CHAPTER 27 - MUSE AND JEWELS

Jimmy felt a presence in his dark office. But Jimmy was raised not to be superstitious, except for that bit about black cats, or the part about Halloween and baying at the moon around midnight. Or that thing about open liquor containers in the backseat with the cheerleading squad from the girls reform school and after midnight with no shoes on. No, Jimmy thought of himself as a “rationalist”. He had read about that word in the ‘Big Book of Words,’ that he had stolen from The Times Archive and Library on the 10th floor. When the head librarian, Ms. Tarttle was not looking, Jimmy had snatched the copy from the cart labeled “Recycling.” He had been proud, because he put one over on that prude Ms Tarttle.

But Jimmy was very uncomfortable. His sleep had been deep and he had been startled into sharp wakefulness. He strained to see in the darkness. He heard a shuffle sound in the darkness, a bit like bare feet on a dusty paper littered floor. He was really scarred now. Down here, who knows what might happen in the sub-basement not far from the Murdstone Family Mausoleum. Perhaps that nasty Jaloux Murdstone had awoken in the Mausoleum again and come down to the sub basement to torment Jimmy. It was scary; he was convinced that a spirit was here. Perhaps a good spirit, but they were really rare. No, it was probably an evil spirit. One out to eat his soul.

The dying light of the blue candle, flickered, then increased its brightness a bit, allowing Jimmy to see a ghostly form coming toward him in the darkness. Then the candle went out. Only a burning smell of exhausted wick remained to remind Jimmy of the light. Now he was alone. Alone with the spirit whom he was certain was out to crush Jimmy’s ambitions to be the future editor of The Times. His career snuffed out just like the candle. He was about to cry.

Then Jimmy winced in a sudden blinding white light. This is the end he thought, and he had not even made it to cub reporter. It was all over. The famed light at the end of the tunnel.

“Jimmy, Jimmy Whashisname,” called out a voice edged with madness and laden with scariness.

Jimmy was speechless, all he could do was protect his parts with both his hands, hope it would be a swift end.

“Jimmy, Jimmy Whashisname,” the sprit called out again.

Jimmy knew he was in big trouble and if the voice called out a third time it was really, really bad. Because only ghosts called out three times, or sometimes Sindy, when she was mad, or that horrible Mr. Murdstone. He said everything to Jimmy three times because Jimmy often forgot. Like ‘Pastrami on Rye,’ ‘Pastrami on Rye,’ ‘Pastrami on Rye, not Pastrami on White!’ He remembered Mr. Murdstone yelling at him over and over again.

Jimmy winced in the ethereal but brilliant tunnel of blinding light.

“Don’t hurt me, please, please,” whimpered Johnny, closing his eyes shut.

“Don’t worry Jimmy, Don’t Worry Jimmy, Don’t Worry Jimmy,” said the voice of the spirit. “I won’t hurt you.”

Sure thought Jimmy, you’re gonna eat my heart, fill my brain with worms, and lay eggs in my tummy.

“No,” said the voice. “No, No,” There was a pause and another shuffle, “I am the Muse of Journalism Jimmy, I’m here to help you.”

What’s a ‘muse’ wondered Jimmy. It didn’t sound real good.

“Yes, I am the Muse of Journalism, and I have come to help you fulfill your destiny.”

Jimmy was still blinded by the light, but the voice was sounding a bit helpful, which probably made it a nice spirit, more like, say, one of those nice holliday spirits that gave you coal to keep you warm when the weather turned really cold.

“Yes Jimmy. Do not be afraid. I am here to help you achieve your ambition. I am the Muse of Journalism, the spirit of Hurst himself, and I want to help you become a cub reporter, and eventually the Executive Editor,” intoned the voice of the spirit.

“Well…,” said Jimmy.

“Yes Jimmy. Don’t be afraid. I’ll help you win the Pubber Prize and make you a media Mongol. A man to be feared. A powerful man. A man women flock to. A man that even the lovely Sindy Blazer will find irresistible.”

