The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil (2 page)

Suddenly Phil didn’t seem like quite so much of a nobody to the other Outer Hornerites. What kind of nobody was so vehement, and used so many confusing phrases with so much certainty, and was so completely accurate about how wonderful and generous and underappreciated they were?

“Boy oh boy,” said Freeda.

“He just comes right out and says it,” said Melvin.

“Thank goodness someone finally has,” said Larry.

“As for you Inner Hornerites!” bellowed Phil. “Please take heed: You are hereby testing the limits of our legendary generosity, because of how you are, which is so very the opposite of us. Friends, take a look at these losers! If they are as good as us, why do they look so much worse than us? Look how they look! Do they look valorous and noble and huge like us, or do they look sad and weak and puny?”

The truth was, long years of timidly standing very close together in the Short-Term Residency Zone whispering complicated mathematical proofs to pass the time had made the Inner Hornerites frail and small, whereas the Outer Hornerites, with an entire huge country to roam around in, were stocky and hearty, and knew absolutely no mathematical proofs.

“Pretty darn puny,” said Melvin.

“I never really noticed that before,” said Leon the Border Guard.

“Collect the taxes!” shouted Phil, and Freeda reached over the border and seized the Inner Horner cash box.

Larry and Melvin rushed into the ditch, retrieved Phil’s brain, and remounted it on his big sliding rack.

“Thank you, my friends,” said Phil, his voice suddenly less stentorian. “What wonderful examples of our famous Outer Horner generosity.”

Larry gave Melvin a proud secret look, and Melvin gave Larry a proud secret look, and Freeda, counting the contents of the cash box to verify that there were in fact four smolokas inside, felt a little sad that Phil had not cited her as a wonderful example of that famous

Outer Horner generosity, and resolved that, next time Phil’s brain slid off his rack, she would be the one to remount it.

Next morning, Phil and the Outer Horner Militia (Freeda, Melvin, and Larry) arrived at the border before dawn and stood watching the Inner Hornerites sleep while standing up.

“Snooze, snooze, snooze,” said Phil. “Sort of lazy, aren’t they?”

“Whereas us,” said Larry, “we’re up before dawn, diligently working.”

“That’s right Larry,” said Phil. “Good observation.”

“Doing our diligent work of collecting taxes,” said Melvin.

“Super, Melvin,” said Phil. “We really are a diligent people.”

“Diligently collecting taxes to protect the security of our nation,” said Freeda.

“You know what?” said Phil. “After spending some time with you folks, I am tempted, in terms of our most important National Virtue, to replace ‘Generosity’ with ‘Remarkable Intelligence.’ ” 

Larry, Melvin, and Freeda beamed.

“Now what do you say we collect some taxes?” Phil said, and nudged Leon, who, with his Border Guard pole, gave Wanda, the nearest Inner Hornerite, a hard poke in her thermal venting apparatus.

The Inner Hornerites woke and, as on every other morning, briefly considered stretching, then remembered that, if they all stretched at once, someone would get knocked out of the Short-Term Residency Zone and would technically be invading Outer Horner.

So they began stretching, one at a time, by age, oldest first.

“Tax time, slackers,” said Phil. “Stop that stupid stretching and listen up. You’re late with your dang taxes.”

“But we don’t have any money,” said Elmer. “You know we don’t. You took it all yesterday.”

“Oh, you people,” said Phil. “What did you have in mind? Living in our beloved country for free forever? Do you know what we do? In our country? We work. We believe that time is money. Therefore, as time passes, in our land, we diligently work, which produces, guess what? Wealth. Money. Smolokas! You people! Knowing you owed us money, what did you do? You slept all night like babies! Dreaming, probably, of further taking us to the cleaners! So here you are, smolokaless, again owing your daily taxes. What else do you have? Larry, inventory their resources.”

Larry looked at Phil blankly.

“Count their stuff,” said Phil.

“Oh,” said Larry, and inventoried the resources of the nation of Inner Horner, by examining the length and breadth of Inner Horner and carefully recording the results of his inventory on a piece of paper, which he then handed to Phil.

“Okay, let’s see,” said Phil. “Apple tree, very small: one. Stream, nearly dry: one. Dry cracked dirt: approximately three cubic feet. Excellent, Larry, an excellent inventory. Now, let’s assess the total value of their national resources. Freeda, what do you say? Do you say four? Do you say all that junk is worth exactly four smolokas?”

Overnight, Freeda, a lonely bushlike widow, had developed a bit of a crush on authoritative, gleaming, shouting Phil, and nodded her head yes with a rapt look on her face, without even looking at the tree, the stream, or the dirt.

“Excellent job, Freeda,” said Phil. “A really nice assessment. Leon: Uproot that tree and drain that stream and dig up that dirt and let’s bring it all back home, to Outer Horner.”

Leon stepped over the border and uprooted the apple tree and drained the stream into his see-through stomach. Then, using his spadelike tail, he dug up the dirt and added it to the stream in his stomach, making a pale red mud.

“But what will we eat?” said Carol. “What will we drink? What do you expect us to do when it’s our turn to live in our country, stand in that hole?”

LEON DRAINED THE STREAM INTO HIS 
SEE-THROUGH STOMACH.

“That’s not really my problem,” said Phil. “My problem is, where am I going to store this junky tree and this boring little stream and this laughable dirt? Any suggestions?”

“How about West Distant Outer Horner?” said Larry. “It’s pretty empty out there.”

“Super input, Larry,” said Phil. “Leon, would you do the honors?”

Carrying the tree over his shoulder and the streamwater-dirt mix in his stomach, Leon walked out to West Distant Outer Horner, a bleak area of recurring icy crevasses, and dropped the former national resources of Inner Horner into the deepest, iciest crevasse he could find.

That night in the Short-Term Residency Zone the Inner Hornerites held a whispered frantic national referendum. Years of standing with their limbs intermingled had made the Inner Hornerites extremely considerate of one another’s feelings, so much so that even the simplest decision, such as whether to declare it National Bedtime, sometimes took hours.

“So how should we start?” said Elmer. “How should we proceed? What’s our primary issue here?”

“Wait a minute, Elmer,” said Wanda. “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of things? Don’t you think we should first determine if determining our primary issue is indeed our highest priority?”

“Which I suppose raises the question of whether determining our highest priority really is in fact our initial goal,” said Old Gus, the oldest Inner Hornerite, who was so old and tired he was shaped something like the letter C, if the letter C was bald and had two gray withered antlers.

“I think the primary issue is, we don’t have any food,” said Carol.

“I agree with Carol,” said Cal, who, after ten years of marriage, was still nuts about Carol.

“Although the lack of water isn’t so great either,” said Curtis.

“Of course we also have no dirt,” said Elmer.

“Well, the lack of dirt I think is not so primary,” said Curtis.

“I beg to differ,” said Elmer. “I think the lack of dirt is very primary. I mean, look at our country.”

And everyone looked at Inner Horner, which now looked something like an open grave.

“To be frank, I’m feeling a little left out of this discussion,” said Old Gus. “My concern about whether determining our highest priority was indeed our initial goal appears to have been dismissed out of hand.”

Just then Inner Horner was hit with a blinding light from somewhere up high.

“Phil’s orders, folks,” said Leon the Border Guard, standing behind a spotlight he had just installed on top of his Guard Shack. “He wants me to keep a better eye on you people, because you’re so sneaky, which he feels will be easier if it’s not so dark at night.”

“Gosh, that’s bright,” said Wanda.

“Leon, if we’re so sneaky, how come you’re always playing checkers with us?” said Cal.

“I’m not,” said Leon. “I’ve discontinued that.”

“Maybe we should draft a petition of protest,” said Wanda. “After first discussing the idea among ourselves, of course.”

“Maybe we should hold a straw poll to assess the level of support for the idea of drafting a petition of protest,” said Cal.

“I say enough talking,” said Curtis. “I say it’s time we
did
something.”

“Maybe we should go on a hunger strike,” said Old Gus.

“Excuse me, Gus,” said Carol. “Not to dismiss your idea? But aren’t we sort of already on a hunger strike? Because no food? Remember, they took our apple tree? So I’m not sure how effective a hunger strike would be. I mean, they might not even notice we were on one.”

“They’ve essentially put us on one,” said Cal.

“I have an idea,” said Little Andy.

Even though Little Andy was the youngest Inner Hornerite, he had an acute probing intelligence that the Inner Hornerites all respected, an intelligence probably related to the fact that he had two distinct functional brains, one on the side of his neck and the other on his hip, with a shiny yellow Decider located midway between them.

“Go ahead, son,” said Cal.

“Why don’t we write a letter to their President?” Little Andy said.

“Ha ha!” said Curtis. “That is so cute.”

“That is cute,” said Wanda. “But also it’s not bad.”

Actually it was good. The President of Outer Horner was an affable old man with five white mustaches and seven ample bellies, who many years before, while a student, had spent a semester abroad in Inner Horner, or at least part of him had, and so the conventional wisdom was that he had a soft spot for Inner Horner and Inner Hornerites.

So the Inner Hornerites, with virtually no debate or discussion, blinking in the blinding light, wrote a letter to the President of Outer Horner.

Dear Mr. President
, the letter read.
We respectfully request that you bring your honorable several mustaches and historically righteous bellies to the border so we can discuss some taxes that have recently been levied against us by some guy named Phil who, to our knowledge, has nothing to do with your government, or at least we hope not.

“This will work,” said Elmer. “I feel confident this will work.”

“The President won’t stand for this,” said Carol.

Wanda tiptoed out of the Short-Term Residency Zone, into Outer Horner, past the now-sleeping Leon, and slipped the letter into a mailbox outside the Outer Horner Cafe.

Then, ignoring the other Inner Hornerites, who were frantically gesturing for her to hurry home, she stood a few minutes in Outer Horner, extending her tendrils and breathing deep and walking around in wide leisurely circles.

Next afternoon, amid a tremendous fanfare of trumpets and crashing cymbals, the President of Outer Horner arrived at the Border Area, on a lavish Presidential Board carried by a team of sweating, panting Advisors. The President was a small but impressive man consisting of a jumble of bellies, white mustaches, military medals, and dignified double chins, all borne magnificently aloft on three thin wobbly legs.

“Ah, the memories,” he said, gazing down into Inner Horner. “Ah, the days of my Youth. It looks quite different than I remember it, of course. Because I was looking at it through the eyes of Youth back then, whereas now I am looking at it through the eyes of Old Age. Have I said that? Lately I’m always repeating myself. It looks quite different than I remember it, of course. I remember apple trees and rushing streams. But of course I was a young buck then, in love with life, with fewer chins and bigger dreams, whereas now I’m an old fossil with my best years behind me, and several additional chins before me, and as for dreams, my only dream is to lose a few of these chins. Ha ha! One must keep one’s sense of humor, yes? One must keep one’s chins up! Ha ha! Strange how one’s memory plays tricks though! I clearly remember apple trees and a rushing stream. And a girl named Mona. Have I said that? Have I already asked if I’ve already said that, that thing about Mona? I seem to remember sitting wit Mona under an apple tree, beside a rushing stream, under a lush full moon, and also some fond whispered words? Where is Mona? Was there ever a Mona, or did I make that up?”