The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 31
Bartholomew Skypie was flying the friendly sky, enjoying the beautiful morning so thoroughly his bill was threatening to spout joy like a bill of lading. The lofty seagull was humming a silly love song he’d just bought at Joe’s Silly Love Songs — You’ll Sound Like A Total Imbecile Or Your Money Back.
Baby don’t cry,
Baby come by,
Together we’ll fly
So very high,
Your tears will dry
Quicker than a fry.
Now don’t be shy,
And don’t ask why,
I’m a great, great guy,
Come to the sky,
My sugar thigh,
My apple pie.
If you don’t try,
If you deny,
I’m gonna dye,
I’m gonna dye,
I’m gonna dye
My favorite tie!
“Dispatch to Skypie,” crackled a voice over the two-way radio, interrupting the high singing.
“Go ahead, Dispatch,” replied Skypie romantically.
“Are you free?” asked the voice.
“As free as a bee on a tree eating Brie with a chimpanzee just back from ski in Tennessee,” answered the seagull with a bonus epigram he’d received from Joe’s.
The voice was pleased. “Good. Then you’ve got passengers waiting on the corner of 1st and 2nd Avenues.”
“Thanks, Dispatch,” said Skypie thankfully.
The seagull, who moonlighted as a taxi, then spread his wings and descended to meet his fare.
“There comes our taxi,” said Victor, pointing upward where the sky could generally be found.
“It’s about time,” mumbled Young Man Coronet.
“I don’t think it’s about me at all,” remarked Pacific Time, who happened to be passing in the neighborhood.
The seagull landed next to the three gentlemen and said, “I’m sorry folks, I can only seat two.”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” announced Pacific sternly. “I only fly when I’m having fun — which I’m not at the moment.”
Skypie shrugged and addressed his two fares. “Well then, hop on.” Then, noticing where Coronet was headed, he added, “Sorry folks, no one allowed up front.” The two did as bade and positioned themselves comfortably on the seagull’s back.
“Where to?” asked Skypie as he started the meter.
“Montreal,” replied Victor.
“In Canada?” questioned Skypie.
“Is there a Montreal anywhere else?” rejoined Victor.
“Not that I know of,” said Skypie calmly.
“Then why ask?” inquired Victor.
“My mother always said asking questions is the best way to learn,” replied Skypie.
“What did your father say?” asked Victor.
“He said ‘ask your mother’,” responded Skypie.
Coronet, who had been holding ongoing negotiations with the onboard entertainment system, finally managed to strike an agreement, whereby he would be allowed to view the movie of his choice provided he stopped fondling the system’s buttons. Victor donned his ski mask and nodded off in no time, now that Pacific was nowhere to be seen.
The trip was as uneventful as any run-of-the-mill seagull-taxi ride to Montreal. Upon their arrival around noontime the two passengers paid the driver and got off his back. Without delay, they hailed a rhinoceros and drove over to the headquarters of General Orgie de la Fesse, Commander-in-Chief of the Canadian campaign against the United States.
The Marquis de la Fesse snapped angrily at the boy standing dutifully in front of him. “Orgie, what is the meaning of this?”
“Why, monsieur,” said the boy bewilderedly, obviously at a total loss for the reason behind the marquis’s anger, “are we not on a peasant hunt?” He held out the three scruffy farmers by the scruffs of their necks, as if to focus the nobleman’s attention to what the boy considered to be a superb catch.
“Has the blow to my left testicle resulted in brain damage on your part?” shouted the marquis. “We’re hunting pheasants, not peasants!”
“I understand, monsieur,” said the boy, and released the farmers, who immediately went back to their rather medieval sixteenth-century combines and tractors.
“Do you now?” questioned the marquis, eying the boy so hard his left eye popped out of its socket and into his pocket.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied the boy in a wavering voice evidencing his shattered confidence.
“Off you go then, boy,” dismissed the marquis, and got back on his primitive sixteenth-century horse. The boy mounted his own steed and dashed through the woods, vowing to please the marquis this time. After eighteen minutes of harsh riding he left the high way for the low way, and soon arrived at the province’s primeval shopping mall. Leaving his horse in the parking lot, the boy stepped inside the mall’s cool interior and sounded a small trumpet he carried with him at all times.
The hunt had begun.
For an entire day young Orgie de la Fesse strolled within the bowels of the mall, facing the perils of seasonal sales, the dangers of zealous merchants, the constant temptation of two-for-the-price-of-one, and even, at one point, the cruel chastisement of an expired credit card. But the boy defied all risk, persevering like a true hunter.
And success was his reward. (A bargain he’d hunted down at Joe’s Cent & Penny: Buy Success — Get Reward For Free.)
At the end of the day, he stepped wearily out into the parking lot, warily carrying the game he’d hunted down. Orgie mounted his horse and rode back to the château, where the marquis was waiting in the main hall.
“Well, boy?” asked the nobleman coolly from his seat at the head of a wide table, surrounded by his usual entourage of lawyers. “Has your hunt been successful?”
“It has, monsieur,” replied Orgie with unconcealed pride, handing the precious game in his hands to the marquis. The man accepted the gift without batting an eye; nor did he bat an eyelash or an eyelid. He tore the wrapping paper forcefully, finding inside a game of monopoly, complete with woods, castles, vassals, horses, and funny money.
The marquis threw the game aside. “What’s this?” he asked snappily.
