And once again we have two posts conflicting in time and space. LOL!
How can Ell be two places at once when he's not anywhere at all? Stay tuned for Time Warp Central's explanation...
And once again we have two posts conflicting in time and space. LOL!
How can Ell be two places at once when he's not anywhere at all? Stay tuned for Time Warp Central's explanation...
Ell woke up, and decided to call Lena to get started with the search for the place to dig. There was no answer in her room, so he showered, dressed, and put on the pith helmet he'd worn for various digs and treks ever since the Boer Wars when he had served in the British Regulars. The pitch helmet still looked great, a few stains, but not worn out. It's hard to ruin a good pitch helmet.
Then he went down to breakfast, but first stopped at the front desk of the hotel and rang the bell. A man in a manager's uniform appeared.
"May I help you?"
"Yes, I've been trying to reach Lena Berzanskis' room, but there seems to be no answer, Has she already come down to have breakfast?"
"No, she was in fact kidnapped last night by a group of men and shoved into a Mercedes-Benz," said the manager.
"What?" shouted Chefman. "This is terrible. Have you called the police?"
"No," said the manager.
"Well why the hell not," shouted Chefman. "A woman is kidnapped, dragged through the lobby of your hotel, shoved bodily into a car, and you don't call the police?"
"No," said the manager. "Nice pith helmet, sir. We don't see many of those any more."
"Why, thank you," said Chefman. "One always wants to be appropriately attired for a bit of the old exploration and hiking."
"It goes very well with the gig bag, backpack, and 1980s Banana Republic look you have going," replied the manager. "Have you spent any time in the tropics at all?"
"Yes, of course," came the reply. "I spent decades in the tropics serving with the...uh..well, serving in the military. And you?"
"Oh yes, I saw action in various revolutions we fomented all over Africa and South America when we were part of the USSR. In fact I had many diseases."
"Did you have...yellow fever?" asked Chefman.
"Yes, of course."
"How about leprosy?"
"Yes," came the reply.
"Ha! Gotcha!" said Chefman. "Quince, Cydonia oblonga, is a fruit! It is the sole member of the genus Cydonia in the family Rosaceae. It is native to rocky slopes and woodland margins in south west Asia, Turkey and Iran. It is NOT a disease! You, sir, are a fraud."
He pounded his fist on the front desk. The manager looked frightened, but pulled out a gun.
"Yes," he said. "And you, my pith-helmeted friend, are going with me now to Kiev to join your lady friend."
"Wait a minute," Chefman replied. "I'm entitled to a buffet breakfast, and I will not leave here without one."
"OK, then. We will have breakfast together. Remember that my gun will be on you the entire time."
"Do you think they'll have eggs and sausages?" said Ell.
"Yes, the sausages are excellent. Also take note of our delicious schnecken cakes. In fact, take a few extra for the journey. I can have the staff box some up for you."
"That's more than kind of you," said Chefman. "I'm sure we'll enjoy the trip." Chefman made his way to the scrambled eggs and sausages steaming in their respective silver plated bins. He grabbed a plate, and loaded it up. But his mind was racing.
He was already thinking ahead to how delicious the schnecken would be after breakfast.
"Do you have any bagels," he asked.
"No sir, I'm sorry, we're openly anti-Semitic here now. No bagels."
"That's kind of a shame, isn't it?" Chefman asked.
"There aren't many Zhids left around here anyway," the man added. "It's been hard to find a decent bagel in Minsk ever since 1941."
Chefman didn't say anything. He'd been a medic with the Wehrmacht in 1941, and came through Minsk with Army Group South, until he managed another one of his disappearances later in the war, and wound up in Sweden. It had been the second army he'd had the misfortune of invading Russia with.
Last edited by LSchefman; 02-28-2013 at 12:17 AM.
As they left the hotel to head to the parking lot where the manager kept his car, Chefman was handed a small white cardboard box of cakes wrapped with a string. He was allowed to sit in the back of a Mercedes, his hands untied. The manager hadn't thought him much of a threat, since he appeared to be around 60, and the manager had found insulin and heart medications while searching the backpack.
