Two dogs facing each other, Milton thought. That doesn’t make any sense. The word “Stand” over an eye … Stand-Top-Eye? That’s stupid. I just don’t under— That’s it! “Eye under stand.” I understand! And the weird word … hey, that’s the word backwards only backwards! And “word” written four times. Four words. Forwards!
“ ‘I understand, backwards and forwards,’ ” Milton said aloud as Marlo looked over his shoulder, munching on a bonbon mot. “That’s what the note says. I just don’t get the two dogs.”
“They’re the same dog, only one is in reverse,” Marlo offered, glancing up nervously at the monitor. “So dog and … God?”
“No … God’s true name—Yahweh, remember?”
Marlo tapped her foot nervously on the green carpet. “I should have paid more attention in Sunday school.…”
“Or gone in the first place …”
“So this is about what I saw in the Absurditory, you think? About Creation being password protected with God’s true name?”
Milton shrugged. He scratched his itchy, overgelled hair. “Yes … I think. I’m not sure. Maybe it has to be spoken both forward and backward to unlock Creation. That could be why my card had it written backwards.”
Marlo shook her head dubiously. “I don’t buy it. It doesn’t make any sense.…”
Applause drifted into the dressing room from the auditorium. The nervous children looked up warily at the monitor on the wall.
Howard Cosell leaned into his microphone. “Coming to you from the too-beautiful-to-believe Tower of Babble, a sonic temple where sound arguments spar until one is rendered senseless. It’s time for our very first bout.”
The announcer squinted down at the card in his hand.
“Mordacia Caustilo and Cookie Youngblood … and, for Miss Youngblood’s sake, I hope Mordacia’s tongue isn’t a cookie cutter!”
Mordacia and Cookie shuddered in their chairs. Cookie’s face, in particular, contorted into a rictus of nervous dread. Miss Parker gave Cookie a quick hug as a trio of long-legged, impossibly perfect supermodels opened the door.
“Faith, Hope, and Charity?” Marlo murmured. “Wow … as if we couldn’t feel any worse walking out there, now we have to do it alongside three supermodels whose combined dress sizes add up to zero!”
Faith, Hope, and Charity were dressed in matching one-piece satin bathing suits, purple fishnet stockings, and boots, with thick librarian glasses perched atop their perfect noses.
“You’ll be fine, dear,” Miss Parker whispered to Cookie. “Oh … here.” She pulled out a tiny pencil sharpener. “Now stick your tongue out.”
Cookie grudgingly obeyed and Miss Parker gave the tip of the girl’s tongue a few quick turns.
“There! Nice and sharp!” Miss Parker said.
“You’re on,” Charity said, radiating sympathy with her dark, generous eyes.
The supermodels urged Cookie and Mordacia out of the dressing room and out toward the stage.
“She’s large and in charge!” Howard Cosell announced. “She’s Mordacia Caustilo, from the Principality of Andorra, the sixth smallest nation in Europe! But don’t let her country’s size fool you … Mordacia’s got one big mouth on her! Cause of death? Irony alert: Mordacia died at a birthday party after a deadly game of Twister. Give it up for Mordacia Caustilo!”
The audience broke out into fresh peals of applause as they stepped into the ring. Up on the display grid, numbers exploded like popcorn in a microwave beneath Cookie’s and Mordacia’s pictures as the viewers at home cast their votes.
“And, facing Miss Caustilo is Cookie Youngblood!” the announcer continued. “Cookie was an army brat born in Oklahoma, where the only thing drier than the climate is the population’s sense of humor. Cookie got her name from her late mother, who wanted her daughter to be ‘one tough cookie.’ ”
Faith, Hope, and Charity steered Cookie and Mordacia to their podiums. The supermodels knelt daintily to the floor, picking up large ROUND ONE placards, then strutted the perimeter of the ring holding them high above their heads as the audience hooted and hollered.
“How did Cookie expire? She was trapped in a malfunctioning photo booth and ‘flashed’ to death. Let’s hear it for Cookie Youngblood!”
Two hulking demons—thick, heavily muscled creatures with bald heads screwed tight between their broad shoulders—climbed into the ring, wearing tight, gleaming, silver bodysuits. They stalked toward Cookie and Mordacia, each crouching beside a podium before zipping their suits completely over their contorted, seething faces. The suits crawled with clouds of silvery static before settling into the digital likenesses of two girls: Cookie and Mordacia.
