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Copyright © 1997-2003
The Media Company

Amazing Stories

The Scribe, in his journies from, to and in between Gahoozaleth and the other places thereupon came to the base of Mount Fubab. Scaling the mountain for the required length of time to reach the summit, or at least pretty close, close enough that is to find the Cache of Haberdash which local legend had promised, he was thoroughly enriched with the sight and scent of shoes, etc. Not that the journey was without its share of misery and toe bashing, but who cares about that stuff right now.

The good part is that after rifling through the piles of seemingly haphazardly arranged apparel which in itself was a mystery as to its origins yet at the same time so prolific as to quickly cloud over the need to discover the facts, he came upon the hallowed goal which heretofore had offered barely a fading hope of chance discovery. Yea and behold it was indeed the Truth of Sense. For it was written

Whomwhatsoever shall don the Truth of Sense shall at once be privy to the info. And thenceforth shall the donner be able to glance upon the unenlightened and say things like,

"Forget it, you wouldn't understand anyway."

So he donned the Truth of Sense and was instantly transformed. With all the knowledge of the ages now at his disposal, the answers became immediately obvious. Yet, in the greatest irony, the transformation endowed such comprehension and fulfillment that he found that he no longer cared what the answers were and removed the Truth of Sense. Instantly transformed back into the muddle of reality, the answers vanished and the strength of the desire for truth returned like a slap in the face with a dead fish.

Realizing that the answers were in his grasp just a moment before he slammed the Truth of Sense back on his head and was instantly transformed again to the state of knowledge but totally unconcerned. So again he removed the Truth of Sense and was again transformed. He began to repeat the donning and undonning with increasing frequency, soon approaching a state of dilemma.

On and off the thing went until he was flailing around like a fish out of water, his head nyanging back and forth like a man with a rubber neck. Faster and wilder this became and soon it was like a tornado in the desert with dust kicking up and noises like a cat fight in the middle of a summer night. He soon reached a state of dilennima and then escalated into super dilennima, at which point he at once lost consciousness and dropped to the ground like a sack of flour.

Upon awakening he found himself shrouded in darkness, and soon realized that he was outside staring up into the sky, the stars spelling out mocking accusation. Sitting up and fumbling for anything familiar, he found his newly acquired rather tasteful and surprisingly comfortably fitting shoes nearby and put them on. The night was relatively warm so he sat there trying to remember what had happened.

After some time the stars began to fade and the sky grayed with the light of dawn. As the light grew he realized that he was in unfamiliar surroundings. No trace of the Cache of Haberdash or the Truth of Sense was in view in any direction. For that matter the place had an unfamiliar smell too. Thinking out loud he spoke,

"It don't smell bad, but it sure smells strange."

Upon further examination of the horizontal in the dawn of morning his countenance was then discovered to be in near proximity to a prehensile tail. At once the tail's owner-occupant swayed gingerly, whipping up a flurry of dust and skittering off to a short distance, whereupon the creature flung a deposit of its own givings back in his general direction. Breaking startled from his revery he barely escaped full encounter with the projected nuisance except for enough to confirm the odors of nature. Rising up quickly and shaking both fists he burst forth,

"Begone vile fur bedeviled baboon!"

Thence realizing that an error was in the making he spake again as to himself,

"Yet but a baboon has not such a languid tail. Whence then is such a creature strayed so far from its domicile to habitate this land of Fubab?"

And again as suddenly he nearly jumped out of his skin with a restart as a voice intoned from behind,

"Yet before you can uncover this riddle, how can you tell how far away from true domicile such a creature may be?"

Indeed, he was amazed, nay nearly almost shocked as he turned to see the Assistant to the Scribe General of Fubab standing there, looking like a dog with a shit eating grin. Quickly his composure was gathered as he retored,

"Does not your perception of your own present domicile take precedence before you may attack such a quest?"

This naturally developed into the typical Scribe vs. Scribe dialogue. Clambering down the mountain side the two smoothsayers questioned each other relentlessly for what seemed to be, and indeed probably was an epoch, era or eon at least. Neither yielded to the urge to break out a direct answer lest the conflagration come to a premature silence. Long did the time pass as the journey progressed through altitudinal variances.

Then coming upon a steep hill they struggled upward, hardly taking notice of anything but the climb until finally able to view over the horizontal at the top, and suddenly both fell silent as unimistakably they realized together that below them lay Yabadabalon itself, in all of its raucous spendor, crawling with the entourages of Pharigeeans, Pharageeans, Loktites, Bazoonites, etc.

Firing questions back and forth they directly made their way to the Temple of Yabadabalon. Upon entering the temple the Assistant to the Scribe General of Fubab discovered that he had a mail slab waiting. Upon glimpsing the official communique from the Temple of Fubab, he found that urgent business awaited, so he excused himself with a rash of questions and departed thusly.

In short time an attender of the Temple of Yabadabalon appeared and queried as to the purpose of the Scribe's visit. Again the questions flourished as the Scribe related his saga of the recent days. They had a great time and they sat down and questioned endlessly over a cappucino or two or three.

Finally as the day drew late and it was near temple closing time, the two got up and went out into the front yard. They exchanged business cards and then resolved to go about their accustomed paths. Parting, the Scribe queried,

"Does one forsee an occasion for re-meeting as we do at present in the future?"

To which the temple attender regurgitated,

"Whence a journey of one's taking would expect you to cross these boundaries again?"

And of course the Scribe requeried,

"What reason would one purport to give cause for such a journey?"

On and on this went until the surrounding din thankfully drowned out their mutual hearability. The Scribe, who had been slowly backing away now turned to resume a forward course. At that moment a fleeting thought made its presence, that for the entire venture into Yabadabalon including the encounter with the temple attender not but one detrimental act of harm had come to pass.

And as he was just beginning to rejoice over the respite from the normal toe damaging and other standard daily occurrences, he discovered a log horizontally placed just at forehead level and planted firmly against the aforementioned forehead before progress could be halted.

Then seeing nothing but stars for a few moments, he was aware but unable to confirm the location of muffled chortles as of Pharageean accent. For could he have seen clearly at that moment he would have envisioned the temple attender also turning quickly to resume forward motion, but having misjudged the distance to the temple steps, tripped and fell headlong onto the unforgiving rocken carapace. And he also would have seen no more as the temple attender sunk into the muddle at the feet of the other temple attenders pouring out like a stampede of cattle.

And thus the balance of nature was restored in short order.