Pastiche & Fan Fic Logo

The Scientist’s Revolt Against #13 for 7 Years in Tibet

David "Nkima" Adams

The scientist was quite mad, as all good scientists must be when they’re messing with the hidden secrets of nature. He was old enough to teeter and totter when he walked, and he spoke in spoke in footnotes that seemed to be missing the main text.

I had not been up to the crumbling castle in the jungle for years, so it was with a sense of hallucination that I stumbled up to the large, oaken door with my heart in my hands.

“Good evening, Count,” I said to the aged doorkeeper, who swung the creaking hinges. He was Old Vic’s personal valet, an unfortunate soul made up from spare body parts of orangutans and science fiction authors.

“Is the Doctor in?” I hopefully gasped as he took my cape with ink stained hands and spread it on the stone floor for me to wipe my feet.

“He’s been expecting you, my Lord,” #13 replied.

He was the thirteenth of a series of rather unsuccessful doormen created by the mad scientist, but I didn’t let on that I knew his number was up since his head appeared to be quite loose at the joints.

I was led to the laboratory in the high tower. Needless to say, a thunderstorm was already brewing cups of dark cappicino in the lightening riven sky.

Old Vic welcomed me warmly with a bloody paw that lay limply across my shoulder. “My dear Heartstroke, you’ve come at last!” he exclaimed dribbling the last crumbs of a bagel from his trembling lips.

I had last seen the man in our college days at old Jumble-U when he was only a fledgling Coo Coo, so I was a bit shocked at the unfortunate tricks that time had played on him. Here was a man who had obviously unraveled the universe and poured it through the colander of his thinning sanity.

“Come and see what I have done, my friend,” Vic mumbled as he turned into a table upsetting a maze of colorful. bubbling glassware.

As we crossed the room, I was afraid to look at the thing spread out upon the long table. It was twitching dreadfully since wires connected it to machines with spinning gages, and lightening was striking the tower like a gattling gun.

“Behold, my masterpiece!” he said, as I gazed at the misshapen mass of fur and flesh that danced on the table.

“What the hell is it?” I asked with a quick glance at the door.

“Why, can’t you tell?” he replied with a note of hurt in his quavering voice. “It’s a Big Foot.”

I had read in the newspapers that he had recently spent seven years in Tibet, and here in living “Oog’s” the mystery had finally been solved.

That evening we sat on either side of a roaring fire smoking our pipes, recalling old school anecdotes, as we watched the eternal dance of fading glory sputter into the wee hours of dawn.

Nkima

11/21/98