“What’s with these guys?” Cookie asked as the demon crouching beside her glared back at Cookie with her own accusing face.
“Your Alter-Cater,” the announcer replied, his sharp Brooklyn accent slashing like a razor. “To add more punch to your points. And now your topic: Beauty Contests.”
“Beauty contests?! Are you kidding me?!” Cookie and Mordacia gasped, the first and last time they would ever agree on anything.
“Miss Youngblood, you’ll be ‘Pro’ while Miss Caustilo, you’ll be taking the ‘Con’ position,” the announcer explained. “Now go!”
Cookie gripped the side of the podium and scrunched up her eyes, hoping to summon her first argument. After collecting her thoughts, she leaned into the microphone.
“People like watching beautiful people,” Cookie explained. “And a lot of girls really enjoy being in beauty contests or they wouldn’t. Be in them, that is. Nobody is forcing them. Beauty is like art, so a beauty contest is … like a big art show. Right?”
Cookie’s Alter-Cater rushed across the ring at its counterpart, grabbing it by the face with its massive hand. The crowd applauded as Cookie’s numbers ticked up on the massive display screen.
Mordacia’s head seemed to sink into her shoulders. She drew in a deep breath.
“Beauty contests promote an ideal of female beauty that hardly any girl can attain,” she declared, “which creates tremendous pressure, making girls go on crash diets, get plastic surgery, or simply feel gross about themselves.”
Mordacia’s Alter-Cater broke free from its attacker’s face-grip.
“Women in beauty contests are judged strictly by their looks,” Mordacia continued, finding her rhythm. “I know, I know: the talent competition. But c’mon: no one ugly ever wins no matter how high they twirl their baton or whatever. Men don’t have handsome pageants. It’s demeaning.”
Mordacia’s Alter-Cater shoved its opponent across the ring where it hit the corner post with a massive clang. The audience applauded. Cookie squared her jaw as Mordacia’s votes surpassed hers on the screen.
“Men are judged by their physical prowess all the time,” Cookie said, pursing her lip-glossed lips. “It’s called sports.”
The crowd giggled at her remark, earning her more votes. Cookie’s Alter-Cater threw itself backward against its opponent, seizing Mordacia’s Alter-Cater by the face with its muscled butt cheeks.
“Oooh … a Bavarian Butt-Clench!” Howard Cosell commented. “That’s gotta hurt!”
Cookie sneered as she watched her argument gain the upper cheek.
“And just like some guy can get a prize for having muscles, why not a woman for her grace and style?” Cookie added.
Mordacia barreled through Cookie’s applause.
“By reinforcing beauty over brains, beauty pageants ensure that women will never be taken seriously!”
Mordacia’s Alter-Cater broke free and pounded its opponent in the back of the neck with its fists laced together.
“You can’t be serious! Beauty contests give women a chance to be noticed. Lots of famous actresses got their starts that way … and the winners help publicize charities and other things they care about it,” Cookie responded. “Besides, you’re just jealous.”
Cookie’s Alter-Cater hoisted its opponent up into the air, then slammed
it soundly to the ground.
A buzzer sounded.
“Thank you, ladies,” Howard Cosell said. “Your time is up. And—judging from the votes—it seems that your time, Miss Caustilo, is extra up!”
Mordacia’s votes tallied up to nearly 19 million, while Cookie’s hovered at roughly 200 million.
Faith, Hope, and Charity escorted the girls backstage to the sound of catcalls and applause.
Mordacia fought back tears as she fell into her leather chair. Cookie swaggered past her and snatched a bottled water from an ice bucket.
“Hey, nice job, Cookie,” Marlo said.
Cookie swiveled on the heels of her shiny black shoes. “Yeah, it was. You’d better not screw it up.”
The crowd cheered as the Alter-Caters crouched beside the podiums. Their suits crawled with silver static.
