With election day coming up, I feel the need to remind everyone to get your butts out there and vote if you're 18+ that way when bad things happen, you can say, "well, I didn't vote for him." Now, if the guy you voted for screws things up, you can't blame anyone but yourself, so keep that in mind, but if you don't vote, then shut the hell up! Okay, that was my political rant for this year.
Now enjoy the last excerpt from The Newts, and thanks again to Matt!!
CHAPTER THREE
Introduces
a Mercurial Deity who promises to help Ed, and depicts an
old-fashioned Ferry Ride across a scenic river
Ed
found himself standing near the bank of an ink-black river. All was
silent except for the gentle, rhythmic lapping of water against the
dark shoreline. The atmosphere above was steel gray, yet cloudless.
The light it provided had none of the warmth of sunlight, and cast a
sickly, uneven glow on everything it touched. The effect was very
much like being in a poorly lit back corner of Costco, surrounded by
crates of paper towels and boxes of garbage bags.
“Greetings,
Mr. Wurlitzerbachermann,” said a voice.
A
blonde-haired man dressed in a tunic, short red cape, and winged
sandals materialized in front of him. He was holding a long golden
wand shaped like two intertwined serpents, and smiling pleasantly.
“Who
are you?”
asked Ed in great surprise. “And where am
I?”
“Hermes,
and Hades – in that order,” replied the man.
“Huh?”
said Ed.
The
man smiled and gave him a look of gentle chiding. “You’re in the
Underworld, otherwise known as Hades,” he said. “And I’m
Hermes, of course, the fleet-footed messenger god. I serve as a
guide for the new souls down here. Never studied Greek mythology in
school, did you?”
“I
didn’t really study much of anything in school,” replied Ed,
“except for the good looking girls. But I don’t want to have
anything to do with Greece. Look at what’s happening there now.
The country’s bankrupt. Everyone wants a handout and a free ride.
And now we’ve got politicians in Washington who want to run America
the Greek way. It’s terrible!”
“Oh,
I don’t know,” replied Hermes, “lots of Americans like to do
things the Greek way, don’t they?”
“Maybe
in places like San Francisco!” said Ed, with a sneer. “They’re
a bunch of socialists there. They don’t believe in Real American
values – like democracy, capitalism, and Happy Meals.”
“Don’t
forget foreskin removal,” added Hermes.
“Yeah,
that too!” cried Ed.
“But
Ed, my friend,” said Hermes, “the Greeks are the ones who
actually invented
democracy. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Democracy
means everything
to me!” shouted Ed. “That’s why I’m trying to save America
from the socialist in office now.”
“You
seem to be quite opposed to socialism,” observed Hermes, with an
agreeable smile.
“Damn
straight,” replied Ed.
“What
does that make you then? An ‘Unsocialist,’ I suppose? Is that
what they call it?”
“I
don’t know, never thought of it that way,” replied Ed. “All I
know is that I’m against it.”
“Oh,
perhaps you’re an ‘Antisocialist,’ then?”
“I
guess that sounds about right,” said Ed, nodding. “But the point
is, I’ve come down here to bring a Real American back from the dead
to run for President. I’m not sure the current Republican running
can win. Or that he’s a Real American, come to think of it.”
“Well,
you’re in the right place,” said Hermes. “The Land of the Dead
is on the other side of this river. Just take Charon’s ferry
across.”
He
pointed down the shoreline, to where a little rowboat was moored at a
dock. A pale old man in robes was sitting perfectly still within it.
“Take
the ferry,” continued Hermes, “and I’ll meet you on the other
side. I’ll help you find your Real American.” Having said this,
the god vanished as suddenly as he had first appeared.
Ed
frowned in concern, but seeing no other option he walked cautiously
towards the dock.
As
he got closer to the river’s edge he smelled an intense odor of
sulfur and kerosene. It burned his nose and made his stomach queasy.
He took some solace in this discomfort, though, as well as in the
rapidly thumping heartbeat in his chest: both were at least signs of
life.
The
old ferryman saw him approach and called out the stops on his route.
“All
aboard for Tartarus! – Netherworld! – Purgatory! – Sheol! –
Beelzebub’s Kitchen! – New Jersey!”
“Can
I go to Hell this way?” asked Ed.
“You
can for all I care!” replied Charon. “Get in.”
Ed
nearly upset the boat as he climbed in and sat down facing the
spectral ferryman. He was the sole passenger.
Across
from him Charon sat stroking his long, filthy beard with a skeletal
hand. With his other hand he gestured towards the oars. “Now put
your back into it and row!” he rasped.
“You
want me
to row?” cried Ed. “But I don’t know anything about how to
handle a boat.”
“Oh,
stuff it you worm!” replied Charon. “You don’t know a damned
thing about government either, but that doesn’t stop you from
shoving your nose in it, does it? Now row!”
Ed
held the oars with trembling hands and began to row. The boat
wobbled as he adjusted the oars and slowly found a rhythm, a task
made all the more difficult by the churning sensation he felt in his
stomach from the concentrated odor of kerosene surrounding him.
Meanwhile Charon brooded in silence.
About
halfway across the river, Ed looked into the foul-smelling water and
noticed a great number of frogs floating belly-up in the current.
“What’s with all the dead frogs?” he asked.
“For
millions of years I had those frogs to keep me company, and sing to
me,” replied Charon. “And now they’ve all croaked for good!”
The ferryman scowled in silence for a moment, and then unexpectedly,
and in a surprisingly mournful tone, groaned what appeared to be his
imitation of the sound of the frogs:
“Brekekekex
Ko-ax, Ko-ax, Ko-ax! Brekekekex Ko-ax, Ko-ax, Ko-ax!”
“You
think it could have been global warming that killed them?” asked
Ed.
“Global
warming!” cried Charon. “You don’t believe all that hot air
those environmentalists are spewing, do you?”
“Of
course not!” replied Ed, defensively – although not very
confidently. How did it go again? ‘There is no
such thing as global warming; in fact the Earth is actually getting
cooler?’
Or perhaps it was ‘there is
such a thing as global warming, only it’s not
caused by burning fossil fuels, it’s simply a natural part of
Earth’s cycles.’ Like ‘Mother Nature having a hot flash,’
wasn’t that it? Or maybe it was ‘the scientists don’t all
agree, so the rest of us should just forget about it until they
finally reach agreement in fifty or sixty years from now.’ Was
that it? He tugged on his goatee as he tried to remember.
Charon
shook his head angrily and slammed his fist on the side of the boat,
making it rock and bob in the water in a way that Ed found most
disconcerting.
“No,
it’s not global warming that killed all the frogs!” snapped the
ferryman. “It’s the frickin’ fracking!”
“Down
here?” asked Ed, quite shocked.
“Of
course down here! Haven’t you ever heard of stuff trickling
down?”
Ed
had to admit he’d heard of it, but never actually saw it happen.
He
was about to protest however, that he thought he’d heard fracking
was perfectly safe, or maybe just a little unsafe, or maybe polluted
the ground water and caused earthquakes – occasionally, perhaps.
It had to be one of those, but again, as with global warming, he
couldn’t quite remember which. But before he could defend the
noble art and science of frackology, he noticed hundreds of little
creatures swimming happily in the murky water.
“Oh
look!” cried Ed. “Maybe some of the frogs are still alive.”
Charon
glanced to where Ed pointed and scoffed, “Those aren’t frogs you
fool!”
Upon
closer examination Ed was forced to agree that they looked like no
frog he’d ever seen: their sleek, lizard-shaped bodies were covered
in blood-red skin, and they had long tails that lashed the water like
whips. Thousands of them surrounded the rowboat in wriggling masses
of crimson.
“It’s
just some more of the newts!” barked Charon. “The slimy little
buggers have been multiplying like crazy lately – they seem to do
best in polluted waters. And they never stop singing their damn
song!”
Ed
cocked his head to listen, and sure enough he could hear the voices
of the little amphibians as they burbled a song in unison:
Welcome
good citizen, welcome to Hell!
Welcome
to the muck and the slime and the ooze – ain’t it just swell?
We’re
subterranean Newts, and we’ve got votes to buy and sell!
Gurgle-suck,
Gurgle-suck! Suck-suck-gurgle!
An
endangered species we’re certainly not,
We
thrive all the better when the planet gets hot;
To
call us scavengers isn’t quite right,
It’s
more scientific to say ‘Parasite!’
Gurgle-suck,
Gurgle-suck! Suck-suck-gurgle!
Our
daily drink is a sweet blood called money,
And
Government is our land of milk and honey;
We
suck and we suck ‘till we get our fill,
‘Cause
it’s Old Man Democracy footing the bill!
Gurgle-suck,
Gurgle-suck! Suck-suck-gurgle!
To
get what you want there’s a game you must play,
And
to help win elections we know just what to say;
We’re
skilled in the art of Newt pettifoggery:
Abortion,
immigration, health care reform? –
They’re
just handy props for our demagoguery!
Gurgle-suck,
Gurgle-suck! Suck-suck-gurgle!
And
now thanks to the semi-divine interventions
Of
five black-robed friends whose names we won’t mention,
We
never again need hide our most selfish intentions!
Great
swarms of us Newts are about to attack,
We’re
the tip of the spear of the Superest Super PAC!
Ed’s
enjoyment of this delightful instance of interspecies communication
was suddenly interrupted when the rowboat slammed into the opposite
bank of the river, and he was involuntarily disembarked – which is
to say, the force of the impact propelled him backwards out of the
boat and into the foul water.
“All those for Hades, get the hell off!” cried Charon a moment
later, apparently under the impression that Ed was still sitting
directly across from him in the boat, rather than awkwardly rising to
his feet in the river.
Ed
retrieved his tri-cornered hat, which threatened to float away on the
current, and was about to slosh his way up the river bank to dry land
when Charon held out his bony hand and croaked, “Don’t forget the
ferryman!”
“What’s
the charge?” said Ed with a sigh, reaching for his wallet.
“Forty-nine,
ninety-nine.”
“Fifty
bucks? Are you serious?”
“I’m
never not
serious.”
Ed
thumbed through his wallet, retrieved three wet twenty-dollar bills
(the last of his cash), and handed them to Charon, who rolled them
into a little tube, which he stuck inside the ragged folds of his
cloak.
“What
about my change?” asked Ed. But Charon merely stroked his unkempt
beard, smiling a toothless grin.
Then the old ferryman shoved off
with a grunt, and quickly disappeared into the twilight.
Ed
scurried out of the reeking water to the top of the riverbank, where
he looked around to get his bearings. He saw no signs of life
whatsoever. A dim, misty haze hung everywhere, and the only sound he
could hear, from far off in the distance, was a soft rattling noise,
like dry autumn leaves blowing across the ground. It was as desolate
as a Congressional office building on a Friday.
After
a little while, however, he saw a figure approaching from out of the
haze. It was the messenger god Hermes, and upon seeing Ed the god
smiled warmly in greeting. It took a moment for Ed to recognize him,
though. Instead of wearing a tunic, cape, and winged sandals, he now
wore a finely pressed three-piece suit and shiny black loafers.
Rather than holding a glittering wand, he carried a leather suitcase.
His previously free-flowing golden curls were now slicked back in a
precisely combed wave of hair that crested above his forehead. And
as he walked swiftly towards Ed, he spoke into a Bluetooth device
perched in his ear, while swiping his thumb rapidly across the screen
of an iPhone.
* * *
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