Poopy Derringer (excerpt)

Poopy Derringer (excerpt)

An excerpt from ‘Poopy Derringer and the Singing Monkey of Death’

 

            …THE END.

            “‘The end’!” he screamed—if only in his head.  “What does it even mean…!?”

Poopy Derringer—whose real name was Guano Fitzsimmons, which he thought to be really very grandiose, if not outright plebeian—copped a squat on the park bench on a cool, November morn, there upon the hill in the glade by the glen within the wood o’erlooking the lake beneath the mountain near the sea…

“Oh, but isn’t this where that other began?” mused Poopy aloud to himself.

“Yes, well, He does cling to His themes,” replied no one in particular.  “(Don’t ask Him how He likes His bloody-marys!)”

“Who said that!?” demanded Poopy, leaping to his feet and glaring all askance.

But there was no one.  Only him—Poopy—and, he realized, just now spying him swinging down from an overhanging tree branch, his sometime companion (nothing dirty!) the Singing Monkey of Death.

“Oh, Monkey!” called Poopy, with a wave and a smile.  “Hello, old friend; how are you on this fine autumn day?”

“~And when you’re feelin’ blue, don’t let it get to you!~” sang Monkey, perching on the back of the bench upon which Poopy had now resumed his sitting; “~Just let your gray skies besmirch to bloody red—and take heart for, someday, we’ll all be dead!~”

“You magnificent, little primate!” declared Poopy, giving his little pal a friendly poke in the belly and a scruffle on the noggin.  “You sound just like Vic Damone!”

Poopy was a striking figure of a man—like a bronzed god from Norse mythology:  tall and robust, muscular, with an angular, chiseled visage, bold, blue eyes, long, lustrous (but manly!), blonde hair, and a smile beyond compare… except shorter, and not so buff (leaning toward pudgy), with a slightly droopy face; but his eyes were, indeed, blue (hazy, and the left one lazy), and his hair was, without doubt, blonde—though short, leant unto balding.  Poopy had often been told he had really nice feet (for a man), though, of course, it was just a lie; if his feet were slippers, he’d often thought, old and worn and tattered through, long ago he’d have thrown them out!!…  But they weren’t slippers at all; they were feet.  And so he kept them.  He often had a problem with accruing too much earwax.

The Monkey of Death was really very monkey-like in bearing—yet with the dark gleam of supernal transience in his beady, little eyes.  And, of course, ever, always, and forever, there played a song in his heart!

“You know, Monkey,” said Poopy, wistfully, staring off into Nowhere, “I am so very incessantly attuned to the passage of Time.  As the weeks and months and years slip ever away—and e’en the very minutes and hours!  Each and every second that passes—uh!, there go a few more!”

Monkey listened attentively, snacking on some few nits he had found in the fur under his arm.

“But ever increasingly so,” continued Poopy, “I find the futility of it all to be beyond bothersome.  Do you know what I mean, Monkey?  Can you understand the burden of my temporal dilemma?”

“~Just hangin’ around with nothing to do—” sang Monkey, “~wishing on more of something for you!  Drinking and smoking, and popping pills, too—but you’re just killing time ‘til time’s killing you!~”

Poopy frowned.  “No.  I was really sort of getting at the redundancy of Time, but—”

And then there were ducks—ducks just everywhere!  Oodles and ooodles of ducks, a whole freaking flock of them!  (A whole flocking freak of them!!—as if such were even a thing!?)  Swarming, looming low, sweeping high—winging bombastically and wallowing lackadaisically!  Batting at Poopy’s skull, ruffling his (metaphorical) feathers with their (literal) own, impinging on really very sequacious and personal places with bluntly battering bills!

But then they were gone.  And they had hardly even shat on Poopy at all, so he just continued on with his muttered musings…

“Oh, Monkey,” he mumbled, “I know not what.  (Or—given the actuality of the underlying epistemological essence of Everything—I suppose I really probably do know what, for I have known it before, and shall know it again and again!  But the nub of my gist is simply this: I do not at present know what… though, mesupposes, such is to be expected.)  Hello, stranger!”  The last was hailed to a meager seeming fellow innocuously passing by.

“Oh?  Oh!  Well, hello,” replied the man, apparently discomfited by his very being.

Ah, how well I know, thought Poopy.  How well I know

Poopy introduced himself and Monkey—the latter simply as “Monkey,” and sans the “of Death” part, which really just often seemed to put people off—and the man replied that his own name was Cadmar Drake.  Given the recently passed duck-haranguing episode he had just suffered through, this somewhat set Poopy just slightly beside himself, and he felt it necessary to cower under the park bench and whimper and moan briefly.  When he had summoned the courage to again face the world, he crawled back out—and, though Monkey had retreated back up into the tree, the Cadmar Drake fellow remained.

“So then may I assume,” said Poopy, gesturing for Cadmar to join him on the bench, “(from your name, I mean) that the duck infestation of moments ago was a harbinger of your arrival?”

“‘Cadmar’?” replied the man, frowning.

“Um (er-), no.  I was referring to ‘Drake’.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Cadmar, his face alit with wonder at really absolutely nothing at all.  “Right.  No, I don’t know anything about anything about ducks.  My name actually refers to a male dragon—which is also a drake.”

Poopy was hardly reassured by this, as he warily scanned the skies.

“And your name then is—” began Cadmar, before Poopy cut him off.

“‘Derringer’?  Yes, yes, Mexican-Irish.  And—but it’s spelled f-i-t-z-s-i-m-m-o-n-s,” said Poopy.  “But what particularly interests me is what you said just now about not knowing anything about anything…?”

“About ducks,” clarified Cadmar.  “(Well, I mean—aside that they can be great fun for whipping!)”

Forsoothly!”  Poopy pondered, tapping his chin and scrutinizing Cadmar Drake.  “Do you know—or perhaps I should say do you not know!—anything about Time?  And, specifically, about the passage of beings through the Time Loop of the Very Existence of All Things?!”

Cadmar frowned again.  Whenever he did so, Poopy thought he could hear a subtle wheezing sound, as blood whooshed through the man’s heart, and, he realized, it caused Monkey to peek out from the branches above expectantly.

“Does this,” replied Cadmar, “have anything to do with… the Tree of Life?”

“Ah-ha!” declared Poopy, rising in his seat.  “The Tree of Life!  Very good, very good… the all-encompassing branches of Existence, reaching out across the Myriad Chilicosms of the Infinite Dimensions!  Indeed, by troth, and forsooth!  But, no.”  Poopy silently considered how to broach the subject more substantially.  He had a good feeling about this Cadmar Drake, and he thought maybe the plan that had been percolating in his brain of late might be furthered more easily with the assistance of a one such as he…

“You see,” explained Poopy, “I have discovered that, you might say, if the Universe—nay, the very Cosmic Multiverse!—were a book, it has already been written.”

“Okay.”  Cadmar contemplated.  “And—?”

“From beginning to end,” said Poopy.  “I mean, even though we’re only on page 27 (or whatever page we’re on), it’s been written in its entirety—straight through page seven-million-google-point-two!”

“Yikes!”

“Forsoothly!  But that’s not all…”  Poopy leaned in close, squinty-eyed.

“Though that would be enough,” grimaced Cadmar, veering away.

“Hm… well—but, you see, then… the very last page at THE END—the veritable ‘Happily Ever After’ (one might hope!)—is, forsoothly and anon, as well… the very ‘Once Upon a Time’ at the beginning!”  Poopy sat back, crossed his arms, and silently bristled with his own self-aggrandizement.

“Ah, interesting.  And so then,” ventured Cadmar, “it all just starts over again?”

“And again, and again, and again!”

“And how, exactly, did you come by the knowledge of this purported phenomena?” inquired Cadmar.

“I had a Revelation!”

“Blessed Virgin be praised!  Christ is Risen!!” shouted Cadmar Drake, leaping high, then kneeling low.

“~When you’ve got slush—in yer knickers, jack!” sang Monkey, with a hoot and a screech and a random tossing of assorted nuts.  “~Hey, yer gonna die!~”

“Settle down, settle down,” coaxed Poopy; “just keep it in yer pants there, pepé, you’re scaring the monkey.”

“Yeah, well, I was also being facetious,” rejoined Cadmar, sitting back down.  “But I’ve got to tell you, I’ve climbed the Tree of Life—I’ve crossed through the dimensions—and it all seems a little too random to me to be ‘pre-written’, or whatever.  In fact, Time isn’t even the same in any given dimension; if what you’re saying were true, wouldn’t it all be more in sync?”

“That,” declared Poopy, as if in triumph, “is exactly what they would like you to believe!”

Cadmar looked skeptical—beyond skeptical!—peering at Poopy out of the corner of his eyes, from ‘neath a singly arched eyebrow.  He thinks me mad!, thought Poopy, his deepest, direst, corpusculating monads bombasting rigorously.  Boop-boop-boop-boop!~

“Well, I don’t know that I can be much help,” said Cadmar, standing to go.  “And I should really be on my way.  I’m off for a rendezvous with my lady love—the goddess-like Zenekah Charez!”  He suddenly became rather moon-sodden about his epistemological ambient.

“Doesn’t matter,” replied Poopy, abruptly being all poopy.  “Perhaps when we meet again—the next time around—I shall find a way to convince you, and (at last!) the cycle can be broken…”

“Hm, well.”  Cadmar dug something out of his pocket and handed it to Poopy.  It was a tiny piece of wood, carved into an ankh, the ancient Egyptian symbol of life.  “But I wish you luck—and maybe this will help you in your endeavors.  It’s from the Tree of Life itself.”

“But that can’t be!” declared Poopy, pondering the wooden token in his palm.  “The Tree is purely metaphorical!”

“Is it?” Cadmar winked, all smirky-smarmy.  “Perhaps so—but perhaps all things are metaphorical.  Including this wooden ankh.”  He glanced down to Poopy’s hand—which was now empty.  Poopy gasped!  “No, no,” said Cadmar, reaching for something behind Poopy’s ear, “here it is.”  He again dropped the ankh token into Poopy’s hand.  “Well—gotta climb,” Cadmar announced.

And—as if he had never been there at all—Cadmar Drake disappeared.

Poopy shook his head, muttering, “Dragons are funny people…”

Monkey dropped down to the bench beside him and began a soft-shoe.  “~Whether you were drowned at birth—or are lying six feet under some earth!  Maybe you were burned at the stake, or drawn-n-quartered (for pete’s sake!)  Boom-boom-boom-boom!!  Dragons…!~”

“Thanks, Monkey!  Let’s go get some beer.”

 

[The full story can be purchased on Mishka’s Smashwords page:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/481417… get it for free until 12/31/14 using coupon code KR76V.]

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *