NativeTongue

Here, thought Spence Mooher, was a bum to be reckoned with. He came to this conclusion approximately one second too late, for the man had already seized Mooher's testicles and twisted with such forcefulness that all strength emptied from Mooher's powerful limbs; quivering, he felt a rush of heat down his legs as he soiled himself. When he tried to talk, a weak croaking noise came out of his mouth.

"Time to go night-night," said the bum, twisting harder. Spence Mooher fell down unconscious.

With a slapping of many oversized feet, the actor-elves scurried toward the slack figure of Moe Strickland, who was awake but in considerable pain. Jeremiah-Dumpling lifted Moe's bloody head and said, "This is the guy we told you about. The one in the dumpster."

Skink bent down and said, "Pleased to meet you, Uncle Ely. I think your buddies better get you to the vet."

Charles Chelsea tested the door to Francis X. Kingsbury's office and found it locked. He tapped lightly but received no reply.

"I know he's in there," Chelsea said.

Da

"Like ridin" a bicycle," said Bud Schwartz.

From inside the raccoon costume came a hollow command. The others stood back while Joe Winder opened the door. Upon viewing the scene, he clapped his paws and said: "Perfect."

Francis X. Kingsbury was energetically fondling himself in front of a television set. On the screen, a dark young man in a torn soccer jersey was copulating with a wild-haired brunette woman, who was moaning encouragement in Spanish. Other video cassettes were fa

Kingsbury halted mid-pump and wheeled to confront the intruders. The boxer shorts around his ankles greatly diminished his ability to menace. Today's hairpiece was a silver Ke

"Get out," Kingsbury snarled. He fumbled for the remote control and turned off the VCR. He seemed unaware that the Amazing Kingdom's stalwart mascot, Robbie Raccoon, was pointing a loaded semi-automatic at him. Joe Winder tucked the gun under one arm while he unzipped his head and removed it.

"So you're alive," Kingsbury hissed. "I had a feeling, goddammit."

Bud Schwartz laughed and pointed at Kingsbury, who shielded his receding genitals. The burglar said, "The asshole's wearing golf shoes!"

"For traction," Joe Winder theorized.

Charles Chelsea looked disgusted. Da

"What's this?"

"The files we swiped. Ramex, Gotti, it's all there."

Kingsbury was confused. Why would they return the files now? Bud Schwartz read his expression and said, "You were right. It was out of our league."

Which was baloney. The true reason for returning the files was to ensure that no one would come searching for them later. Like the police or the FBI.

"I suppose you want, what, a great big thank-you or some such goddamn thing." Francis X. Kingsbury tugged the boxer shorts high on his gelatinous waist.

The indignity of the moment finally had sunk in. "Get out or I'm calling Security!"

"You've got no Security," Winder informed him.

"Charlie?"

"I'm afraid that's right, sir. I'll explain later."

Bud Schwartz said to his partner, "This is pathetic. Let's go."

"Wait." Da

"What the hell do you care." By now Kingsbury had more or less focused on Joe Winder's gun, so he spoke to Da

"She's a sick old woman, for Chrissake."

"What's your point, Jethro?"

"My point is this," said Da

Surveying the messy scene, Charles Chelsea felt refreshingly detached. He truly didn't care anymore. Outside, a roar of thousands swept the Amazing Kingdom, followed by gay cheers and applause. Chelsea went to the window and parted the blinds. "What do you know," he said. "Our five-millionth customer just walked through the gate."

With gray hands Kingsbury clutched the corner of the desk and pulled himself to his feet. In this fashion he was also able to depress a concealed alarm button that rang in the Security Office.

But Schwartz said, "We'll be saying good-bye now."

"You're welcome to stay," offered Joe Winder.

"No thanks." Da

"I understand," Winder said. "You guys want to take anything?" He motioned with his gun paw around the lavish office. "The VCR? Some tapes? How about a cellular phone for the car?"

"The phone might be good," said Da

"Let's roll," Bud Schwartz said.

Later they were driving on Card Sound Road, halfway back to the mainland, when Bud Schwartz motioned with a thumb and said: "Right about here's where it all started, Da

"It was a vole," said Da

Bud Schwartz laughed. "Whatever you say." There was no denying he was impressed. How many burglars knew Latin?

A few more miles down the road, Da

"You know the problem with cellulars," said Bud Schwartz.

"The reception?"

"Besides the reception," Bud Schwartz said. "The problem with cellulars is, people always steal the damn things."

"Yeah," said his partner. "I hadn't thought about that."

The emergency buzzer awakens Pedro Luz in the storage room. He sits up and blinks. Blinks at the bare light bulb. Blinks at the pitted walls. Blinks at the empty intravenous bags on the hangers. He thinks, What the hell was it this time? Stanozolol, yeah. He'd pilfered a half-dozen tabs from Spence Mooher's locker. Ground them up with the toe of a boot, stirred it in the bag with the dextrose.

Feeling good. Feeling just fine. The beer sure helped.

Then comes Kingsbury's alarm and it sounds like a dental drill. Better get up now. Better get moving.

Pedro Luz pulls the tubes from his arms and tries to stand. Whoa, hoss! He forgot all about his foot, the fact that it was missing.

He grabs a wooden crutch and steadies himself. Facing the mirror, Pedro notices he's buck naked from the waist down. The image shocks him; his legs are as thick as oaks, but his penis is no larger than a peanut. Hastily he scrambles into the trousers of his guard uniform, the gun belt, one sock, one shoe.

Time to go to work. It's the Summerfest Jubilee and Mr. Kingsbury's in some kind of trouble.

And the damn door won't open.

Pedro can't fucking believe it. Okay, now somebody's either locked the damn thing from the outside, which don't make sense, or maybe welded it shut, which is even crazier. Pedro lowers one shoulder and hits the door like a tackle dummy. Nada. Now he's getting pissed. Through the steel he yells for Cano or Spence or Diamond J. Love, and gets no answer. "Where the hell is everybody?" hollers Pedro Luz.

Next logical step is using his skull as a battering ram. Wedging the crutch against the baseboard, he uses it to vault himself headfirst at the door. Amazing thing is, it don't hurt after a while. Tense the neck muscles just before impact and it acts like a spring. Boom, boom, boom. Boing, boing, boing.