NEWDIE STEADSLAW

Now, dancing is a curious thing. It’s the body’s opportunity to relinquish itself to the pleasure of the brain—or rather, not the brain, but something else. Something disconnected. All control is forsaken, whatever limbs you have thrown about and contorted in jubilant, exotic thrills, one’s self disposed of and given to the joy of reckless abandon. “Reckless abandon,” there’s a funny phrase—you’d think if you “abandoned” something, you wouldn’t get it back. That’s pretty reckless, if you ask me, so it’s just redundant—but I digress. Dancing may well be the ultimate expression of physicality—emotion given form visually, if ephemerally. Not that anyone would know, for there were thirteen illegal things throughout the nation of Paltropisburg—Howlistune included—and dancing was number seven. One might wonder why; it all goes back to the reign of the Great East Eater, only a few hundred years ago. Technically, there’s still some east remaining, but, let’s let bygones be gone, all right? Well, we all know the story, or should by now—it was in the past, supposedly, where all knowable things lie, and some even tell the truth.

Anyway, back in the seven forty-seven—in international airs, where the law of Paltropisburg could hardly dare to apply, and where none were about to try—assorted dancing people, gathered ’neath the disco ball, were boogieing up to Traycup and Ben Garment and Phillippo, who had declared a pending byejilling, as now the dancing people were curious as to what a byejilling was, as displayed by their question, “What’s a byejilling?” It was a fair question, of course, since it was a rare enough event that they weren’t clear on the details, and, moreover, everyone’s shoes were too tight, so they weren’t concentrating on unprovoked aircraft ownership changes right at that moment. Someone was bound to invent Velcro and solve their entanglement issues soon—but not soon enough. It never is.

“Well,” said Traycup, who was the team’s expert on byejilling and hijacking both, since he knew one was worse than the other, “it’s as simpl’as this! We wish to join you, and meet with your boss to discuss our being encompassed as one of your own. It’s not a thing of hostility at all!”

“That’s kosher, but what if we like hostility?” said the dancing people.

“It’s still not one,” said Traycup, “but, a separate thing of that make and model can b’found later, if adequately desired!”

The dancing people formed three rings around our heroes and began a new jig, so as to mull over the proposal. Lost to the dance, they became as one, their minds shared, their thoughts unsaid, their will universal. This was a brief jig, witful as they were, and it took a mere ten hours and ten seconds only, and barely left them breathless. Then the dancing people said, “Nope. We’re full.”

“Hostility it is!” declared Ben Garment.

“I’ll get the dip,” said Phillippo.

“It’s not to be!” said Traycup. “I’ll not budge on the byejilling—it’s a mystery best left solved.” He thought for a moment—not about sad bison, though—and realized he hadn’t ironed a vegetable lately. “Mayhap here’s a gap we can bridge! I’ll to state my goal, and you can yours, and let’s find a crossing betwixt those two. So here’s it: will the plane be as kind as to place us neatly on the ground?”

“The ground?” wailed the dancing people. “Not the ground! No! We can’t go back there! We won’t go back! We won’t go back to the old ways! Our bodies have tasted the thrill of the dance, our minds have met with the bliss of long decadence! No, we are children of the sky evermore! You shall not have us bound to your earthly ways!” With that, the dancing people began to howl like no figs, and they faded away and became blurred, becoming as one, a great mass suffused with demoniac pretense, owing in large part to the ample supply of exciting party drugs everyone had indulged in earlier—they’d all shared three aspirins before the flight—but evermoreso, it was the will of the disco ball that drove them, for dancers at nearly everywhere were bound to it in all ways. That very glimmering sphere now descended from its place in the ceiling and grew large and overtook the horizon, such as it was.

“At last,” said Ben Garment, “we can speak to the conductor.”

“We’ll,” said Traycup. “We’ve got unilled will, so there’s no cork yet!”

The disco ball, inflating its precipice, beheld Traycup and Ben Garment and Phillippo. Their figures were insufficient—ludicrous was it to entertain their rattling notions, truly a time shaved off once and for all. Who would see the sphere’s reverse in this instance? Could it be hoped that the mirror would last long enough? Or should it race to the eraser?

“I see,” said the disco ball, “your feet unmoving.”

“They’re,” said Traycup.

“Well?” said the disco ball.

“They’re!” said Traycup cheerfully.

“You’re sans a dance. Can I take this as loathing?” The disco ball put aside a little cheesecake for later.

“Not one,” said Traycup, “but true verticality! Call it a habit, surely—but not surly!”

The disco ball awaited the coming attractions and counted the numbers—there were more at once, as would do more than enough. “You’re not akin,” it said.

Traycup aligned his feet. “I’mn’t, but my aim’s at that—and now it’s your phone that’s ringing!”

Ben Garment and Phillippo watched in spades and awaited with braided breath. Alas for the coming reply—not to give away the ending, but this would be a short chapter if everything worked out at once for once.

“You,” said the disco ball, “have likeness of a pest! It’s time you were gone from here. This place welcomes you not, as you know, and have known! Where we long to watch your obliteration, we make ourselves comfortable to enjoy the show! Now, there’s no more ahoy, but bask!”

The disco ball sprinkled some manly sauerkraut onto a hamster, which was appreciative of the shower, since it had just had an intense workout at the fire station and was headed to the two-ply for a snack next, but their snack break wasn’t for another four seconds, so they had to find something to do to kill time during the meanwhile. This—killing time—seemed on the evilish side, and the time’s children would be left without a parent. Since no orphan could be brooked, Traycup acted quickly, and he and Ben Garment and Phillippo each knitted a poncho with the words “Bless This Morass” emblazoned both front and back. The ponchos wouldn’t sell at the store, so they gave up on that mislaid ambition and donated them to some math teachers.

“Come now,” said Traycup, “I’ve a lot of dishes to meet tomorrow, and bathing in a cold resin is no good for the cuticles.”

The disco ball laughed, unfazed. “Ho! It seems we go way back!” it guffawed. “Can’t a worm-shod table have its own vote for more or less? Or are all the instigators tied up in a charnel house? See, I’ve a tonsil you’ve never met, and, oh, where to buy insurance that can turn on a dime?”

Once, the mountains were lower than the sea, but this was when the spotlight was on the cold ham leftover from the cribbage factory fire, so no one noticed, and they righted things right away. Twice, the mounting was louder than the seal, and this was not before, but after the hot white wasp had a gold pan right over by the cabbage fanciers’ field, and everyone saw it, and left what was left nearby.

It was withering, dithering, and too early for the best. Traycup had some sleeves to his name, and probably always would, as there’s better places for the warmth. “It’ll take longer than a slim minute,” he said, “yet not an hour—but our! For our pet-setting lance doesn’t know the first thing about a pyramid, and somehow it’s going to find the patience to get through it all! Now, you might say ‘pie’ wrong and be forgiven, because if you run up and down enough, you’ll see a turtle’s got your number! It’s a crown, and hasn’t been since the eighties! Now we’re at the pause limit!”

A tin pan was able to seal the deal and saw the end of the era, watching the sun for signs of life, and, just before it ran out of suspenders, someone bought an elevator. There was a question no one knew in a place like three others, and biscuits—ones cheeseless, please—held up the bank until Spangto the monk got back with a piecemeal for the machinists.

The dancers howled a howl so loud it was louder than their previous howl. They became partially filled with despair, and watched in misery and the suburbs as the disco ball became something less than its old self, in pieces smaller than it had been, and said nothing, and shone its light no more, but fell into darkness and perished.

“Is it prevalence?” said Ben Garment.

“That’s not now’s thing,” said Traycup.

The dancing people came down with such a case of wroth as no fiddle had known before, and in their feverish daze they developed a new dance—one of too much passion, an outpouring of rage, frothing vigor, and liminal punishment. Though the disco ball shone not its light on them, they spent what they had left in the name of vengeance and retribution. There would be a reckoning, now and never—and they meant to make it spatial.

“So,” said Phillippo, “did we win, or...?”

“Only the prize of a deepening threat,” said Ben Garment. “If anyone’s got a swatter, now’s the time to activate!”

“Hang long on that airtime,” said Traycup, “for there is an idea of me! Or rather, I’ve an idea! I’ll give you three guesses as to what it’s, and the first two are carbon fiber!”

The dancing people ceased their newmade dance, for they had shorn their plumage so that what now simmered unseen was deeper and harder than a rebar maker would want to see on its day off. They made a color with everything, their hands were hot and cold and nothing in between, and they tied their hairs to their weapons—and not just to make a point.

“I hope it’s ice cream,” said Phillippo, wasting his guess.

But by now, the seven forty-seven had noticed something awry—such an awful, twisted sensation in its stomach that was surely unusual. Ere anxiety could dominate the day, it booked an appointment with the nearest doctor, who received it at once, and laid it down on the table to listen to its here-and-theres with the icy intimacy of the stethoscope.

“How does it feel?” said the doctor.

“Cold,” said the seven forty-seven.

“Not the stethoscope, you knucklehead. Your stomach,” said the doctor.

“It feels like I’ve got a thousand dancing people inside me who just blew up a disco ball,” said the seven forty-seven.

“Oh,” said the doctor gravely.

“What? Is it bad?” said the seven forty-seven.

“Yeah,” said the doctor. “Dancing is illegal.”

“I’m not dancing,” said the seven forty-seven, scowling and considering not leaving a tip.

“But you know it’s happening,” the doctor said. “You’re an accomplice.”

“Accomplice?” said the plane. “I’m the victim!”

The doctor reached for the phone, the special teal one to report dancing-related crimes, such as... well, such as dancing. I guess there’s just the one.

The seven forty-seven sprang to its feet. “I’m not going down like this!” In further demonstration of its recent educational feats and newfound martial prowess, it drew forth a halberd with practiced grace and leapt atop a mighty steed. The mighty steed reared on its hind legs as thunder roared and lightning crashed dramatically in the background, and then it raced at the doctor, and the seven forty-seven twirled the halberd over its head. The doctor ordered his nurse to open fire, but as he had actually opened his practice in a toadstool forest and the nurse was no nurse but a dormouse, fire was not opened, and so he was as defenseless as bacon bits and the seven forty-seven struck him down, and he exploded into fragments of doctor bones.

The seven forty-seven admired its handiwork but quickly realized its predicamentary position. “I’ve got to hide before I get billed for this,” it said, looking about the doctor’s office and weighing its options. Vent? Too obvious. Under the pile of doctor bones? Tempting, but it’d be screwed if an orangutan came by and wanted to eat a large enough portion so as to expose any hiders. Inside the sharps container? That was the first place they’d look!

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

“The jig is literally up,” groaned the seven forty-seven, and, without any other option, it leapt into the battery compartment of the wall clock that’d been stopped for two years.

The door opened, and the fishmonger came in.

“Carl?” said the fishmonger. “You in here? Carl?”

There was no answer. The fishmonger held up a—oh, what do you call them things that tick when there’s radiation? It’s like a box and then there’s a rod on a wire? That thing, he held up one of those. It ticked like crazy, right in time with the clock.

“Foiled again,” muttered the fishmonger, turning and leaving at once. “All right, I give up! Ollie ollie oxen free!” The fishmonger went down the hall, saying more antique poetry, and boarded a passing surfboard, leaving the story entirely.

The mighty steed shuffled with fine awkwardness and said, “Was I supposed to go in the clock, too?”

“Horses don’t talk,” said the seven forty-seven, climbing out and dusting itself off. It still had bits of doctor bones in its chain mail. “Now, listen. I’m gettin’ out of here before the gettin’ gets good! And if you say anything to anyone, so help me, I’m going to buy your whole family a pu pu platter!”

With that the plane took off, leaving the mighty steed alone in the doctor’s office. The mighty steed took off its disguise, and it was no mighty steed at all, but a regular steed—Phillippo, in the flesh.

“Well,” said Phillippo, “we seem to have shaken them. Good job.”

Then, Phillippo split in half, and its true form was finally revealed, for Phillippo was no horse, but a horse costume—no wonder it could still see blue! And encased within itself was Traycup Lopkit and Ben Garment, who clomb out of the costume carefully.

“A fine foray, dear Ben Garment!” said Traycup. “I’m nearly juvenated from that one.”

“Take it on your own,” said Ben Garment. “But, Traycup, we remain afoot, and are lost, at the same.”

“Say,” said Phillippo the horse costume, “if you guys still need a hand, so to speak—”

“You’ve been an expert friend!” said Traycup. “It’ll not go amiss.”

“I’ll get you set up,” said Ben Garment. “I do need to rebuild my blimpal crew, after all.”

Ben Garment helped Phillippo sign the paperwork for its four-oh-one-kay while Traycup stared longingly at a thumbtack. “Well, I guess we’ll put a house here.” No one said that anymore, and no one ever would again. Traycup didn’t know how to build a house, but if he had to guess, he’d be right—but the doing would send him where he’d been before. He stared shortly at the thumbtack.

“What’s up?” said Phillippo.

“The seven forty-seven,” Traycup said, who’d always been there, “and usn’t.”

“The byejilling went as planned,” said Ben Garment, “but that leaves us with a new challenge! We’ll need to accrue some new options for the route of our travel. Let me be a thinker.” Ben Garment was briefly a thinker. “Well, we nearly have our pick, but none are good—via Nesodi Iveent if you like ways and means, else there’s Vefgellia if you’re for scenery, or Mormander Prede if you have latent chaos.”

Traycup said, “Such stylish name-dropping! Well, I’ll participate with a one myself, for our party wants for one. Roby is lacking in hereness. I’ve pledged a joined journey with her, and ’twould be rude to abscond without.”

Ben Garment shook his head sadly. “A dilly we shouldn’t dally! But, that’s the way that must be for us, says you, so if you can point the way, we’ll go to her spot!”

“Then, let’s jostle!” said Traycup.