CHAPTER 21 - RAZZAMATAZZ AND PRAYER

Johnny did the final match against his journalist’s check list. He found the three of the five W’s. That, he knew was pretty good. Johnny glanced at the article, now heavily annotated with pencil, pink highlighter and blue crayon. He looked at his crib sheet carefully. By-line, check. Cutline, check, if you counted the Picture of Sleazy Coreman. He had caught the tricky jump that had almost thrown him off for over an hour. Jump, check. Kicker, check, if you counted Sleazy’s by-line. The lead had been easy. The whole article was the lead – it was a single paragraph. Johnny laughed a bit and then added a check to his list. Dateline – that had been hard because there was not one, and it took Johnny repeated reviewing of his Yellow and Black manual of Journalism for Dummies before he realized this. So after all that work he gave himself a Check on Dateline. Typo, Check. He was feeling very good and was thinking of possibly purchasing a typewriter, but he quickly reconsidered, when he realized he could not afford such an extravagant journalistic tool. He’d have to stick with the Blackbury issued by The Times. It was hard on his thumbs, but then again no one said journalism was pretty.

He was on a roll and he knew it. So he decided to tackle a more difficult multi paragraph article. He reached for some jujubes; sugar would help feed his exhausted brain cells. His eyes fell upon a hot topic in the paper. Something about the Monfortes. He reached for a new crayon. He considered Vivid Tangerine, but the selected Razzamatazz instead. Johnny carefully laid out the article and began to read.

ROYAL TO LEAD ANTI-MONARCHIST PARTY
RACOUS RALLY RESOLVES RIVALRY
Sissy Talbot Special Correspondent to The Times. Times Semaphore.
Capital City Thunder Dome
Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphin of Second Life, famed Historian and Associate Professor at the most catholic University of Sonogno, suave playboy extraordinaire, and highly ineligible bachelor, was appointed Chairperson of the Anti-Monarchist Party at their raucous convention held in the Capital City Thunder Dome this weekend.

The delegates had remained deadlocked in a hapless tie, with a vote of one to one, until the aged Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV Royal, Dauphin of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian rose, from his porti-throne to speak. Placing his monocle firmly in both eyes and adjusting his woolen socks, he was recognized by The Chair.

A hushed silence fell upon the assembly as Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV Royal, Dauphin of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian pulled first a rabbit from his hat and then his prepared remarks. His royal snuff box in his hand he surveyed the room with care. Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV Royal, Dauphin of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian, pulling himself to his full height of 4’ 2” and standing ramrod straight began his address: “Hmmmagh, agggggh, my deer frens and n’companons, loyalsf supjuects snurp haaaakk haaaak, sniffle.” Returning his snuff box to his smoking jacket pocket, Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV Royal, Dauphin of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian sneezed loudly and resumed his address, “Wee musf cum t’gather n creatie a front unitd…” He paused for three minuets to let his remarks sink in. Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV Royal, Dauphin of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian concluded saying: “tis all.” The Thunder Dome burst into a cacophony of snoring as Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV Royal, Dauphin of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian removed the iron rod from his coat, resumed his pose on the porti-throne, and The Chair called for the ballot to be again cast. This time the vote was one for Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV Royal, Dauphin of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian and one abstention. The opposition delegate had fallen hopelessly to sleep.

The Anti-Monarchist party is currently drafting its Manifesto and hopes to have it completed after the election.

Johnny decided that this article was going to be really, really hard. Besides he knew Sissy Talbot was paid by the word, including blank spaces, so a lot of reading, rereading, and parsing would be required. So he decided to rest for a while. He stood up, and thought about going to the bathroom. It was a long walk to the ground floor. The Mausoleum already smelled bad he thought. He weighed his options.

The Sim of Sonogno did not have a real prison and they therefore lacked guards, snitches, warders, and wardens. So to facilitate the secure transport of Little Ben, a dangerous “dead girl walking”, they hired two female bouncers from Bitters End Dive and Barroom, notorious for its female clientele, big stink, and Saturday midnight hoedown and all girl rumble. They needed a warden and woman of the cloth also, so that the drama of the move could get the best media coverage and help with ticket sales for the ‘Necktie’ party to be held on Sunday, just two days hence. A warden they could not find, so they hired an actor. Sir Edwin Tanhauser Boots, famed Shakespearian thespian and occasional bit actor on ‘All My Children’s Tears’ on the Maudlin Channel was retained. Boots had insisted on choosing the costume he would ware from Madam Bitters Costume and Plumbing Rental in the village of Heart of the Ocean, and on writing his portion of the script.