Chefman couldn't help but notice how nice the interior of the Mercedes was, and how smoothly it handled, soaking up all the bumps on the road as they headed toward Kiev.
"Would you like a schnecken cake?" Chefman asked the manager after they'd been driving for about an hour.
"Oh yes, that would be nice, sir," said the manager. It was hard for him to get out of the habit of being nice to his hotel guests.
"Fine, I'll take one out for you." Ell untied the box, and reached between the front seats to hand the manager the food. As the manager reached out for it, Chefman quickly and adroitly grabbed the manager's gun and held it to his head.
"Gotcha," Ell said. "Pull over and get out of the car."
The manager complied.
"Lay on the ground over in that ditch."
The manager had no choice, thinking that Chefman was going to leave him in the middle of nowhere, but being glad for his life. But Ell shot him through the back of the skull, killing him instantly. He knew what this man was, and what the charade was about. And he was not about to take chances. The man was deadly. Now he was dead. He was an agent of LETSH. Leprechaun's Employees Trained to Serve in Hotels.
"A new Mercedes, and a kill, and I haven't even had lunch," Chefman said to himself. He popped the schnecken into his mouth. "It really is delicious." he said to himself, getting behind the wheel of the car. He started it, and headed toward Kiev, enjoying the sound of the engine's revs and the precise feel of the wheel as he negotiated the turns. He still had the map he'd bought from Lena.
Chefman was deadly, too. He'd learned his lessons well while posing as a medic in the Wehrmacht. In fact, he'd been a trained assassin for the Abwehr. And now he would use all of his skill to try to save humanity from the Leprechaun.
Last edited by LSchefman; 02-28-2013 at 12:45 AM.
Sergio was now hopelessly lost, he raised a gun to his head and pulled the trigger..... he was now dead.
[womp, womp, womp, womp...]
Sergio sat up abruptly -- sweat dripping from his face as he grabbed his alarm click in disbelief. It was a dream.
A mouse farted.
Last edited by ]-[ @ n $ 0 |v| a T ! ©; 02-28-2013 at 01:12 AM.
Sergio began to suspect that the man that he picked up in the airport was an imposter.
He realized this was the case as soon as they passed the "Nathans" concession as they were leaving the airport.
"Wait a moment" said the ersatz Chefman..."I need to pick up a few dogs and relish".
Sergio was immediataely aware of the charade. The real Ell would never eat anything but a Hebrew National hotdog. And, hold the relish.
Sergio had to stall for time.
"Give me a minute" he said, running to the men's room.
He tried calling Buck Dharma...but there was no answer. He felt silly as he kept hearing the ringback tone playing "Don't fear the Reaper".
No answer. "I'll call Opraman" he said to himself. "He'll know what to do".
Minutes later, in Bennett's basement, the phone rang. He didn't hear it. He was busy at his latest invention, wearing the Sennheiser headphones that he had intercepted in the mail, destined for Cheffman.
Sergio was alone in the bathroom, stalling for time. He realized that the fake Cheffman was waiting for him.
Hoping desperately to catch a break....he pulled out the secret phone he always carried but never used. It was a unique phone....dedicated to Cheffman...it could only call that number.... but he had been told never to use it unless it was an absolute emergency.
Hitting the send button, he waited for an answer as the ringback tone played an annoying Polka backed by several accordians.
Finally, the phone picked up.
"Yes??" said a familiar voice..."why are you using this phone.....what's going on?"
With that, the scene shifted to Cheffman.
See...space time and character contradictions all resolved in one fell swoop!
we'll fix it somehow...
Sergio, don't bow out - who's gonna write Rango's dialogue? You have to get Sergio, Rango and Frank to Hands Mantic's house...
When Chefman got the unwrapped package, he THOUGHT He was getting the Sennheisers. however, Opraman had intercepted them....and Chefman was unknowingly in possession of a special, substitute pair....whose diabolical attributes will be revealed later. Opraman had made sure to switch the pairs, so that when Chefman needed them most....well, that will be told in time.
