.
        "Jump!" I cried.
        "Jump!" bugled Slug into the wild blue yonder.
        "Paisley jump!" yelled Zeb, "Electric jump!"
        "Jump!" squibbed Stinky.
        "Mooooo!" blasted Steerius.
        "WAAOOOOOGH!" roared Sha-no-she-ba, a distant, menacing slimeball.
        He hung between heaven and earth, hesitating in spite of the deadly menace at his feet. What in the world was a Frogstick to do?