Motley Crew

Audiovision: We Represent…

Lindheimer, O. Boq, Esq., a man whose legal career was compromised by a questionable defense of a rogue flying poppy-field security monkey, harbored delusions of grandeur usually reserved for auctioneers or super-villain sidekicks. His particular fancy was Riviera City politics. He yearned, he ached, to be a voice of reason, a beacon of common sense in what he perceived as an increasingly radical world. Thus, when the bellowing demagogue, the “Wizard of Oz”, thundered onto the screen with pronouncements on the citizenship status of atheist Winkie Guards and the urgent need for a national Oompa Loompa registry, Boq, in a fit of righteous indignation (and a desperate craving for attention), unleashed a torrent of invective so savage it would make a tax auditor blush.

“Atheist Winkie Guards are essential castle protectors, and Oompa Loompas have rights, too.” He said, aiming his derision directly at the yet to be anointed Wizard. “He’s a race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot.” Boq declared, urging supporters to forget about the shameless demagogue.

The next thing he knew, Boq found himself perched atop a giant mushroom, his orange hair curled and quaffed, and inexplicably leading a chorus line of similarly attired Munchkins ceremoniously dubbed the “Castleforce Guild.” They were all singing a disturbingly catchy tune about… well, the Castleforce Guild. Boq vaguely recalled something about a witch and a house, but his mind was on more pressing matters.

Before him stood a motley crew: a lion with a chronic case of the jitters, a scarecrow who looked like he’d lost a fight with a combine harvester, a tin man who creaked with every breath, a little girl in gingham, and a dog who looked remarkably unimpressed with the whole affair. They were, Boq gathered, seeking an audience with the great and powerful Wizard.

“Welcome, travelers!” Boq chirped, his voice a shade higher than he’d intended. The Castleforce Guild, bless their knee socks, launched into another Castleforce ditty. “We represent the Castleforce Guild, and we’re delighted to guide you on your quest!”

He cleared his throat. “Now, about this Wizard… He’s… well, he’s a visionary. A titan of patriotism. A… a genius of unprecedented… strength! His pronouncements on poppy-field border walls and Oompa Loompa invasions? Pure brilliance! The Oompa Loompa registry? A stroke of inspired statesmanship! In short, he’s… he’s… magnificent!”

The travelers exchanged dubious glances. The little girl frowned. “But Mr… Munchkin Man,” she said, “didn’t you just call him a… a… ‘race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot’?”

Boq winced. “Ah, yes! But that was… before. Before i… understood. You see, the Wizard’s… vision is so… complex… that it requires… nuance. And… Winkie Guards!” He gestured vaguely at the Guild, who were now doing a synchronized twirl.

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Just… just tell him Lindheimer, Boq sent you. Mention my… unwavering support. My… profound admiration. My… my… utter and complete agreement with every single syllable that emanates from his… his… glorious Chocolate Cake hole. And for heaven’s sake, compliment his taste in literature.”

He pointed down a yellow brick road that seemed to stretch into infinity. “Follow that path! And may the Wizard’s… wisdom… guide you!”

As the travelers trudged off, the Lion whimpering, the Scarecrow wobbling, the Tin Man creaking, and the Dog looking more unimpressed than ever. Boq sighed. Castle security, he mused, was a strange world of glittering prizes and endless compromises, and sometimes, it needs an ample stock of obsequious fealty. He just hoped the Wizard wouldn’t ask them about his Oompa Loompa registry response. He hadn’t quite worked out the nuances of that one yet.

Stay tuned…
…much more to come.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Audiovision: No Place Like Home

Emelia groaned, pushing herself up from the… was that a poppy field? Her head throbbed like Old Bessie’s engine just before powering up for takeoff. One minute she was double checking navigation maps to make sure she was on course, the next… gingham. Gingham? And was that a terrier yapping at her heels? She’d always preferred cats. This was all her father’s fault, of course. That flamboyant, philandering poet. He’d abandoned her to the whims of her mathematically-obsessed mother, and now, thanks to a rogue cloud and an inconvenient lightning strike, she was Dorothy freakin’ Gale.

“Good grief,” she muttered, adjusting the ridiculous blue dress. “This is worse than trying to explain aerodynamics to a chimney sweep.”

Suddenly, a rustling in the nearby cornfield. Out popped a straw-stuffed… thing. “Good afternoon, Miss! Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” it croaked.

Emelia pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m a nurse,” she corrected, “and i haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Unless ‘witch’ is some weird slang for pilot. In which case, i can fly without a broom, and rather well, if i do say so myself.”

The Scarecrow looked confused. “A… pilot? Is that like having a brain?”

“It involves logic, intuition, and wide-ranging travel in hours rather than days or weeks.” Emelia explained patiently, “unlike stuffing straw into your knickers.”

Just then, a tin man emerged from the woods, his joints creaking like a rusty automaton. “Oil can!” he cried. “I can barely move!”

Emelia sighed. “I need to get back to Kansas. Perhaps we can help each other. You need to free your joints, and i need… well, i’m not entirely sure what i need. Besides a current map, a compass, and a sturdy aircraft.”

A roar echoed through the field. A magnificent lion bounded into view, quivering with terror. He sported a meticulously sculpted orange mane, clearly the product of considerable dye and pomade, attempting to disguise a rather significant bald patch at the back of his head.

“Don’t laugh at me!” he whimpered, his carefully crafted combover trembling. “Truth told, i’m not as brave as i look!”

Emelia stared at him. “You’re the king of the jungle,” she pointed out, “and you’re afraid of… well, what are you afraid of?”

The Lion glanced nervously at the little terrier, who was now sniffing at his paws. “Everything, really.” he wailed. “Small, yappy dogs, Russian game poachers, and losing my…my… coiffure!”

Emelia threw her hands up in exasperation. “Right. So, we have a scarecrow without a brain, a tin man without a heart, a lion without courage and a truly baffling hairstyle, and me, a pilot without a clue how to get home. Sounds like a pain in the adventure.”

The terrier, whom Emelia had christened “Vega” (much to his apparent displeasure), yapped excitedly.

A Munchkin, barely taller than the dog, popped his head out from behind a giant mushroom. “Follow the Yellow Brick Road!” he chirped. “The Wizard lives in the Riviera! He can help you!”

Emelia looked at her motley crew. “The Riviera, you say? And this Wizard… he’s good with… logistics?”

The Munchkin shrugged. “He’s a wizard! He can do anything!”

Emelia raised an eyebrow. “Anything, eh? I want to know what happened to my aircraft, ‘Old Bessie,’ and i want to go home. Lead on, then. Yellow Brick Road it is.” She just hoped the Wizard had a better understanding of navigation than these… wacky characters.

To be continued… Rohlfie