They were about to give up on the woman of the cloth, when to their surprise Sister Fist of the of the Order of the Bloody Stain of Saint Hymenos the Benighted - Mothers of Earth Druids (reformed) appeared in the crowded offices of Justice Done and offered the assistance of The Order. They were delighted because not only was The Order undeniably of the cloth and of women, but Sister Fist assured them that the Sisters from the division of Holy Orders and Devine Retribution would assist as well. What a fine spectacle thought the managers of Justice Done. There was enough leaden drama here for a special news bulletin, or perhaps all the major youtube outlets would interrupt normal broadcast of ‘Stupid Pet Stunts, ‘Infants Gone Wild’, and the managers favorite ‘Punk You, Punk Me’ for a “breaking news.”

As Sister Fist left their offices, Bartolomo Spew Head of the Organizing committee picked up the phone and called special number at TicketHeister. “Barney,” he said, “were sold out,” he then paused a moment and continued, “send the surplus tickets to Baker Able at the Fellowship of Scalpers and Pick Pockets about an hour before the big show.”

Little Ben was having bad nightmares in her tiny refrigerated cell below the Veterinarians of Domestic Wars Memorial Court House. The Dutch Auction for tickets had ended hours ago to a thunderous applause and a lot of second guessing.

She awoke briefly and nibbled on the moldy fig Newton lovingly given to her by a small child who had put it on the end of a stick and had poked Little Ben mercilessly for about an hour before the Newton fell off into Little Bens lap. She could barely reach the Newton because her shackled hands and legs had turned blue green with cold. She fell again into a sleep of exhaustion and fear.

She dreamed of Mother. Of the golden hills of her village of Lapis Lazuli. The honey suckle smell of the garden arbor, the red shine of the inorganic tomatoes her aged mother grew and sold in the market, and of the promise made to her by her dying mother. A promise that must be kept, but which now was doomed by her conviction and pending ascension.

Little Ben had been 14 and her mother, then 102 years old had taken her aside to explain the fact of life. Little Ben thought this odd because in Second Life, the ‘facts of life’ rarely played a role. However her mother was insistent lest Little Ben ‘get in trouble’. It was all about boys, nasty boys, and their nasty ways. Nasty! And about changes in Little Ben’s body. Mother explained ‘the curse.’

“Oh mother, I didn’t know,“ she said. “A lifetime of avoiding nasty boys and their nasty thoughts, oh how awful.”

Her mother smiled that gentle smile of an ancient woman who can barely hear and whose memories of nasty boys were quite nice indeed. “Little,” said her Mother “it wont last forever. Someday when you are much older and smarter, little boys will not be interested, and then a few years later old men will loose interest as well. Your body will change again when you are about 50 and then you can fool around with boys and it won’t matter.” Mother explained ‘the change.’

Little Ben felt relieved, but then worried a bit. Something was not right here. Little Ben was 14 and mother 102. That meant that the sums were not right, and Little Ben was good at her sums. She had learned to round up the market selling tomatoes. Rounding down made no sense to Little Ben. She explained the arithmetic to her mother.

“Oh Little, I have been dreading this day. But its time, and you deserve to know” said mother. Then her mother dropped a bombshell, followed by a bomblet.

“Little, please listen carefully,” said mother staring her straight in the eyes. “You are not the fruit of my woumb.”

Little Ben did not understand. Of course she was their daughter.

Mother continued “Little, you are better than fruit, for your family selected you specially so that makes you special too.”

Little Ben was now really confused. “Selected?” she asked. “Better than fruit?” she said.

“Yes” said mother. “I was too old for fruit, and then one day we had the opportunity to select a new loving daughter to help us in our golden years and our dust years to follow. We could have selected any girl but we chose you from all the children placed on our doorstep over the years.”

Little Ben felt a bit better, she had been selected and was not just the product of a random genetic cocktail shaken and stirred.

“Yes,” continued mother, “We had prayed and prayed to Ohm, and then one night our prayers were answered and we selected you from off the doorstep. Your father, bless his tormented soul, and I were so happy,” mother continued.

Little Ben thought some more. “But what about the mark, the family mark?” Little Ben asked.

“That’s the miracle,” replied Mother, “Ohm had provided in his mysterious way. You do have the mark, just the same as father, I, our dear lost Tiny, your departed brother Big Ben, and your prodigal brother that useless and still missing Fenway Ben.”

Little Ben felt better, but she was not really certain why.

Mother wrapped her arms around Little and hugged her very hard. Little could smell the lavender and ancho chili aftershave her mother wore. Little loved that smell. She knew she was loved and indeed ‘special’.

“Now”, mother said “Let’s say the family prayer.”

Little Ben now felt much much better as she and her mother said the ancient prayer of the Bens. The family prayer was gibberish to Little, but I made her feel all healed, happy, and content.