Sergio's nightmare about shooting himself was actually dreamt while he was waiting in the airport for the man he thought to be Chefman to arrive. He woke up in the terminal, hating the fact that he had actually tried an Angelfish sandwich prior to falling asleep. Clearly, this type of "nutrition" was only edible for those individuals with either very strong stomachs, or who were so old that they could no longer digest food...it went straight from Chefman's mouth into his diaper.
So, to backtrack, Sergio eventually woke up from the dream, and picked up the man he thought to be his contact.
To be continued!
Last edited by docbennett; 02-28-2013 at 08:44 AM.
While Sergio was in the men's room at the airport, the imposter quickly pulled out his secret transmitter. It was a direct-to-Oppraman signal and Bennett quickly recognized the coded message. The imposter was embedded, and about to embark with Sergio. Or so Bennett thought. Little did he know that the facade had been inadvertantly exposed, and that Sergio was taking retaliatory measures.
As the two "conversed" using the hi-tech communicator, Sergio was planning his next move.
Having made brief contact with Ell, and verifying that "the real Chefman" was still somewhere in Eastern Europe, about to begin his perilous journey, Sergio had to figure out what to do with the imposter.
Leaving the restroom, he was surprised to see the faker "talking" on what appeared to be a circa 1998 cell phone. It was stamped with the Logo of "Lucent Technologies". He also saw an Atari 2400 video game cartridge sticking out of the imposter's pocket. It was "Breakout".
"Damn" said Sergio to himself. "these guys have the latest technology available. Now I know what we're up against."
Upon seeing Sergio come out of the bathroom, the imposter quickly attempted to conceal his gadgets.
Maintaining the facade, he grabbed the imposter by his arm saying, "The car is waiting for us. Let's go....there's no time to waste".
He was still a bit nauseated from the residual effects of the Angelfish sandwich, but he knew what had to be done next. It was not going to be pretty.
Doc Bill struggled to get the heavy wooden box out of the Jeep and into his basement studio back in Maryland. Les, the telepathic dog, looked on in amusement. Doc Bill caught Les's eye.
"You looking at me?"
"Les, don't just lie there licking yourself, either help me with this box or close the door."
"You wanna piece of me? C'mon doctor-boy, bring it!"
"Les, you simply must stop reading those letters from Hands. He's only baiting you because it's an ongoing practical joke with him. Ever since I started kidding him about his wallet woes, he's been sending you those inflammatory notes in those Beggin' Strips he send you."
"C'mon, punk. Yer yellow!"
"When this is over, Hands and I will have to have a long chat." Ruger thought to himself.
"Open this bag for me then. I don't have any thumbs."
Doc Bill opened the bag of Beggin' Strips and gave one to Les, patting him carefully on the head.
Seeing that Doc was not rising to the bait, Les got up and dutifully closed the door to the studio. He went back and laid down next to the Roland electronic drum kit and dozed off.
Rugged opened the box carefully. Inside he saw that the 12 guitars were still stored safely in their individual chinchilla fur lined slots. Looking them over, he pulled out first the 12 string and then the 513. In a little recess under the 513 he found what he was really after, a stash of green-tipped, penetrator, incendiary, highly explosive, tracer .357 Sig rounds given to him by Tony McManus after the last Leprechaun Wars. Each projectile was capable of piercing a pot-o-goldtops and blowing a hole in the leprechaun behind a yard wide, a yard deep and setting it on fire.
Ruger stripped and then re-loaded the magazines for his ported and compensated Glock31C carry gun. He grabbed his backpack and gig bag and headed for Stevensville.
Chefman was slightly lost, despite his military experience of hundreds of years. Not only had he missed a turn, he also couldn't figure out what was going on in the story. "Props to Bennett for fixing the time anomaly thing," he said, "But the package wasn't earphones, it was a guitar. Which I received at the post office in Minsk. And my character was eating pork sausages in Minsk while it was claimed I'd only eat Hebrew National in NY. My character isn't kosher, and not only that, my character is from Constantinople where he was born in the 11th century, and was originally of Roman origin."
