Flag-bearing Benjer left the wingnut
factory early that day, holding a pair of playing cards in his hand
(and a little bit of insecurity in his heart). The streets were
dark, and he made his way home with the help of a tiny little
electric torch that he held between his teeth. Holding it in his
teeth was his only option, you see, for his free hand was needed for
swatting away the little blood-sucking drones that swarmed around his
head.
There are always a few blood-sucking
drones swarming around one's head, now, aren't there, poopsie-doodle?
Sure there are.
The electric torch led our dear Benjer
down a side street that he had not expected to traverse, and with
great alarm, he watched rather passively and with horror as the torch
led him through a tiny little door and into a dark, dusty shop that
smelled of tamarinds, incense, and garlic.
“Poocha-hee!” exclaimed a small
amber-skinned man from behind a counter. “Poocha-hee! You have
nice electric torch!”
“I'ng sarry...I gnust av ade a rong
urn,” said Benjer, the torch still between his teeth and his free
hand still waving at the drones. He stopped waving and took the
torch from his teeth. “I'm sorry...I must have made a wrong turn.”
“Kalla-longo! You in right place!”
said the amber-skinned man. “You come to right place. I show you
what you need!” He scurried out of sight, and into the back room.
Benjer occupied himself with looking at a stack of old magazines
from Indonesia. In less than a minute the amber-skinned man
returned, carrying a dented and dusty cardboard box, no larger than a
couple of loaves of bread.
Not bigger than a breadbox, you might
be led to say.
“Squabbo!” exclaimed the
amber-skinned man. “This what you need!”
He withdrew it from the box. It's
surface was pitted, but still fairly shiny.
Benjer looked upon it with some
fascination. “I never knew I needed one of THOSE,” he said.
“How does it, ummm...how does it work?”
“Squabbo-licious!” said the
amber-skinned man. “It no work at all. You just carry it. Just
carry in pocket of oversized jacket, and let magic genies do work!”
Benjer frowned, for he had no oversized
jacket to call his own. The amber-skinned man saw the sadness in his
eyes, and had anticipated just such a reaction.
“Kalla-longo! I have jacket for
you,” he said, as he helped Benjer into a dusty, oversized jacket.
“You look like million bucks!” said the amber-skinned man,
clapping his hands together. “Now to see if it fit in pocket!”
The amber-skinned man reached into the
cardboard box again. He removed just what Benjer needed, its pitted
but fairly shiny surface reflecting the dim lights of the shop.
“Well, it is quite lovely,” said
Benjer, opening up the jacket front to reveal the large interior
breast pocket. The amber-skinned man slipped it inside and closed
Benjer's jacket. He patted him lightly on the chest and smiled.
“Rolla-rolla! Magic genies now do
work. Magic genies keep you safe,” said the amber-skinned man.
“How much do I owe you?” asked
Benjer, reaching for his wallet.
The amber-skinned man waved his hand.
“You just go. You be careful now. You have big day tomorrow.”
Benjer smiled and bounded out of the
shop with a new spring in his step. He began to cross the street and
was hit by a speeding truck and killed instantly.
