yellow brick road

Audiovision: You Can Run…

The wind carried a faint scent of desperation and bruised fruit through the dusty antechamber, a space where grand pronouncements went to fester amongst discarded banana peels and mango pits. Here Curtis Loki, a simian with a spiffy vest and eyes hinting a few gears shy of full-blown psychopathy, laid his grand designs before the Wizard of Oz.

The Wizard… a man whose booming voice couldn’t quite mask the tremor of age and whose dramatic flair usually landed somewhere between impressive and vaguely menacing, reclined on a leather captain’s chair, a gift from a prominent Oz lobbyist. He sipped tea, courtesy of the perpetually twitchy Castleforce Guild leader and listened with an air of bored indulgence to Loki’s manic pronouncements.

Loki, all frantic monkey paw-wringing and self-important chest puffs, unveiled his masterpiece: the “Doctrine of Inherent Wizardly Prerogative.” It was a deliciously simple concept, dripping with the kind of logic only a megalomaniacal monkey could concoct. True governance, he argued, sprang solely from the Wizard’s “divinely-inspired” (a phrase Loki lingered on with sycophantic relish) mind. All that tedious business of elections and public sentiment? Mere distractions. Like shiny pebbles to a flock of easily-amused working-class munchkins, winkies… and quadlings.

The Wizard, whose patience for town hall meetings was non-existent, lapped it up. No more endless debates about the poppy trade? No more agonizing over the precise shade of yellow for that infernal brick road? The prospect was intoxicating. Good Witch Glinda, with her tiresome insistence on “the will of the people,” suddenly seemed as appealing as week-old guacamole.

Loki, sensing the hook firmly set, elaborated. First, a subtle campaign of disinformation against those pesky elected munchkin, winkie, and quadling officials – whispers of poppy crop hoarding and an unhealthy fixation on blingy stones. Then, “streamlining initiatives”: petitions on enchanted parchment only the Wizard could decipher, town hall meetings atop Unclimbable Mountains, voting booths guarded by creatures whose temperament matched their sharp claws. The Wizard chuckled, a wheezing sound that promised impending doom. “Devilishly clever, Curtis!”

Finally, when the inevitable bleating of the disenfranchised masses arose, the flying monkeys, Loki’s nominal command, would “encourage compliance” with persuasive aerial maneuvers and, the pièce de résistance, strategically deployed protester blacklists. The details, Loki waved off, would bloom in the “glorious theatre of conflict.” From the next room, the Befuddled Witch of the East (BWE), a creature defined by confused chirps and water phobia, mumbled something about restless winkies.

In the throne room, amidst the Wizard’s smoky, slightly threadbare projection, the doctrine was unveiled. The munchkins, winkies, and quadlings, a motley crew easily bewildered by anything more complex than a freshly polished coin, listened with growing unease. Loki, perched beside the shimmering visage of the Wizard, radiated officious self-importance. When a brave munchkin dared to inquire about their recently elected Poppy Distribution representative, Loki smoothly dismissed him. “The power of the Wizard will not be questioned!” Doubt, he declared, was the rust of progress.

A winkie mentioned the existing “Charter of Oz”. Loki scoffed. A “quaint historical document,” a “preliminary sketch” awaiting the Wizard’s glorious final brushstrokes. The Wizard’s projection beamed, oblivious to the rising tide of bewildered resentment. “Embrace the Loki Doctrine,” he bellowed!

Then, Glinda’s voice, clear and sharp, cut through the smoky air. “Oh dear. It seems someone has been reading too many pamphlets on ‘How to Subvert Democracy for Dummies.’” The audacity, she implied, was truly breathtaking. Loki paled. The Wizard’s projected face wobbled.

In the ensuing chaos, as the assembly began to murmur and regard the flying monkeys with newfound suspicion, Loki knew his window was closing faster than a winkie’s eyelid in a dust storm.

Back in the increasingly chaotic antechamber, littered with stray feathers and overturned furniture, Loki stuffed pilfered blingy stones and suspiciously shiny adornments into a small satchel. “Strategic repositioning,” he muttered. The glorious chaos having arrived, though not quite as he’d envisioned.

