Search

Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

Month

February 2016

Introducing (tah dah) The Chrome Domes

The Night of the Chrome Domes from my short story book: The Kingdom of the Cats

It was the largest, brightest full moon that the Earth had seen in over ten years.

Seven tuxedo-clad phantoms had solidified their departed selves and gathered in the empty baseball field at Dodger Stadium. The Los Angeles stadium stood on sacred ground (only a few short miles from Tommy’s Original Hamburgers). The field had originally been named Elysian Fields, by the Pantheon of Gods.

The ghostly group of bald-pated show-biz legends: Bing, Astaire, Frank, Bobby Darin, Roy Orbison, Hank Williams, Mel Torme, even Al Jolson (whom nobody could stand), all stood in a solemn circle. The singers were joined by nearly a dozen other bald songwriters, band leaders, and agents.

When they had been alive, these giants of music all had sported one of Cori’s magic toupees. The charmed hairpieces, made from the fur of Cori’s cat, Joe, had helped them all to regain the confidence that they needed to keep performing when they were alive.

RetroRocketship

Their task had begun.

The light of the silent moon lit the bald heads. The pale rays multiplied themselves upon the surfaces of the men’s collective domes until the moon’s power snowballed ten-thousand-fold. A vigorous beam projected itself into the heavens. The initial signal was sent.

The toupees were lifted by the ghosts, and then dropped down upon their bare heads in efficient military precision, more exact then that of the Chinese who jump in unison to send tsunamis toward their enemies across the Pacific.

The flashing of domes was repeated thirty times. A coded message was being transmitted.

On the distant planet Brill, a great light entered the studio window. The code from the Earth below sent its urgent message to Buddy and Ada. The signal from the Chrome Domes was a plea for help, reaching into deep space.

The Chosen One is ready.” The coded message said. “Please bring some new tunes and a magic toupee for Johnny Passion.”

The Earth is in danger of imploding due to bad music. Also, bring some celestial smokes, if you can. And a dozen Plutonian tacos.”

Toupee or not toupee?” The message from the bearers of the Magic Toupees was given top priority by the Brills, who in a rare move initiated a call to their boss.

“Buddy! She’s not answering!”

By the Sea (from Shark Fin Soup)

 

The warm morning sun shimmered upon the rippling sea. A nice sized coconut bobbed up and down just past the surging shoreline and a few yards past the black skinned, golden haired, fifteen-year-old Mmbop Handsun, the prince of his own itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie Micronesian kingdom.

It was going to be another hot one, and Mmbop had forgotten his newest pair of certified-previously-owned Ray-Ban sun glasses given to him, in trade, by a rich tourist woman for one of his prized wood carvings — carvings that he ordered, weekly, from what he thought were poor dumb hard-working saps over in Malaysia. He did not realize that the Malaysians had been outsourcing the genuine Fijian carvings to a sweaty warehouse in Alabama, USA, that employed the children of ex auto workers. Mmbop only paid twenty-five cents apiece for the crude art. Yesterday he’d sold ten oversized one-hundred dollar wooden cannibal forks that his father, the Chief, Papaumaumau, had ordered from Taiwan at 50 cents apiece. It had been a good week, now that he’d also helped his parents decimate and sell off most of the island’s remaining palm trees to the Chinese.

As if any drunken tourist would even notice, there was hardly a substantial palm tree left on any of the High Society Islands within three hundred miles. Coconuts were scarce on both Little Hubba, and Big Hubba-Hubba, the two islands comprising the kingdom of Hubba Hubba Hubba.

“Shouldn’t waste perfectly good food!” Mmbop said, as he pushed his thick blonde dreadlocks back. The golden hair and clear blue eyes were a throwback to his Scandinavian sailor ancestors who’d visited, mated and had been munched on, in Micronesia over seven hundred years ago.

Mmbop lifted himself up, stretching his long thin shadow across the beach.

After eating the sweet coconut meat he would clean off the husk and carve a bearded monkey head for the dwindling tourists that have been disappearing along with the trees. Maybe he’d add a human finger bone through the nose.

Tourists always assumed that the “nose-bone” came from a chicken. Chickens were revered as Gods in Hubba-Hubba. They were only used for their eggs, by order of Queen Erica, after the island’s omelet loving priests had convinced her that the chicken fruit were a gift from Lomalagi (Heaven) and that ‘the sacred chickens, DID, in fact, come before the eggs.’

He watched the coconut bobbing in the water. After the carving was finished, he would add some shell teeth and toy glasses.

Tourists love that stuff, Mmbop thought as he bent forward, and tried to grab onto the bobbing nut that persisted on floating away in the slow current and morning glare. He hit at the coconut with a stick and it turned over. It appeared to have already been carved with a funny beard and a big schnozolla with a human bone through it!

It, of course, was a real human head.

Mmbop scooped it out of the surf and carried it to shore.

Granola grinding, hemp wearing, coral hugging tourists don’t want a real human head, he thought. Not even a fresh one like this. Maybe I should toss it back? He shook his head ‘no.’ I shouldn’t waste a perfectly good head. He decided to ‘fix it up’ with a few artful cuts. He reached into the pocket of his Izod swimsuit, which yet another rich tourist had traded him for a necklace of genuine plastic whale teeth, and grabbed his Swiss Army Cannibal Fork, that came complete with a saw blade, a grater, a marital aid, assorted knives, an Egyptian nose hook (for removing brains), a Phillips screwdriver, and a waterproof universal remote.

At home, waiting for him, was his main squeeze, Mmbopalula.

“Maybe I’ll take it to her as a gift.…Besides, nothing turns a woman on like a full head of hair.”

