Forced Family Fun

Here is an excerpt from Chapter Seven of the Chimera Crusade. Walt is flying in the cockpit of the Zumee on a search for the king's ring, which he is trying to steal and deliver to the Head, who is the king's enemy.

“I guess we head to the Academy next, then.” Walt said.

A noise came from Zumee that almost sounded like a muffled snicker followed by more machine noises and then stated, “Plotting a course for the Academy. It is not far from Labyrinthia. We will be there shortly.”

The Zumee had just emerged high out over the fog covering Labyrinthia and now changed course toward the Academy, which was located in the sunlit desert on the horizon, small but visible already.

In the Governor’s mansion, two figures sat in dim amber light. One figure in a grey robe sat at a table stacked with dusty grey and black machines, connected with wires and cables. The other was a boy silhouetted in shadow, busily working controls on the face of a tall black obelisk.

A muffled, unpleasant chuckle emitted from under Skrudge’s hood, “Heh, heh, heh.”

Skrudge sat in front of an old tabletop microphone, the style used by radio announcers in the 1940s, and pressed a button with his yellow forefinger on the black and ivory bakelite intercom that also sat on the same desk. A grinding buzz followed.

Through the papery, distorted speaker the deep voice of the Head replied, “Good news, I hope?”

“Good and bad, your Eminence.” Skrudge hissed.

“What is bad?” The Head asked with gritted teeth.

“The Shadow man did not find the ring.”

“Blast his stupid jelly brained, weak willed snot face!” The Head howled.

“Yes, your Eminence.” Skrudge replied, drawing out the ‘s’ sounds.

“Then, what is good!” The Head demanded.

“I have directed the shadow-man to the Academy where my brothers will direct him toward the next stage of our mission.” He chuckled slowly.

“But what of the RING? We must have the ring!” The Head demanded.

“Agreed, your Emminence. We have eyes in many dark corners. We will find it.”

“Be sure that you do.” The Head demanded. “The spread of our rebellion depends upon it.” The Head clicked off the intercom in the middle of Skrudge’s reply, “Yes, your Em….”

Skrudge twisted a knob to “FWD” on a large reel to reel tape deck that began playing machine noises, beeps and whirling, and then clicked on the microphone, announcing, “Captain, prepare for landing. Zumee is arriving at the Academy.” The microphone altered Skrudge’s voice from wheezing and hissing to sounding clear, flat and mechanical. The wheezing and hissing came across as radio static.

Zummee landed with a mild lurch on the desolate dry ground outside of the “Madministration Building”.

Walt noticed the name from the cockpit and laughed aloud commenting, “Ha! They misspelled administration!”

Zumee replied with annoyance. “Not so. Look more closely. It is ‘Mad-Ministration’. The full title of the Academy is the Bureau of Mad-Ministration”.

Walt leaned forward and squinted, “Yeah, I guess there is a small hyphen in there.” Then half to himself but still loud enough to be heard by Zumee, “What kind of a bureau is that?”

“Quite the ideal one for our … your purposes, Captain.” Zumee responded tersely. “Zumee anticipates you will find your encounter with the headmaster most enlightening. En route, Zumee signaled your arrival along with an introduction and certification of your credentials and the authority conveyed to you by his Eminence, the Governor. They are expecting you. Zumee out.”

Before Walt could reply, the engine and controls powered down and the hatch popped open. “Here’s your hat. What’s your hurry?” Walt grumbled.

Skrudge turned to the silhouetted boy and said, “You may take a short break. Go watch some orb if you like.”

The silhouette shuddered as if not knowing what to decide. “I want to play more!” He announced.

“Not now. The game is over.” Skrudge gnashed his teeth. “Go watch some orb and I’ll send a rat for you when it is time to play again. Now, go.”

The boy disappeared down the hall toward his room, while Skrudge returned to his machinery, turning the radio dial and pressing the mic, he called out, “Skrudge to Mad-Min, Skrudge to Mad-Min. Do you read me, Mad-Min?”

