**
“I must have your full story,” I said, “If I am to help you.”
I was sitting on a small step ladder placed in front of the toilet, but I couldn’t see anything. I knew they were there somewhere. They had to be, since they had made such a perilous journey to meet with me, one seemingly fraught with terrors beyond imagining. The mind literally quailed at envisioning their journey into uncharted territory, as they made their way across the street through a series of winding, dark pipes. In my mind’s eye, I could envision a series of giant hairballs rolling along in sludgy water, which to them probably resembled large hairy islands…
Margaret was out visiting her friend, Shelly DeCamp, who lived down the block from us. I didn’t expect her back for a number of hours, which would give me enough time (I reasoned) to do what I had to do. I could imagine the secrets that Margaret was sharing with her friend at this very moment, their excited derisive squawks traveling up and down the length of the table like migrating gulls discovering a riverbank full of worms. Once Margaret had gone, I placed all the cleaning fluids, bucket and other miscellaneous items back into the closet where they belonged. The bathroom, as far as I could tell, was clean enough except for a gathering of lint in the corners and a modicum of mold in one of the seams near the sink’s hot water tap. She wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t done any work, since I rarely engaged in such domestic chores anyway. I realized that her absence would be the perfect opportunity to gather additional information about the People in the Toilet, as I had come to think of them.
There was a sudden gurgling sound and then a distant ululation, like a wailing of pipes in turmoil. I pushed the ladder aside and then got down on my hands and knees, and then once again stuck my head into the toilet. A sudden bubble arose from the deep well of the toilet hole and then erupted, spraying water onto my face and hands. This was followed by a distant cry of anguish, and what sounded like clashing swords, many grunts, and then a tiny feminine scream.
Then absolute silence prevailed.
“What is happening?” I yelled into the toilet bowl, my echoing voice reverberating wildly around me. There was no response. “What is happening?” I repeated, but this time my question seemed to be directed toward myself. My belly was touching the floor, breath heavy with anticipation as I awaited acknowledgment to my question.
“Professor!” A tiny male voice, full of anguish, finally shouted. “We have been attacked! A group of renegade Gurs has abducted Princess Miralee, holding her hostage in their flying ship. Even now, they race toward the jungle region known as the Islands of Hairs, where no doubt reinforcements await their coming. Your assistance is needed!”
I took a moment to digest what the voice was telling me: Apparently another group – the Gurs – were waging a battle with another race of beings. I had no doubt whatsoever that the other group represented by Princess Miralee and her male companion were the friendlier of the two races. They did not appear to be the aggressors in the attack. I had no information to back up this belief; rather, it was a sense of chivalry that guided my feelings.
That feminine cry of anguish, I thought, as a rising sense of helplessness overwhelmed me. I could feel my gut aching with pent-up frustration and excessive gas, as I remembered that cry and knowing I had been unable to come to her assistance. The memory of her sweet voice filled me with a longing that I was unable to decipher, whose dulcet tones were as soft as a moonlit night on a glade full of poppies. When I compared Princess Miralee’s manner of speech to Margaret’s – roughened by years of smoking her two daily packs of Pall Malls – I knew that the animus she felt toward me was the same felt by a middle-aged housewife toward her husband. True, I had a round belly and a bald scalp full of age spots, but - if needed and with a bit of practice - I could hold a broadsword with the best of them. At least, I assumed it was a broadsword that was being used. I tried to remember what a broadsword looked like, but an image failed to materialize. I knew it was long, perhaps with a point at the end.
“You cannot see me, Professor Linwood, since I am of microscopic size, which is my normal size. Thanks, however, to the scientific wizardry and foresight of Zarron, who is the supreme master of all the arcane arts in our land, a method has been devised wherefrom I, Jed Jarlton, am able to communicate with you using his newly invented Elsyton Ray. Without his invention, my voice would sound like the gargling of twenty rutting Urds.”
“This is amazing!” I said, unable to maintain my excited composure as I stared into the toilet, as if seeking divine truth from within its porcelain bowl.
Jed continued: “When King Sesdord - he of the race of Gurs - declared war on our land and its people, King Keldar had no recourse but to retaliate in force sufficient to deter Sesdord’s spurious advances upon our land. King Sesdord is a power-hungry despot who desires to own all the beautiful women in our land. But fear not, for all seven women are now sequestered in private quarters that they may be safe from Sesdord’s ravagers. We of the land of Estalleir have long been a prosperous but kindly people, concerned with but two things: raising crops so that our bellies are never with want, and enjoying the sexual graces that accrue from being a nation of libertines. Unfortunately, we are not as scientifically advanced as the Gurs, who for centuries have controlled the Upper Pipes as well as the many floating Islands of Hairs that dominate that region. One of their flying pirate ships, even now, carries Princess Miralee to her unfortunate doom, unless I can convince you to come to our aid so that we may rescue her.”
The voice ceased, and in that momentary silence I could sense the heavy gravity of doom that pervaded the toilet. Although I could not see Jarlton, I knew that within his breast (if he had one) there dwelt the proud lineage of the Estalleirs, a race that would stop at nothing to rescue their beloved Princess from the clutches of King Sesdord and his minions.
I knew, in that moment, that I could not refuse Jed Jarlton’s offer.
“I am at your service,” I said, standing up and rubbing my legs in order to restore circulation. “Tell me what I must do.”
“Join me now, Professor. Zarron entrusted me with one of his inventions ere I left his side and bid farewell to my land. His invention will shrink you down to our size, so that we can wage battle against the Gurs, even though we fight to the bitter end. You may now advance without fear, Professor Linwood. The Miniature Enhancer, as Zarron named his invention, is ready to receive you.”
Without hesitation, I stepped into the toilet and immediately felt the water soak into my shoes and socks. I waited, as I said, for the miracle to happen, that I might adjust to my new size and become as one with the toilet, to journey to the Islands of Hairs if need be, to join as a comrade in arms with Jed Jarlton and his fellow Estalleirs in our fight against the Gurs who had kidnapped Princess Miralee and taken her prisoner. I knew, in a moment of sublime clarity, that I had found a kindred soul in this hardy Estalleir warrior and that he and I would become life-long friends. Our journey would take us up and down those twisting, winding pipes as we fought the bestial Gurs, a race of creatures whose bodies resembled upright lizards. I learned firsthand that their tails could disembowel a man with one stroke. Later, we would fight the vile Ords – savage sewage creatures who inhabited those dark stygian depths, their eyes overlaid with an obsidian light that hypnotized the unwary traveler. There, too, we would encounter the Stump People, large viney creatures who had somehow over the centuries fused themselves to the pipes. Their voices were one long incessant droning, like a thousand toilets flushing all in the same instant. Their bodies were surrounded by an unholy accumulation of refuse, a slimy residue that defied description. In time, I would come face-to-face with the Princess Miralee, whose lips were as soft as a newborn baby’s butt, and my heart would be forever hers.
I waited, feet planted precariously in the toilet, my hands offering support as I leaned against the wall. With one hand, I adjusted my glasses and then
sucked in my gut. I was ready.
Outside I could hear Friedkin’s lawnmower start up, the sound whiny at first and then gathering strength as he revved up the engine.
I waited with patience for that which was to come.
I waited.
Afterward
Jason Mahars
The Sky Pirates of Gur Page 4