An excerpt from “Perdida — Island of Lost Things”

12243223_10153244997283873_627571000625904234_n(A Phone Message from the scientist Postel Amok to his Actress wife Margaret Amok  2/16/16 🙂

Le plume de mutant

“Hello, Margaret. This is Postel. I heard you were taking a break from the movies, and it just so happens that I’ll be gone from the middle of May through most of November.

You must come and see what I’ve done to our little island since you’ve been gone. Little Edison misses you and cannot wait to hear all about your movies. I’ve refurbished the pool area with a fully stocked bar, a waterfall and slide, and our satellite T.V. has every channel known to man and beast. You will see my new particle-accelerator that has been placed around the  pool area by the time you arrive. Don’t let Edison play with it. It can be potentially catastrophic in unexperienced hands. When I return, I’ll show you how to mix a Nutrino Smoothy — the most popular beverage in the 4th dimension. Ha! Life on the island should be quiet  while I’m gone. Doctor Vegzet from Switzerland may stop in to do a few quiet experiments, but that is all.

You won’t have to water the garden or clean the house as I have a new groundskeeper named Zubu who lives in the guest house and is capable of covering most of the chores. Don’t be afraid of Zubu though he seems to enjoy acting like, dressing like, and screeching like P.T. Barnum’s famous Wild Man of Borneo.—Woo Hooo Hooo Hooo!

You may run into a few of my new exotic pets outside, but Zubu can care those as well.

He’ll take care of the animals in our new fresh water lake, which your son, Edison has christened Lake Darwin.

You’re still the prettiest woman that ever lived.

Call me. O.K.? (pause). You got my number, Pumpkin.”

I Love you.

Maggie hated the way the big goofball called her Pumpkin, just to piss her off.

_________________

From the tiniest amoeba to the largest pre-historic sloth, the entire Isla de Mismo was inhabited by the one thing that the award winning scientist  loved the most, himself and his divine genetic history! He couldn’t wait to share the newest vision of his twisted world with his wife, Margaret, who’d just spent over a year filming make-believe stories in the fantasy land we know as Hollywood. On Friday, she arrived, by fishing boat to their newly designed Bermuda home on Isla de Mismo. From the dock the island seemed to be the same place that she’d left a year ago, with its white plantation style house and colorful row boats fronting the tropical beach.

Postel Amok had won the Nobel Prize in 1986 in Physiology for his work in genetic engineering and his most important project The Molecular Time-clock that would someday “reproduce animals of the past through the use of his own DNA.” Long ago, Maggie had heard her husband rambling on, over dinner, boasting to his  scientist friends, “My esteemed friends, I, Postel Amok, will be sliding down the evolutionary chain, into the past, in two-hundred-thousand-year increments.”

The freshwater pond behind the Amok house was fed by Postel’s solar power desalinization plant and was decorated with small islands of coconut trees and a large waterfall to keep the water properly aerated. Maggie watched a school of carp and large lungfish with red markings on their backs, swimming into the shallows. They’d disappeared in the murk before Maggie could get a closer look at them.

“Come, this way. Let me introduce you to our two very rare Anthracosaurus,” said the groundskeeper Zubu as he walked her along the shore and pointed to two large animals resembling black tree trunks. “They were believed to be an extinct genus of embolomere, from the Late Carboniferous period 310 million years ago.” The Coal Lizards, once found in the Brirish Isles were each over10-feet long —- They also had gapped teeth, like Zubu, like her husband, Postel. “The larger lizard on the left is Sal,” said Zubu,  “and his sweetheart is Amanda.” Amanda swung her head toward Maggie from the muddy bank and hissed a warning at the invasive female. Her mate, Sal the scaly brute, complimented Maggie on her legs with a chirp and a tongue swipe grooming  his pond scum coated head. Maggie felt the impulse to run but was then drawn in by the red Helix mark on the creature’s black back. Sal turned and grinned the same familiar gap-toothed grin that Maggie did not want to think about.

Though the two twelve-foot-long newts, Sal and Amanda, had lovely ragged  grins. They sized up Maggie as if she were a stick of Joe Blow chewing gum.

A frog, the size of a large man, lurched itself onto the muddy shore. It blinked at Maggie.

“That is Beelzebufo, miss,” said Zubu. “That is her genus.”

“Gee, what a cutie,” said Maggie.

“We call her Ribbit. Your husband’s friend Doctor Vegzet, said that he brought Beelzebufo ampinga here from Madagascar, while your husband was working with the atom collider in Switzerland. Ribbit and her family were thought to be extinct since the Cretaceous and still has smaller relatives in South America. She seems to like you, miss.”

Maggie stuck out her tongue at the blank-eyed beast, in fun.

Zubu screeched and leapt, straight up, ten feet onto a jakfruit tree, “No, ma’am! You musn’t tease her.”

The frog rolled out it’s tongue like a New Year’s Eve noisemaker. Maggie felt a little guarded in front of the savage Zubu, but that didn’t stop her from making a “ribbit” sound and a greeting, “Hello Ribbit!” The frog answered her ribbit, and then added a series of other “ribbits” looking at Maggie for understanding? Suddenly, its tongue shot out and grabbed a moth the size of a crow. Beelzebufo held it in its mouth long enough for Maggie to get a reeeeal good look at the moth’s wing. That looked like a,“No it can’t be!” It had the same helix mark as her husband, as the groundskeeper, as Sal and Amanda! The frog nudged its bug-eyed head as if inviting her to “Try one! They’re not so bad, tasty once you get past the hairy wings! Really. Tons of fiber, pumpkin.” Ribbit slurped it down.

Postel has done it! Maggie thought.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: