The Brilliantly Rainbowed Adventure

- Chapter 44 -
Surprise, Surprise

        After dinner we were all bone tired, and happily so. We were too excited to sleep after all we'd been through, but by and by some of the boys began to nod off in spite of it all. Pretty soon Stink and Billy and Frogstick and Slug were all snoring away like good fellows, while old Zeb broke out his Gibson acoustic and began to strum it softly and sing:

Fictional characters may lack dimension,
But depth of thought passes apprehension,
        If you need relief you can't go wrong,
        Take a B.C. powder and you'll come back strong.

Mindish marbles shine brightest at night,
        Trading value out of sight.

        Suddenly a gruff huffing sound came from the woods behind us, followed by a bawl and two happy bleats. Then out of the woods tumbled the two little bear cubs that Billy and I had seen with Zeb, way back near our first camp. The cubs were followed by the big cinnamon bears: mama and papa in all their ursine glory.
        The bears, both great and small, were wearing party hats. Papa bear had a parchment document in his hands and a pair of pince nez spectacles that had slid down low on his extensive nose, and mama bear had brought her knitting. She sat down on top of Billy's slumbering body and started to knit, and the little bears ran up to Zeb, pulling on his hair and gnawing on his guitar.
        "Ruggish ursine buddies lumbered into our camp," Zeb free-formed. "Somebody hide the honey from these two furry scamps." At this moment, the big boar stood up and began to speak.
        "Huff-a-luff, hhhmmmph, ragga-fluff-a-luff," he orated solemnly. "Buff-luff-lush, buff-n-stuff-a-fluff-fluff, had enuff?" The two little bears rolled over onto their backs and applauded with all four paws.
        Now into the blazing firelight soared a bright yellow butterfly. It began to sing in a thin, piercing voice, with a tone not unlike that of a musical dog-whistle. It was the same butterfly I had seen in the clearing long ago, when Billy and I had gone on our wild mushroom hunt. It looked at me and winked, and then, as quickly as I could wink back, an eruption occurred at my feet. I looked down and beheld a veritable plethora of mushrooms.
        "We grew new heads!" they cried, and they began to sing a soulful doo-wop chorus with their tiny mushroom voices, sounding for all the world like the Supremes on helium. Zeb was still on his guitar, jamming on the old Gibby as if his life depended on it. The whole crowd began to sway together to his knocked-out, slicked-back rockabilly beat.
        We were suddenly distracted by a great crashing noise that erupted from the woods. It was a startling sound that resembled an army of bulldozers on the march, forcefully plowing through the trees and underbrush.
        Here came the armadillos!
        At least a hundred hand-picked armadillos, the elite of Florida Dillerdom, came crashing into the clearing in a tight v-formation, led by a familiar puckered little varmint with "Eat At Joe's" painted on his side. Other armadillos could be seen in the trees hanging up long strips of colored crepe paper and candied apples, some of which they snacked on as they worked.
        "I get it!" I cried. "It's a cast party!"
        As if in answer to my shout, the ground began to throb, providing a funky bass drum beat that riffed in punchin' counterpoint to Zeb's hot acoustic chops. The ground jumped and thumped, delivering altogether hip, in the pocket, jumpin' jammin' that rivalled the incredible you-just-have-to-get-up-and-dance drumming of our pal, Frogstick Gutchins himself.
        Now the trees began to sway with the beat, and the fire flared up to new heights. The armadillos in the trees reached into their sidesaddles and tossed glitter down upon the gathered throng.
        "A cast party!" cried a big, booming voice. It was Frogstick, who had awakened. His cry woke up the rest of the guys, and our group of knuckleheads all leaped to their feet at once, causing quite a ruckus in which Mama Bear was sent sprawling backwards, temporarily losing her knitting.
        "Oh boy!" cried Stinky. "A party, and nobody's asked me to leave yet!"
        "Where's the fish eggs?" hollered Sluggy. "Is Ms. Kirkpatrick here?"
        "Where's Egghead?" cried Billy.
        "Where's the Fizzies?" boomed Frogstick.
        We all gazed at one another in wonder. Then, far away, in the depths of the woods, we heard mirthful, tinkling sound that was resonant with happy, carefree joy. It zinged our ears like the soft kiss of brush on a cymbal, or the dinging ping of a clear, ringing triangle. It was rapidly drawing closer to our camp.
        "Elves!" hollered Stinky, blanching in fear. "It's a pack of big, nasty elves with sharp knives, and they're coming to get take me away!"
        "O, base wretch that you are," said Billy. "Why would elves bother to trouble such a one as you? They are light and airy forest Twinkies: Ho Hos of the hills: fair fauna of the flowery meadows. They heed no putrid stench, nor do they fear the whiffs of man. Why should they trouble their sylvan thoughts with your dull, petty weight of dim thoughts, torpid dreams, and foul fumes beyond imagination?"
        "The elves hate me because I kill insects. But I don't mean to, honest," groaned Stinky. "They're coming for me, I just know it."
        The light laughter in the trees was drawing closer, and I wondered about what Stinky was saying. The way things had gone lately, I wouldn't have been surprised if wild elves on the warpath had stormed the clearing and riddled Stinky with arrows. To tell you the truth, I had begun to wonder if that was such a bad idea. The sound grew louder until they - whoever they were - had just about made it into the clearing.
        "Back, you elves!" cried Stinky, "I have garlic!" He pulled a rubber knife and tried to look scary, making us laugh out loud.
        A high, tinkling laughter answered his rough challenge. We could hear voices: some high pitched, but one that sounded familiar.
        "It's only me," called a deep, brainy voice. It was Egghead! He strolled into the clearing with a lovely young woman on each arm and more taking up the rear.
        "Gentlemen," he suavely palavered, "allow me to introduce you to the legendary Furies, the Dread of De Wilds themselves: Jeanette, Marcella, Acifedity, and Lucretia Fury." They curtsied graciously with knowing smiles dripping off of their super-duperly-ultra-brainy highly intelligent lips. "Of course," Egghead continued, "you all know Jenny Simpkins. And may I reintroduce you to an unforgettable facist you're all familiar with, Ms. Irma Smoothaven-Kirkpatrick." Well, now, didn't that last one just take the cake!
        "We were hoping that you boys weren't as dumb as you look," said Marcella hopefully.
        "Where's the fish eggs?" hollered Slug, promptly shattering her allusions into flinders. He never was able to fake a brainwave.
        We had a bang-up time at the cast party that night. There were plenty of fish eggs and lots of Fizzies to go around, and the Furies turned out to be witty, kind-hearted, and utterly charming. Considerable time was spent by all discussing the contributions of Kafka to post-pop neonihilist da-da-dum-dum fingerpainting, or something like that. Samuel Johnson had declared that patriotism was the last refuge of scoundrels, and we wound up agreeing that, in a similar manner, nihilism, da-daism, and all of the other unlovely expressions of contemporary art had become the last refuges of the inept and the certifiably inane.
        "When talent fails, get public funding," Egghead squirted at one point, bemoaning the dole that fed the fakirs of Fine Arts. Because we were untutored Hicks who had never porked out at the public trough, we naturally resented all of the tax money that went to the con artists of the high-class art world.
        "Why not us?" we commiserated.
        This line of conversation led to a toast with the Fizzies, that also led to the temporary levitation of Stinky, who fortunately became entangled in some Spanish moss, or he might have pulled an "Old Coot" on us and drifted over into the next county. In fact, if he had caught the jet stream he might have made it to the Bahamas.
        Well sir, we were coasting along, having a wonderful time, when the crowd from the Wild Side and the cowpokes from the Triple Z and showed up, along with Sneb and the boys from the Whopping Big C. They had their families in tow, and things really got lively now, what with Steerius the Wonder Cow giving rides to the bear cubs and the kids and such. It was gaudy, all right, and I enjoyed every minute.
        Well, all in all it was quite a night, as I said. I still have a picture of Ms. Kirkpatrick pounding on Stink with an old coke bottle. It was all in fun, I assure you, in spite of what you may have read in the tabloids. She didn't mean to split his scalp, and she was mighty glad that the Old Coot knew how to sew it up without a seam, so to speak. Stink healed up real nicely; you can't see a scar even if get up close enough to touch him. Of course, who would have the nerve to get close enough to touch Stinky Mugtussle?
        I have to say that the cast party was the best shindig I ever went to. It went on and on and on, and I hoped that it would never end.