Worship this World of Watercolor Mood

The solitude of the barren landscape gave me time to reflect. I thought back to my childhood. How I had cursed my parents for giving me the genes for incredible good looks, the marvelous ability to get along with people and of course, humility.

They had insisted I watch Sesame Street reruns from the post Korean War era. I was particularly traumatized by one episode – a retelling of the John Frankenheimer's Manchurian Candidate. In this case the Sesame Street version was directed by Sam Peckinpah. Big Bird portrayed Sgt Raymond Shaw, the insufferable “hero” who has in reality been brainwashed to become the perfect assassin. Shaw’s mother, Murder She Hopes, was portrayed by Gina, the long time human character while Capt Marco was cooly brought to life by Snufflelupagus. It was hard watching Capt Snufflelupagus slap Big Bird around in a desperate attempt to convince him Gina was a communist agent bent on turning control of Sesame Street over to the nefarious Dr. Yen Lo, cruelly acted by Elmo. Plus, Big Bird, simpleton that he was, could never get the hang of “solitare.” Then, repeated over and over was the nightmare scene where Big Bird shoots Mr. Hooper through the head during what he thinks is a meeting of the old ladies at a garden show.

These painful memories were not unlike the suffering Prometheus endured at the beak of the vulture daily tearing his liver from his side.

Something had to put an end to this nightmare – caught between Penna’s lies and Turnip’s delusions. All I could hope for would be a deus ex machina-like love interest to appear – one whose wealthy, powerful and hopefully pretty much human looking parent could save my skin, offer up some opportunities to woo his daughter and provide goblets of space-wine (or whatever they served on this planet) until The Admiral Rossaroni could get me out of here.

Then I would have my revenge on The Creature.

Commanding That Corkscrew Comet Jet

87 minutes. That’s how long I had to find him and bring him back. That’s how long the black hole would last before it became unstable and collapsed into itself. At least I hope it would do that. Let some other universe deal with the cataclysmic discharge of null energy. Not my problem. Unless the random universe chosen for this discharge happens to be the one I’m in. I’m thinking that would destroy the solar system. Best not to think about that, got to be positive, got to focus on finding Woody.


I emerged from trans-dimensional space and collapsed on a rocky desert plateau, disturbingly familiar to the rocky desert scene you see in every Star Trek episode. Even had that slanty rock formation. Now, I don’t know what you’ve been told about traveling through trans-dimensional space, but let me tell you, it’s in no way similar. To anything. Anything at all.

As you re-enter reality, your body needs a few seconds to become reacquainted to not being a spaghetti-fied stream of high energy particles traveling beyond time-space. So I think I’m going to pass out for a few minutes. Hopefully, for less than 87 minutes.

…21 minutes left. I was out for way too long. Woody better be nearby. Let me open the scanner. Whew! That’s a piece of luck, he’s less than a kilometer away. That’s an improvement from the specs of Penna’s machine that the Marquis gave his life to get me. Poor De'BocK, cut down before his prime. So young… so pretty.

But back to the task at hand. That must be him, over there near that cliff. His naked, emaciated frame is unmistakable now. He seems to be surrounded by a bunch of crudely put together stick figures. And it looks like he’s putting on some sort of performance with them. The trans-dimensional gate is beginning to decompose now, and is creating a very severe windstorm, so it’s hard to hear what Woody is saying. But it seems like gibberish to me. I was afraid he might be mad.

“Capt Marco was cooly brought to life by Snufflelupagus… Big Bird, simpleton that he was, could never get the hang of solitare… when Rossaroni arrived, I’d recount the thrilling rescue of this erstwhile slave girl and how I fought off a squadron of meta-daemons riding beaked slerm.” Oh dear, it’s worse than I thought. This just isn’t your regular “I’m insane” gibberish, it’s some sort of super-insanity. Unless…
Hmm, there appears to be some sort of rhythm and repetition in what he’s saying. Could Woody, somewhere deep inside his ravaged mind, be trying to tell me something? Oh damn! I should have been recording this, where’s the record button on this damn scanner? I wanted to get the Apple version as it’s much more intuitive, but the Marquis De'BocK convinced me to get the PC compatible one. Well, BocK's dead now- well mostly dead - so I can do whatever… oh, there it is. “Record.” But you need about three extra clicks to get there.

13 minutes. I easily pick Woody up and make my way back to the rift, which seems to be thoroughly enjoying ripping the surrounding countryside to pieces. We dodge a few flying boulders, jump a chasm, and then… blackness.