“A present,” replied the boy, his erstwhile smile beginning to fade.
“You were out hunting for presents?” questioned the marquis disbelievingly.
“Yes, monsieur,” answered the boy, his smile but a memory of a memory by now.
The marquis stood up, and — utterly ignoring the advice of his lawyers — shouted, “Orgie de la Fesse! Nothing, I repeat, nothing good will ever come of you!”
“Nothing good will ever come of you!”
“Nothing good will ever come of you!”
“Nothing good will ever come of you!”
General de le Fesse awoke with a start, the voice of his sixteenth-century French ancestor still ringing in his head like a dead pheasant. The Dream was wont to pay him a visit about once a month ever since his childhood days.
“Bye,” said the general. “Until next time.”
“Bye-bye,” said The Dream, unsuccessfully trying to stifle a yawn.
The general had now become aware of a buzz in the air, which he considered to be the most likely culprit for his rude awakening.
“Go away,” he barked heatedly, but the buzz refused to budge.
“Pshaw,” groaned the general and answered the intercom. “Yes?”
“There are two gentlemen here who wish to see you,” came his secretary’s voice.
“Do they have names?” asked de la Fesse irately.
“Do you have names?” he heard the secretary’s voice through the machine, followed by a couple of murmurs he could not make out.
The secretary’s voice came online again. “They say they do.”
“Might you be so kind as to obtain said names?” asked the general through clenched teeth.
The reply came over the line a moment later. “Victor and Young Man Coronet.”
“I know neither Victor nor Coronet,” said the general resolutely. “Give them each a piece of Fesse Bubble Gum and send them away.” The intercom clicked into silence, only to buzz again a moment later.
“What? What?” shouted de la Fesse.
“They say you might wish to reconsider,” came the secretary’s reply.
“And why might I wish to do that?”
“Because we know Mac’s deal is a dud,” answered an unknown voice, “and we believe we can make you a better offer at a bargain price.”
At the mention of “offer” and “bargain” the general’s ancestral hunting instinct jumped on top of the intercom and shouted, “Send them in.”
A moment or two later, the mailperson walked into de la Fesse’s office and handed him the envelope sent by his secretary. The general tore it open with his service knife, and out jumped two men, one of whom was rubbing his left buttock and muttering, “Ouch.”
“Sorry,” apologized the general, and replaced the knife back on its edge.
“My name is Victor,” opened the undamaged fellow, “and the gentleman rubbing his left buttock and muttering ‘ouch’ is Young Man Coronet.”
Two handshakes and three milk shakes later they were all seated comfortably: the general on his favorite hobbyhorse, Victor in the carriage, and Coronet on his head, thus granting his behind some time to recuperate.
“Now tell me,” commanded the general as he rocked, “how did you learn the arms deal I negotiated with Mac is a washout?”
Instead of an answer, Victor said, “The moves looked okay, but then things turned bad toward the middle game, did they not?”
“How do you know that?” asked the general anxiously.
“A Victor knows things,” replied Victor intelligibly.
“I understand,” the general demonstrated his famed capacity for understanding, and went on to display his renowned faculty for repeating. “You said you had a better offer at a bargain price. So — what’s the offer?”
“First,” began Coronet head-on, “let’s talk about the price.”
“Everything has a price,” declared de la Fesse ceremoniously, “and everyone must pay the price.”
A satisfied smile appeared on Coronet’s visage. “That was an outstanding talk. You are to be commended, General.”
De la Fesse smiled, and took a small wallet containing assorted coins out of his right pocket. He removed the coins and handed the wallet to Coronet. “Will this be enough?”
“Quite!” proclaimed Victor, fondling the wallet lovingly.
The general was pleased. “Good, that’s settled. Now, what’s the offer?”
Victor rubbed his chin pensively, and said, “General, we do not presently possess an offer.”
“But you just said you did!” cried de la Fesse.
“No,” replied Victor calmly, “I said, quote, we believe we can make you a better offer at a bargain price, unquote.”
The general was now rocking furiously on his hobbyhorse. “Now look here — I paid the price and I want the deal!”
Unfazed, Coronet said, “And as I’d said, we have every reason to believe we can make you a good offer. Now, here’s what we’ll need.” He handed the general a list, which the general promptly gave his secretary, who went to the nearest French delicatessen, returning an hour later with the necessary ingredients the two gentlemen had required for the making of a good offer.
“This is superb,” remarked Coronet after a while, once he and Victor had finished the first course and were starting on the entrée.
“Scrumptious,” agreed his associate, taking a sip of the fine red wine that accompanied their feast.
De la Fesse was sulking on his hobbyhorse. “Are you making the offer?” he’d ask every five minutes, to which Victor would answer, “Patience, General, patience. A fine offer needs to simmer properly.”
An hour later, after the customary pousse-café had been consumed, Victor turned to the general, who by now had assumed a shade of red unknown to medical science, and declared, “The offer is ready.”
Jumping in the saddle, de la Fesse cried, “What is it? What is it?”
“As promised, it’s a much better deal than the one you got from Mac,” said Coronet evenly. “Of that I assure you.”
“What? What?” The general was ready to burst.
Calmly, Victor replied, “We offer a peace deal.”
For a long minute de la Fesse’s gaze shifted back and forth between Victor and Coronet uncomprehendingly. Finally, he made a failed attempt at speech — consisting of “A pea … A pea …” — and fell off his rocker.
Curtains.