“Mmm…” thought Jimmy, now thoroughly convinced that the spirit was a kind spirit. Perhaps it was true. The thought of the lovely Ms. Sindy snuggling him and cooing about his manly good looks was like a dream, and if the ‘muse’, whatever that was, could fulfill his career ambitions and get him some “you know what” from the lovely Ms. Sindy, well…

Jimmy still could not see, but at this point he really didn’t care as thoughts of the lovely Ms. Sindy, shouts of ‘Stop the Presses,’ 2000 linden Seville Road Suits, and the lovely Ms. Sindy clouded all reason. Not that there was much to cloud in Jimmy Washisname.

“Yes, oh, Mr. Muse, whatever spirit you may be,” said Jimmy. “I’ll accept your help. Gladly. How soon will I get Ms Sindy, I mean make Executive Editor and get the skeleton key to the Executive Potty?”

“That will take obedience, and careful attention to my words. My instructions. My guidance. My proofing. The guidance of the great Muse of Journalism,” the voice said.

“Now what’s a muse?” asked Jimmy again.

“For gods sake Jimmy, look it up in the Big Book of Words you stole from the 10th floor library.”

Wow thought Jimmy, this muse knows everything.

“And what must I do in return for the affections of the lovely Ms. Sindy, … I mean journalistic success and the absolute power of a media Mongol?,” replied Jimmy.

“It is simple Jimmy, simple, very simple,” said the Muse of Journalism. “I require absolute obedience to my words. Absolute. There can be no equivocation, no prevarication, and no casuistry. None. Never. My word is the word of the Muse of Journalism and it must be obeyed or you will be a copy boy until Second Life abends.”

Gosh, thought Jimmy more words he was gonna have to look up. This muse was going to be very demanding Jimmy realized. But the lovely Ms Sindy and the Lovely Ms Talbot, perhaps at the same time, now, that was worth any risk.

“Ok, I’ll do it!” said Jimmy. “What shall I call you?”

“You shall call me Mr. Muse, and when I command you, you shall always say ‘Yes, Mr. Muse of Journalism, I shall obey. Got that?”

“Yes…” said Jimmy.

“And what else?" said the Muse of Journalism, "What else?”

Jimmy thought long and hard, he had to push the image of the lovely Ms. Sindy and the lovely Ms. Talbot from his mind. It took a while. Then he said. “Yes Mr. Muse of Journalism. I shall obey. What is your command?”

There was a pause, the blinding light went out. Now it was really really dark and scary in the sub basement.

The sprit spoke, “I want you to get me Pastrami on Rye, Pastrami on Rye, Pastrami on Rye, not Pastrami on White!”

Ah thought Jimmy, I can do that.

Then the spirit spoke again, “I command you as the Muse of Journalism to take this key and go to the penthouse and steal Mr. Murdstones shorts and shoes.”

Jimmy started to have doubts. “That would be stealing,” he said.

The blinding light flashed back on. Jimmy winced. He felt a stinging thump on his head.

“It is the order of the Muse of Journalism, how dare you refuse my command,” shouted the voice of the sprit, really loud and into Jimmy’s right ear.

“Ok, ok,” replied Jimmy.

“What?” said the Muse.

“I will obey O Mr. Muse of Journalism, I shall obey,” said Jimmy rubbing the top of his head and wondering if he was ever going to hear again.

Sparkle was denied admission to the Museo de Secundo Vida. She lacked an invitation. The guards were very stern and she knew she didn’t have enough lindens for a “special invitation” because the guards held them high over their heads with the price $L 10,000 written on them. Soon the were sold out. And Sparkle was locked out. Out in the cold and it was starting to snow. A hard snow, the kind of snow that fell from an angry sky which had been provoked, teased, and taunted by the searchlights below.