“And now for our next bout,” Howard Cosell called out from his ringside table. “Moses Babcock versus Flossie Blackwell! Moses, I supposes, hailed from Nyack, New York, where he held the record for Cause of Most Teacher Nervous Breakdowns. Mr. Babcock has a rare Peanuts allergy and was critically injured after exposure to an A Charlie Brown Christmas marathon. Let’s give a lukewarm War of the Words welcome to Moses Babcock!”
The crowd cheered and jeered. Milton turned to Moses as he straightened his purple tie.
“Good—” Milton managed before Moses stormed off, parting the red curtains as he made his way to the stage.
“—luck.”
Marlo grabbed Flossie’s hand. “You’ll be great,” Marlo said with a nervous smile. “Hey, and your leg is almost all better.”
Flossie nodded. “Mr. Dior was able to cover a lot of the letters up with shoe polish. Well … here goes nothing …”
Flossie walked down the red-carpeted path to the ring.
“The only thing more flamboyant than Miss Blackwell’s fire-engine red hair is her five-alarm fault-finding,” Howard Cosell declared. “Hailing from Ottawa, Canada, Miss Blackwell is a true nitpicker’s nitpicker. Her father writes IKEA instruction manuals and her mother is a fact-checker for Sophistic’s Choice magazine. Miss Blackwell died of a chronic tongue cramp after launching a filibuster in her school cafeteria, protesting the vague accounting of ingredients in the Meatloaf Surprise. Put your hands together for Flossie Blackwell!”
The Alter-Caters pressed a button on their silver belt buckles. Suddenly, the raging static resolved into crisp, full-body images of Moses and Flossie.
“Okay, then, kiddos. Here’s your topic: Is there a Santa Claus? Miss Blackwell, you’re ‘Pro.’ Mr. Babcock, you take the ‘Con’ position.”
Flossie swallowed. Backstage, Marlo crossed her fingers so hard that her middle and index fingers practically switched knuckles.
“Simply put, there is a Santa Claus,” Flossie said with an open, toothy smile. “I mean, millions of children worldwide wake up on Christmas morning and—boom—toys and candy. And no one else takes the credit for all of that generosity, and surely they would, right? Plus, the proof is in the cookies: little bites taken out … milk half drunk. C’mon. The evidence is irrefutable.”
Flossie’s Alter-Cater stomped out confidently to the center of the ring, extending its hand to its opponent. Moses shook his head, a smug smirk taking residence above his chin.
“Flossie, you are deluded—as were your parents when they named you …”
The remark earned wicked laughter from the demon portion of the audience, resulting in an upsurge of votes. Moses’s Alter-Cater clopped its opponent on the side of the head.
“To begin with, look at the physics,” Moses asserted. “No one can fly around the world, visiting every child: in one night. How can a sleigh even fly? How can Santa get into apartments that don’t have chimneys? How would he even fit through the largest chimney, for that matter? Plus no one ever sees him delivering presents. Even Big Foot and the Loch Ness monster had grainy pictures taken of them.”
Moses’s Alter-Cater seized its opponent by the thighs, lifted it up into the air, and threw it—hard—down on the canvas. A profound silence followed as votes came pouring in for Moses.
After her tongue went for a quick swirl in her dry mouth, Flossie retorted. “I submit, as evidence, a newspaper item, published in the New York Sun in 1897, stating in no uncertain terms that—and I quote from memory—‘Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.’ End quote.”
Flossie’s Alter-Cater flipped back up to its feet and charged its opponent, its head slamming into the other Alter-Cater’s stomach. Moses shot Flossie a look so dirty that the girl wanted to rub hand sanitizer all over her face.
“Okay, then how about this,” Moses countered. “Santa discriminates on the basis of income. How come all the rich kids get the best presents while the poor kids barely get anything? Plus, parents use him like some kind of bully, forcing their kids to be good in exchange for the prospect of gifts.”
Moses’s Alter-Cater fell to the mat and swung its legs fiercely beneath those of its opponent. Flossie’s Alter-Cater, however, simply leapt into the air to avoid the kick.
“I was under the impression that this debate was about the existence of Santa Claus, not a judgment of his character,” Flossie replied. “Santa Claus, also doing business as Father Christmas, is a popular, enduring symbol of generosity and helping those in need, beloved by billions all over the world!”
Flossie’s Alter-Cater threw itself back against the ropes and sprang at its opponent, knocking it to the ground.
“This popularity is driven by multinational companies, eager to create new markets for their toys as potential gifts!” Moses spat back. “It’s globalization, not goodwill. Plus there’s something kinda creepy about an old guy breaking into your house once a year.”
The Alter-Cater hopped out of the ring and grabbed a fold-up chair. It crept through the ropes and snuck behind Flossie’s Alter-Cater as it bowed to the audience.
“As you said yourself, Moses: Santa Claus is good for the economy,” Flossie replied with a nervous grin. “From gifts to decorations, holiday food, cards, and wrapping paper, there are millions of hard-working people who depend on the belief in Santa Claus.”
Moses’s Alter-Cater held the chair over its head and rushed at its opponent from behind.
“But it’s a sham!” Moses shrieked, losing his cool. “We shouldn’t be outsourcing our generosity. We should be giving for giving’s sake!”
Flossie’s Alter-Cater dodged its opponent’s blow, with the bulky demon falling facedown on the mat. The buzzer sounded as Moses was soundly beaten. The crowd cheered. Flossie’s fans ecstatically waved NOTHING IS COMING UP MOSES and FLOSSIE’S POSSE! signs as the children were escorted from the stage.
“Next, we have Round Three: Rakeem Yashimoto versus Roget Marx Peters,” Howard Cosell announced in his insistent voice, like some obnoxious, nap-deprived toddler poking you in the ear. “Born in Yemen, Rakeem Yashimoto was something of a nomad, having moved so much due to his parents’ careers. His father is the editor of Calligraphy Today—the only magazine where every issue is written by hand—and his mother is MC Soo Shimi, Japan’s Number Ichi rap star. So, between a writer and a rapper, Rakeem’s got some serious linguistic chops.…”
Backstage, Milton and Marlo stared desperately at the monitor as Rakeem and Roget sulked to the stage.
“This is all just a distraction … I know it. We just have to figure out what the vice principal is trying to distract everybody from.”
Vice Principal Carroll walked into the backstage waiting room, dressed in Victorian finery, from the tips of his shiny black leather boots to the top of his enormous velvet, red-and-gold top hat. He smiled mysteriously as he chatted with the children who were staring at themselves in the dressing room mirror with wide-eyed dread.
“Speak of the demented,” Marlo muttered.
Milton wat
ched as the vice principal slowly approached. Behind him, the eccentric man pulled a large silver hammer—the same hammer that had been lashed to the snark—in a little red wagon.
“The guy is a few Bradys short of a bunch,” Marlo said.
In the ring, Rakeem and Roget debated the topic of curfews for children.
“See, youth crime is starting to climb,” Rakeem said, his braces flashing like tiny switchblades in his mouth. “Got kids makin’ trouble—soon they’re doin’ time.”
Roget gripped the sides of his podium and shook his head, peering sharply back at Rakeem.
“I strongly disagree, take issue with, challenge, and oppose curfews for children. Curfews don’t reduce crime, as most juvenile law-breaking, delinquency, and wrongdoing takes place right after school.”
Vice Principal Carroll walked up to the Fausters and gave a gentle tip of his tall, flamboyant hat.
“What’s with the hammer?” Marlo asked, pushing out her lower lip.
“Just a few details to hammer out for the big finale,” Vice Principal Carroll said as he stared at the monitor on the wall.
The two Alter-Caters circled one another in the ring.
“What is often considered crime today was considered normal, customary, ordinary, and conventional in the past,” Roget declared. “Like playing in the streets and wandering around the neighborhood. We need to be wary, cautious, careful, and circumspect, drawing the line between actual crime and the things we just don’t like.”
Roget’s Alter-Cater lunged at its opponent. Rakeem’s burly demon doppelgänger dodged the attack.
“You got kids on the streets, bumpin’ out to the beats, gangs are hangin’ then they’re bangin’ and there ain’t no peace,” Rakeem maintained. “Curfews keep ’em out of trouble, solve crime on the double, and if you disagree, you must be livin’ in a bubble!”
Rakeem’s Alter-Cater seized Roget’s in a deadly headlock. The audience applauded. Rakeem’s vote tally shot well past that of his challenger. Faith, Hope, and Charity escorted the two children out of the ring.
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