The Wizard burst in, looking crestfallen and thoroughly put out. Tomatoes, overripe ones at that, had been hurled at his projection. Glinda was being sweetly reasonable, droning on about fundamental rights. Meanwhile Loki feigning concern, suggested a tactical retreat to preserve the Wizard’s “magnificent aura.”

“But, but, but… my absolute power!” the Wizard wailed.

Loki, patted the Wizard’s arm condescendingly. Power was fluid, he explained. Sometimes, a cunning individual needed to let the turbulence subside, a new power vacuum to form. And who better to fill it than a seasoned advisor with a name that had a certain… ring to it? He glanced meaningfully at his bulging satchel..

Suspicion finally dawned in the Wizard’s bewildered eyes. “Curtis… are those my spare emerald cufflinks?”

“I saved them for you!” Loki chirped, just as a gaggle of singed and furious flying monkeys stormed in. Promises of fermented mango juice had yielded only angry prohibitionists and a lecture on temperance from Glinda. Loyalty, it seemed, had its limits, especially when faced with ripe projectiles.

“Loki!” they shrieked, advancing menacingly.

The Wizard pointed a trembling finger. “You were using me! This whole ridiculous ‘inherent prerogative’ BS was a ruse!”

Loki grinned sheepishly. He knew the jig was up. “All’s fair,” he quipped, “in love and the overthrow of democratically elected swamp critters. Besides, think of the legend! Curtis Loki, the monkey who almost…”

His voice faded into the chaos as flying monkeys descended in a flurry of feathers and angry chitters. The Wizard watched, a morbid fascination replacing his outrage. From the next room, the BWE’s voice surprisingly lucid, drifted in, complaining about the recent surge of migrant Oompa Loompas.

The lights faded on the sounds of simian squabbling and the Wizard’s bewildered sighs. The Loki Doctrine, born of manic ambition and a surprising taste in spiffy vests, had imploded. The game, as Loki had craved, had indeed begun, though he now found himself firmly on the receiving end of its brutal, sticky consequences. For now, at least. A monkey with a taste for power rarely stays down for long.

Stay tuned… to be continued.

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

Audiovision: Korisne Budale!

The rusty gears of JR Murgatroyd’s consciousness ground to a halt, then lurched violently into motion. He wasn’t in Rothpal Moneybags’ tricked out, self-driving cybertruck anymore. Or, rather, he was, but also… not. The plush upholstery, once a tasteful (if conspicuously rich) Corinthian leather, now writhed with crows, each pecking at tiny, glittering golden tickets. The air, thick with the slightly sweet, “fruity” smell of leaking electrolyte chemicals and trauma, now carried a distinct whiff of… straw?

“Brain,” JR croaked, his voice a dry rasp. “Need… brain.”

He looked down. His blue power suit, once the envy of every political climber in Ohio, was now a patchwork of burlap and twine. He flapped a straw-stuffed arm. “Holy crap,” he muttered, “am i a… a scarecrow?”

A chorus of cawing erupted from the upholstery. The crows, their eyes gleaming with malicious amusement, seemed to be chanting, “Korisne Budale! Korisne Budale!”

“I resent that,” JR declared, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “I’m a man of principles! Flexible principles, perhaps, but principles nonetheless!”

He remembered Rothpal Moneybags, the man with a glare that could curdle milk and the promises that were, upon closer inspection, suspiciously vague. “Think of the influence, JR! The access! The… the gravy!” Rothpal smarmed, his eyes glittering like a raven’s hoard. JR, ever the pragmatist, had thought, “Gravy is good. Especially when one has spent one’s formative years subsisting on… well, not gravy.”

His journey to this… scarecrow state, now a little clearer, seemed to contain the following: a wrong turn on a one-way, a frantic attempt to override the autopilot, a sudden, snap of the airbags, the sound of sirens, and then… this.

“Ah, the brain,” a tinny voice echoed. A figure, clad in gleaming tin, clanked into view. “You’re looking for one, are you? A brain? In this sector of… the multiverse?”

“Indeed,” JR said, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity while stuffed with straw. “I seem to have misplaced mine.”

The tin cyborg wannabe chuckled, a sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Misplaced? Or traded for… political advancement? Moneybags has a talent for such transactions.”

