Zolton and the Red Flag

I’m pacing the floor behind my desk, casting impatient glances at the setting sun. My pens and paper are ready, the lamp sitting precisely on the right corner, a cup of strong coffee steaming on the left. The night is my greatest source of inspiration.

Red and yellow hues slant through the window and across the hardwood floor as day slides into the clutches of night.

At last! I pull the chair from my desk and sit. Tapping a pen against the paper, I look about the room, peering into the dark recesses, searching for the critters of my imagination to present themselves, vying for space on my blank page.

Who will it be tonight? Who wants to guide my hand? Whose tale will entice me? What veiled indiscretion will I discover? What injustice shall I expose and attack?

I pursue long-forgotten themes, only to crumple and deposit them in the overflowing receptacle of dead ends and false starts. These attempts continue until in the corner of my eye—movement. A single-eyed, shimmering gelatinous mass spills from the lower shelf of my bookcase, falling behind the printer, waddling and slithering across my desk, and plopping against my hand. Its eye, penetrating and evil, glares.

The voice sloshes in verbal waves. I finished the high school band three books ago. I’m hungry. I want more.

Not today, Squish. I think you’ll have to wait a little longer.

Squish bubbles and farts, spreading its formless mass across my hand in a disgusting, putrid puddle of childish angst. Before it can gurgle more demands, I flip it and watch it roll in lumps against my coffee cup.

Maybe you need a little company tonight, the sultry voice of Carmen “Toots” Lovey calls from the noir shelf. She emerges from the pages of Aces and Eights and stands with her hands on her supple hips, shapely legs perching on four-inch stilettos, and a mink stole hanging wantonly off one shoulder. She leans against the book, propping a heel against the cover. The skin-tight sequined black dress slips invitingly to mid-thigh. I could use some company. How ‘bout you, baby? Bending forward, she puckers her ruby lips and blows me a kiss, her plunging neckline accentuating her invitation.

I whistle quietly. Ah . . . tempting, Toots, but I’ve got to pass. We’ll get together soon.

She pulls a cigarette from her purse and sticks it in her mouth. Men!

Balding Buttons O'Keefe, enforcer for the 12th Street mob, climbs from the pages of the book, clutching a lighter in his stubby fingers and offers Toots a light. Hey, Toots, yous want a real man?

She exhales a cloud of smoke in the direction of the broadly smiling Buttons and rolls her eyes. I have my limits and anything under five three is verboten.

Broads!

Hmmp!

Jake was such a dreamy guy, coos Beverly Bodacious, lying across the reclining book Delicious Sin. Her chin resting in the cupped palms of her hands, an open diary between her propped elbows, she bends her legs and crosses them at the ankles. A long breathless sigh wafts from her lips as she flutters her eyelashes in a distant, longing gaze. Oh, how I wish I could fall in love with a man like that. She crosses her arms and rests her head, her begging eyes gazing at me. Please, her voice husky, I’ll make it worth your time. She bats her eyes again.

I offer her a reluctant smile and shake my head. No, but maybe soon.

That’s what all yous bums say, mutters Buttons. He steps up to the edge of the shelf, his hand inside his coat firmly gripping the butt of his piece. Maybe we should rub a few of yous out. Maybe then we’ll get some respect. Toots whacks Buttons across the head with her purse. Yeah, and a couple of lines on that sheet of paper and you’ll be sleepin’ with the fishes.

Gunfire and the clop of horses’ hooves rattle the Knick knacks and photos along the top shelf. Give yerself up, Deadeye. You’re trapped. The crack of rifle fire and a flurry of ricochets add credence to Deadeye’s predicament. Anytime you want to try, Sheriff, comes his taunting response. A sudden whoosh, a gasp of surprise and the outlaw Deadeye Dick falls lifeless from one of the hand-carved bookends, an arrow through his heart. A lone brave stands silently atop an antique lighter in the darkened corner of the shelf. The sheriff scratches his head, looking at me, confused.

Kona sticks his head from the pages of Finnian’s Key, peering over the edge of the cover. What’s with that? His face mirrors the same confused look as the sheriff. He wasn’t in the story.

I shrug, muttering a weak “Brainstorming.”

Death to the earthlings! shouts the Crystal Lord of the Onyx galaxy. Two blasts of his death laser follow his declaration. The first disintegrates Beverly’s diary in a shower of shredded pages. She screams and crawls into the spine of Delicious Sin. The second rips Toots’ purse from her shoulder. Ya bum! That cost me a month’s pay. Pop! Pop! Pop! goes Button’s .45. The slugs whiz past the Crystal Lord’s head, the last nicking the mast of antennas spiraling from his space helmet, spinning him around and knocking him down. Whoosh! An arrow buries itself between his legs, mere inches from changing him from a thistle to a dandelion. Whoosh! Another arrow. A fusillade of rifle fire rearranges a pile of notes and splinters a pencil. The Crystal Lord utters a loud OOF! as Squish bubbles and undulates over the hapless invader.

I slam my hands down on the table. “Enough!”

The rogues gallery of characters goes silent except for a sighing, My Hero, from Bev and a “poof” from Squish. All silence and eyes, they sit, watch, and wait. A sudden soft tap emanates from the middle desk drawer. I lean back in my chair and peek inside at a girl, a pixie face with unusually large brown eyes and two small antennae extruding from the top of her head. Hesitant, she stands.

Please, sir, he’s threatening our world.

Who?

The gallery leans forward in unified curiosity.

Zolton, the dark gladiator from Wruski, has threatened to take the red flag of our beloved leader. Without it, we have no identity, no home, and we become his slaves. He has already invaded one of our small moons and is attacking us without mercy. We are a peaceful race. We abhor war. He believes us to be weak. But he misunderstands us. We will fight to our last breath before we give up a piece of our world. But we are few and we need your help. Please, sir.

Isn’t there anyone from your world willing to help you?

Only if you summon them.

Hmmm. I see a story. I ponder a title. Zolton and the Red Flag.

Hey, boss, send me, Buttons pipes in. I’m pretty good at changin’ guys’ minds.

You tell’im, Buttons, Toots shouts from somewhere between pages 150 and 155.

We got a posse up here, hollers the sheriff from the top shelf. Six Winchesters and three Henry rifles—all crack shots.

A war cry bellows from behind a bookend. The Crystal Lord’s hand wiggles from beneath Squish’s voluminous gel and pats the tabletop. Squish quickly smothers it and farts.

I shake my head. Nah. Thanks for the offer, but I got this. A collective groan rises from the gallery. The pixie takes a seat under the lamp. So, what shall I call you?

Zelency.

That’s an unusual name. From where do you hail?

Ukran.

Hmmm. I pick up my pen and write: Zolton’s demented, evil stare fixed on the small world of Ukran, a mere star leap across the Dark Sea Nebula…

~~~

Purple shades of morning push back the curtain of night and beckon a new day. The gallery of heroes, villains, ne’re-do-wells, lovers—and Squish, sliming the Crystal Lord, escapes into my imagination as I file Zolton, Ukran, and Zelency into the middle drawer.

To be continued. Zolton won’t have a chance. I chuckle at the myriad possibilities awaiting the advance of night. I set a pen and a pad on the nightstand next to the lamp and crawl beneath the top sheet. Before turning out the light, I glance at them.

You just never know.

After turning out the light, a thought peeks into my mind: what if Zolton had an orange penguin for an evil sidekick? I laugh. Nah. No one would buy that. Chuckling, the thought passes quickly as I descend into a deep, peaceful slumber.