Sparkle’s only recourse was to wait until the event was over and then hope to catch Sindy Blazer as she left the event. Sparkle was really cold, she had not dressed for this weather. When she had left the village of HOTO at noon it had been warm, but here in the capital it was cold. So Sparkle sought solace by standing between the Strawbuck’s Coffee Cart and the Hot Possum Dog Vendors, who infested the capital city like a plague of fleas. At least it was a bit warmer standing in the steam of stale dogs and refried steamer milk.

After several hours Sparkle noticed that the guards were drifting away and that the building was not as secure as it had been. She watched as a gaggle of guards grouped together and walked down Beast Street and entered Gigot’s Tavern and Malt Shoppee. She thought she saw an opening. But as she approached she was amazed to see the number of nuns or sisters surrounding one of the exits. Then the door of the exit slammed open and someone really important was whisked out of the building surrounded by a dark cloud of Kevlar wimples and the creak of tight leather pants. Sparkle caught only a whisp of bright blonde hair as the VIP was spirited swiftly into the night and into a flat black omnibus which rapidly pulled away from the Museo. Just before the door swung shut, Sparkle grabbed the door handle and slipped into the Museo. Two nuns, remained at the door, but they seemed not to care about Sparkle’s entrance. They were instead focused on the ceiling of the building. They were looking at something. Perhaps the massive chandelier that hung in the rotunda dome. Sparkle looked carefully but could see only the massive dome of the Museo painted in the style of the old master Risqué and the massive chandelier.

Sparkle hugged the wall, not wanting to be thrown out. She was on a mission and her only hope lay in finding Sindy. Sindy knew a lot about the capital and knew a lot of important people. In fact she had a lot on important people chuckled Sparkle.

The exhibition hall was crowded and filled with twirling, whirling debutantes, bachelorettes, and trophy wives. It was going to be impossible to spot Sindy. But then she saw a kind of circular moving empty space. There were a few people in the center, but the surrounding five meters or so, was devoid of the throng. It was as if the people in the center of the void had some communicable disease, like measles or mumps. She saw a stuffy short man, a beautiful woman all clad in incredible jewels, a chairperson, and two thugs in scarlet. Then she spotted Sindy. Sparkle was speechless. Sindy was magnificent, spectacular, majestic, even royal in her appearance. Then she saw Sindy sink to the floor. Something’s wrong she realized. Sindy was in some kind of trouble.

A hissing and crackling noise, like high energy lines shorting out at the power station across the street from her childhood home, screamed danger in the hall. Then a burst of green and yellow light, so bright sparkle had to shield here eyes with her hand. A loud screeching sound followed by the sound of breaking glass and screaming debutantes. The room was shaking and broken glass, broken mirrors, and broken zirconium was crashing to the floor. Sparkle ran to Sindy’s aid. She was writhing on the concrete floor. But before she could move more than a yard, a blast of plasma filled light erupted from Sindy’s chest and in a pulsating sinuous, evil looking electric arc burst forth and sought a ground. The plasma beam bounced from wall to wall, knocking plaster onto the floor. The beam seemed to be seeking something. Then the ghastly beam split in two and raced across the floor. One beam terminated in the short man and he began to glow in an impossible way of light and dark. The other beam terminated in the last display case in a line of display cases. The two tongued beam grew brighter and brighter. The room really began to shake. The chandelier from high above on the rotunda came crashing to the floor. The hissing electric sound was deafening, a thin ozone filled evil looking greenish mist began to form.

And then the room went black. The beam extinguished. Silence, interspaced by little tinkles of falling glass, descended upon the hall. The exhibition hall lights flickered, and then returned to half brightness. Sparkle ran forward. On the floor lay two forms, one a short man and the other her old dear friend Sindy Blazer. Both were unconscious. As she knelt to feel for Sindy’s pulse, someone shouted from across the room.

“They are gone, they are gone. The crown jewels are gone!