He placed a call to Sergio and Bennett, and conferenced them in on his iPhone:
"Look, I have to rescue the woman, finish the work in Minsk, find the information from the map at the Lida Castle, and THEN report back with the information needed to save the world. There's a lot left to do, so please let that happen first before you screw up the rest of this part of the novel by having me gallivant all over creation. Plus that author known as LSchefman does a lot of background research into the places I visit and the stuff I do, and it takes him a while to finish his posts, plus he edits them after he posts them to make corrections and additions. So there's that. You're just going to have to let that part of the story of my character develop for a while. Plus there's the whole question of whether I will sleep with Lena. None of you play the accordion, and I need one to get the sleep-over business done. So don't be a buttinsky."
With that, he hung up the phone. "Authors!" he thought to himself. "Guitar-playing authors who've never even savored the heady aroma of the air being pushed out of the bellows and through the handmade wooden intersteces and reeds of an accordion up close! They, who have not lived history as I have! As if they are in a position to write about me! Sennheiser headphones, indeed. And from 1980. Impossible. I only use the latest Ultrasones and Beyers. OK, AKGs in a pinch."
Being in The Ukraine again after 70 years reminded him of his time in the Wehrmacht. He cursed in German. All he could think of was what a mess Hitler and Napoleon had made out of two perfectly serviceable wars by invading Russia.
Chefman then found the point on the map where he'd taken a turn onto the wrong road, and headed the big Mercedes toward Kiev.
Last edited by LSchefman; 02-28-2013 at 12:58 PM.
As Chefman continued his drive, he bit into various h'ors d'overes he had made sure to pack with him.
The angelfish sandwich was particularly tasty. The pork sausages reminded him of the various body parts he had come across as he traveled through the Rhine, into Germany during WW2. He even passed the village of Oppenheim, he recalled....smiling as it made him think of that crazy guy, Opraman, who he always enjoyed when watching SNL.
His big red mercedes that he had "appropriated" after killing the former occupant was his way of telling the world, "I don't hold grudges" and that he would drive a nazi sled long before he would accept a ride in a Honda Element. Even if it meant murder and mayhem to get it. Especially if it meant murder and mayhem!!
Suddenly, a police car loomed in his rear view mirror. At first, he thought that the officer might have seen him sipping his Absinsthe as he was driving...a practice only legal in Rhode Island and Scandanavia. However, as the vehicle inched closer, he realized that it was not an official police car at all...it appeared to be a Plymouth Volare, circa 1978....he immediately realized that those were the "official fleet cars" of the Leprechaun's army, and that he was being tailed.
He knew what to do!
Last edited by docbennett; 02-28-2013 at 01:28 PM.
It's all good, guys, nothing to be upset over, but I've been researching all the places, street names, hotels, background stuff, rumanian generals; the lists of pows from the napoleonic invasion of russia is really in that library, as is the list of deceased french prisoners, the castle in Lida, the itinerary of Army Group South, English Regulars, etc., etc., etc., has all been worded for historical accuracy as best as I can do the research quickly. Yes, I'm trying to be funny, too, but I think the history part of it is interesting, especially for me as I go through the exercise of working with it.
So it's kind of going to waste if that end of the story gets messed with, as all of these elements are planned to come together.
I realize part of the fun of the exercise is the collaboration, but I'm enjoying making the history part relevant. So I'd like to keep it interesting that way. It adds to the enjoyment (for me).
Last edited by LSchefman; 02-28-2013 at 01:34 PM.
Bennett aimed the metrosexual ray at the voodo doll and pulled the trigger. In London, a third engineer was trying hard to concentrate on the master tracks for the Stone's latest efforts laid down last night. There was quite a buzz in the Abby Road studios with the rapid deaths of two of it's engineers recently. They had both seemed in good health, and their deaths were both sudden and unexpected.
As he sat at his console trying to get the 'wrinkles' out of Keith Richards' playing, the engineer had a sudden urge to get a pedicure and eat a cucumber sandwich. As his mind drifted into unisex colognes and clogs, he noticed that he could no longer feel his legs. Alarmed, he looked down as a numbness rose in his back. His breathing stopped and his vision went black and he died.
"Just the same way we used to pith frogs in science class," grinned Bennett as he removed the knitting needle from the base of the doll's skull.
"There is so much to do. I need to expand my ring of familiars."