“He said it was a ‘strategic partnership’!” JR protested. “He said i was ‘instrumental’!”

“Instrumental in what? Filling his pockets while he sells fascist exceptionalism to the gullible?” The heartless Tin Man retorted. “Look around you, JR. You’re in a dimension where ‘Korisne Budale’ (useful idiot) is a viable career path.”

A yellow brick road, paved with golden tickets and broken promises, stretched into the distance. A lion, sporting a meticulously quaffed combover, cowered behind a pile of Kremlin-backed IOUs. And a witch, wearing designer yoga pants and holding a clipboard, was barking inane missives into a megaphone. “They’re grooming children! Federal workers don’t deserve a paycheck! The Gazpacho Police will throw you in the goulash!”

“This is… distressing,” JR admitted, his straw-stuffed head drooping. “I thought i was climbing. I thought i was… succeeding.”

“Succeeding at what?” The Tin Man asked. “Being a puppet? A pawn? A scarecrow with delusions of grandeur?”

“But the gravy!” JR wailed. “The gravy!”

The crows in the upholstery erupted in a fresh wave of cawing, their voices a cruel, mocking chorus. “Gravy! Gravy! Korisne Budale!”

JR, the man who once believed he could outsmart destiny, now knew the bitter truth. He wasn’t a master of his fate. He was a scarecrow, desperately seeking a brain he’d traded for a fleeting taste of gravy, in a multiverse where “win at all costs” usually meant losing everything, including your dignity. And, maybe, your actual brain.

To be continued… Rohlfie

Audiovision: Sympathy for the Tin Man

How did they put it in the Chocolate Factory? Oh, yea, “Blaming the kid is a lie and a shame. You know exactly who’s to blame!” Anyway, the subject of our story was fairly used to getting his way as a lad. His silver spoon had never known the indignity of a mere polishing cloth. And now, he’s conceived a notion so audacious, so utterly of the moment, that even his boss, a man whose portfolio resembles a rogue’s gallery of ethically dubious ventures, blanched. Our hero, you see, desired to transcend the limitations of mere flesh. He yearned to become a cyborg – a gleaming amalgam of man and machine, jacked directly into the internet’s pulsating cloud, a veritable god amongst mortals.

His father, a man whose fortune stemmed from ethically questionable resource mining, turbo-charged the lad’s personality with the weary resignation of a parent who’d long ago given up on shaping a soul. And so, dropped the youth amongst the lords of flies, forcing our hero to find his way in a world of bullies. Then later, all grown up, after amassing a vast fortune, assembled a team of “bio-enhancement specialists” (read: guys who’d watched too many sci-fi movies), and after a series of excruciatingly painful and undoubtedly illegal procedures, he was…transformed.

Now, if you believe in the multiverse, you know it’s possible our hero awoke not in the world where a climate-controlled sensory deprivation tank eased him back into the waking state of normal existence, but in a place that looks like it was decorated by a deranged picnic enthusiast. Giant lollipops sprouting from the ground, the sky an unsettling shade of cerulean, and the inhabitants… well, not exactly the golf-club socialites to which our hero was accustomed. One fellow, rather short and stout, wore a hat that appeared to be trying to mate with his head.

And in this strange absurd dreamlike world, it slowly dawned on our hero that his transformation hadn’t quite gone as planned. He was, for lack of a better explanation, more machine than man. And then, insult to injury, he discovered, he was without a heart. Apparently, the “bio-enhancement specialists” had skimmed over that particular organ in their rush to install the Wi-Fi card.

Anyway, a road paved with what appeared to be gold bricks stretched before him. “Well,” he thought, with the optimism of a man whose only real problem had ever been deciding between the cocaine or ketamine, “at least there’s a road. And it’s shiny.” So he set off, determined to find his heart, perhaps encountering some ready guides along the way.

Alas, fate, that fickle mistress, had one last jest to play. A gentle rain began to fall. Our hero, whose exterior was apparently more susceptible to the elements than a cheap garden gnome, began to…rust. He froze, mid-stride, a gleaming monument to misplaced ambition and the perils of cut-rate cyborg surgery. His last thought, before the CPU seized entirely, was a profound regret that he hadn’t opted for the platinum plating. At least that wouldn’t have rusted.