Walt walked up the steps of the Mad-Ministration building. The sun was blistering hot on his flight suit and he was already sweating after just leaving the Zumee. He entered the building to find himself in a high ceilinged, dingy, hot and stuffy waiting room with a single unadorned black ceiling fan, hanging from a long pole. The fan turned so slowly that it was irritating to watch, as it were proclaiming, “You could feel a refreshing breeze, but I’m only going to spin enough to show you what I won’t do for you.” The waiting room had rows of sturdy oak chairs with armrests. The black vinyl covered back and seat cushions were very worn and deeply compressed, indicating that all of the cushioning capability wore out years ago.

The room itself had badly worn oak floors with matching oak chair rail all around the lower walls and cracked and stained plaster above them, rising to the tin-printed ceiling tiles between heavy rafters. Above the chair rail, at the front of the waiting room, there were dirty narrow long windows that permitted a sickening light to fill the room. Off to the right, flanking a hallway that led to the interior of the building, was a wood framed cubicle with yellowed glass and a hole in the center through which one could speak with the receptionist. Behind the glass sat a sleepy-eyed, heavy, yellow-green person at the reception desk. She had blueish-grey hair so perfectly curled that Walt wondered if the curlers were still in her hair. A stub of a cigarette hung, stuck onto her blood-red lipstick. Her arms were crossed over her chest moving up and down slowly with her sleep-like pace of breathing. Walt wondered if she were one of those people who slept with their eyes partly opened. She displayed no hint that she saw him.

Standing in front of the hole, Walt observed a large ashtray piled and overflowing with cigarette butts. Several cups of coffee with mold growing on them surrounded the receptionist. Walt felt a hint of gag reflex and cleared his throat, “I’m Doctor, er… Captain McCay. I believe I am expected.” Before he could finish, the receptionist cocked open her right eye and lifted her left forefinger from her crossed wrists, pointing toward the open hallway. Her eyelid then drifted back into place. Walt was so repulsed that he stopped himself from even giving a “thank you” from habit. As he turned toward the hallway, he heard a sudden snort followed by a long round of snoring volume out of the reception window.

Walt walked down the hallway looking for signs on doors to find the headmaster’s office. He did not go far when he spotted a tarnished brass sign that said “Headmaster Moant”. Walt knocked on the door.

“Enter.” A deep rough voice spoke. Walt entered a dimly lit office with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Behind a large oak desk sat a stocky man in a stark white dress shirt that appeared to have a strangle hold on his thick neck. The collar of his shirt was high and stiff with a striped bow tie and suspenders. The headmaster’s face was round and red with a dimpled chin and jaws like a moray eel, and small black eyes to match. He had close-cropped, flat-topped drill sergeant style gray blonde hair, and his ears and nose were puffy like an old boxer who did not retire soon enough. He looked nothing like what Walt expected.

These impressions gathered in Walt’s mind in a second, not perceptively delaying his practiced introduction, “I am Captain McCay. I believe you were expecting me.” He started to reach out his hand but the headmaster never moved from his desk.

“Sit.” The headmaster commanded. Walt sat. He even sounded like a drill sergeant.

The headmaster picked up a cigar from a dark red glass ash tray the size of a salad plate. He re-lit it and puffed while considering Walt through a cloud of smoke. The silence and beady-eyed examination made Walt shift nervously in the leather chair.

“Yeah. I was expecting you alright.” The headmaster broke the silence with a gravelly voice.

When Sonny and Haley were children, photography was done with film cameras and film, of course. In those days, people were careful not to take lots of random photos because the roll of film only held 24 - 36 images and you had to pay and wait for the photos to be developed. Only after they were developed and you opened the package of photos, would you discover whether or not you had any photos worth saving or framing. Now in the days of digital cameras, we can take and save 100s of photos without any trouble, delay or expense. The digital photo of the prairie grass was a "throw away" shot that surprised me by how well it turned out, straight of the camera. Especially since it was so dark when I took it. I never would have wasted the film for that shot in the old days.

However, these photos of Sonny and Haley when they were little, were taken with an OM-1 film camera. These are some of my all time favorite photographs. I love them mostly because of who's in them, but I also think they are great captures. Sadly, I know I'd have many many more, if I would have had a digital camera back then.