Russia, Poland, Minsk? I'm (Bello) just trying to get to Canterbury, UK!
PRS CUSTOM 24
Opraman was driving home from his tri-weekly therapy appointment. As usual, his therapist had been very astute and had made some excellent interpretations. The Dr-patient relationship was excellent, and Bennett had established rapport with his therapist almost immediately. It was a bit ironic, as Opraman had chosen his therapist merely for the fact that they happened to have very similar names. They had the same first name, and a similar last name. In skimming the Yellow Pages, Opraman immediately saw the coincidental similarity and thought that it must be a message from above. AS his therapist had pointed out, again and again…this was just a transferential reaction….the nearly identical names helped Bennett to establish a sense of familiarity and trust. As a consequence, the therapy sped along without some of the usual resistance.
On the other hand, his therapist had his own counter-transferential reaction to his client. He was disgusted by Opraman’s severe personality disorder. He found Bennett’s values to be contemptible. There wasn’t a redeeming feature of his client that he could draw solace from. He dreaded each appointment, and would secretly pop a couple Percocet about 30 minutes before Opraman was scheduled to arrive. That way, by the time his client was sitting on the leather chair and whining and moaning about this and that, he’d have a sufficient buzz to be able to tolerate him….barely. the only reason he took Opraman on as a client was that he needed the patients. Ever since that newspaper article had linked him to the underage “mandatory therapy ring” that was snatching young teenage prostitutes off the streets and deprogramming them and returning them home safe and sound….he was getting anonymous calls at 3 AM telling him he was a pervert, and sometimes even had rocks thrown threw his office window.
So, the only solution was to see Opraman three times a week, at $185 per visit…$450 if he paid cash and for all three sessions at once.
Opraman mused about today’s session. He had been seeing his therapist for several years…ever since his last shred of conscience plagued him sufficiently with regard to his nefarious deeds. Killing engineers with voodoo….using his advanced technology to change men’s sexual orientation…establishing a formula for cloning leprechauns in the image and with the brains of the master Leprechaun of all….Red Raman…..was his joy and his pleasure. He loved creating chaos. He enjoyed using his superior intellect to develop schemes to control others. His favorite movie character was Dr. Evil, and he tried to emulate that persona whenever possible.
The therapy was a means to ventilate. His only opportunity to let some of his inner stress and angst be relieved. However, he knew he could never be honest with his doctor. He knew that based on the “Tarasoff precedent…duty to warn” the moment his true objectives were known…he’d be locked up and facing life in prison at best…and execution as a more likely alternative.
So, his used his therapy as a façade, and created situations to discuss. He would imagine a scenario, then tell it to the therapist as if it really happened.
Today, he spent the session describing in detail how he had imagined an elderly man, who was incontinent and suffered from encopresis, who was having a fit in an airplane. He described how this man, of apparent Eastern European extraction became agitated to the point of near insanity due to the fact that his angelfish sandwich was not kosher.
“So, said the doctor…”what does “angelfish” mean to you?”
“I’m not sure” replied Opraman.
“How about Kosher dietary laws…signify anything?”
“Not a thing Doc. My favorite food is a pulled pork sandwich washed down with a nice glass of milk”.
“Hmm…have you discussed this with your wife at all? The concept of the elderly man who shat himself and had a fit? Anyone you know?”
“I’m not sure Doc…I’ll have to think about it some more”.
“You do that. See you in two days. Pay the girl on your way out. Cash please. 10’s and 20’s if you have them…nothing large. Bye Bye”.
Opraman was almost home. He was already thinking about what he would make up for the next therapy session. However, the opportunity to run down into the basement and continue his work on the Leprechaun cloning project was irresistible. Without even at glance at his loving and, patient wife (who continued to hope and pray that his attraction to the basement and this incessant “playing with himself” would lose interest) he ran downstairs to pull out his equipment.
Back at his therapist’s office, the Percocet was wearing off and Dr. O was vomiting into the little airplane bag he always carried with him.
“Next!” he shouted to his secretary, as he pulled Lindsey Lohan’s chart and reviewed yesterday’s notes. “Hmm” he was thinking….”Maybe I can get her to come twice a day”.