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    Fonzie, of course, liked the sound of that; it appealed to the Magickal Hot Shot Within him. So he agreed to a series of meetings, mostly on Earth: his frequent business trips, which he would never discuss with me. Not only did they make him a stunning, multi-million dollar offer, but they flled him in on Earth's big plans for its little inter-dimensional neighbor.

    As Ralph had alluded to previously, arrangements had been made by the Powers-That-Be to turn all of Oz—whether we liked i
t
or not—into one big Disney-style theme park for tourists. It would b
e called "Oz Land"™; and it would be just like the real Oz, only sanitized for our protection. All the scary parts tamed. All the wildness removed. All the rough edges buffed down to a shimmery plastic sheen. Live shows would be staged daily, with Dorothy, Scarecrow, the Tinman, and the Cowardly Lion performing heartwarming songand-dance numbers. The Lollipop Guild would conduct all tours.

    Oh, yeah. Plus, we'd be converting over to American dollars. And charging for everything.

    A few other details needed to be worked out. For instance, the capricious and discriminatory nature of access through the Gate. It was important than everyone be allowed to enter the magical thrill ride that was "Oz Land"™, no matter how undeserving. The more tourists, the better. After all, they were our new bread and butter. (Or bread and water, which was more to the point.)

    The Powers-That-Be were certain that Ozma and Glinda would see the value of this, and be eager to oblige. In the event of the slightest resistance, however, the U.S. military was happy to help out, to the extent that it could squeeze arms and personnel through the Gate, then count on them to function as planned. Because they couldn't just march the combined armed forces in and nuke our asses into submission, they were forced to rely on more subtle methodology. Hence Bennie. Then Bhjennigh. Then the big black cloud. And where did Fonzie come into all this?

    In order to promote tourism, and cash in on the home front, the good people of Meaty Meat Corp.—whose lucrative "Captain Meatballs"™ franchise had made the $7.99 Bucket 'O Meatballs an American family tradition—wanted to start a new Oz-style concern; and, to their minds, the "Emerald Burrito"™ chain was made to order. It had a catchy name, a fagship restaurant already established in Oz, and a cuisine close enough to Taco Bell's to entice Earth's fast food demographics.

    So, basically, Fonzie was offered the chance to be the Colonel Sanders of Oz, with franchises from Portland to Pensicola, Hong Kong to Helsinki, Barcelona to Bejing. Munchkins would be imported to work behind the counter (all "little people" would be referred to as "munchkins"). They had it all fgured out. It would be a global smash. Not to mention being the #1 restaurant in Oz, with the possible exception of those new Golden Arches.

    And, if I played my cards right, I might even get a piece.

    But there were complications, mostly regarding our choices in meat. Beef was immensely popular on Earth, as were chicken, pork, turkey, and seafood. Since no one in the tourist class had any prior goomer experience, it was reasonable to expect that there would be complaints. But what if they DEMAND a chicken taco? was a question often asked.

    To that end, cross-dimensional "foodstuff exchanges" were secretely conducted. Chickens, cows, pigs and so forth were kidnapped from Oz and brought over to Earth. The ones that actually made it were examined for intelligence, difference in texture and consistency, etc.

    To their Earthly chagrin, all the hostages they took reverted to simply being poultry and cattle. The smartest chicken in Oz became a regular chicken. The spiritual leader of the cows—long revered for her wisdom—became just another blank-eyed sow. And when they were butchered, cooked up, and eaten, there was no magical favor enhancement. They were just the same old nuggets and burgers.

    The same thing happened with all magickal objects, slipped back through the Gate by the Powers-That-Be. A broom that grew legs and walked around in Oz became a broom that just laid there until you picked it up.

    Conversely, livestock imported from Earth seemed to perk right up when it landed in Oz. Lobsters demanded to know where they were. Pigs started spouting philosophy. This led the Powers-ThatBe, in their wisdom, to one of their most remarkable, mind-boggling initiatives: the total illegalization of the Language Bush. You see, it was decided that conversations with the pay end of the food chain would only make people uncomfortable; therefore, only creatures that could be trained to speak English would be allowed to interact with the tourist trade. (You know. "Munchkins." Stuff like that.)

     Meanwhile, a couple small herds of goomer had been smuggled stateside. Unaware of my magick goomer recipes—which, in all fairness, I hadn't come up with yet—they were gonna try to spread the great taste of goomer from sea to shining sea. Fonzie wasn't sure, for sure, how that had all worked out; but he never heard anything, so he assumed they weren't overly thrilled.

    I listened to this for a very long time, without losing my temper or saying a word; then, with admirable calm and restraint, I began to choke him. As soon as his little eyes bugged out and his face turned red, I stopped; but I just couldn't help it, I was so pissed off.

    "Okay," I said. "God damn you, Fonzie. I understand why I want to kill you. What I don't understand is why they wanted to kill you."

    "Oh, Aurora," he implored to me. "Don't you get it? I told them no! I told them to sit on a fucking tack! I was curious, sure; I wanted to see what they had. But they were pendejos, total pieces of shit."

    "And it took you how many months to fgure that out?" I asked him, staring deep into his eyes.

    "Okay, alright. I was tempted, sure. You shoulda seen the ads they had. Big pictures of me, with this really sharp suit..." He looked wistful. I wanted to slap him. "But the day they...got me, I gotta tell ya, was one of the best days of my life. At least up to that point. Because you know what I did? I listened to everything they had to say, and I waited till the cash was right on the table, everything ready to sign, and then I told them to kiss my ass. Not because I didn't appreciate the offer, but because I knew it was never gonna work. Ozma would fuck them up, they didn't even know how bad.

    "And I told them she'd laugh when I told her what was up. Which I was going home to do, right now. Then I got up, thanked them for their time, and drove straight back to the Salinas Gate.

    "And I gotta tell ya, I was in the best mood! Turning down all

that money? You don't know how cool that was!

    "Because it totally didn't matter, you get it? I had everything I needed. Everything I needed was back in Oz..."

    At this point, he started to cry, and my heart went out to him. Poor baby. Next thing he knew, he was a skull with a stump, rotting away in the Hollow Man's dungeon.

    "I'm proud of you," I told him, kissing his head, squeezing his tiny body tight. This made him feel better; so much so, in fact, that he popped the cutest little baby boner. But when he went for the nipple, I fipped him over and spanked him.

    Not surprisingly, he didn't like that much. It made him cry again.

All of which leaves me here, at Gene's computer, more determined than ever to see this story told. If all goes well, it'll yank the pants off of everyone involved—Meaty Meat, the U.S. government, the CIA, etc.—and expose their sinister fabby asses to the clear light of truth, for all to see. Nothing would make me happier, except maybe Mikio, who wants me to go dance with him now.

    So, in conclusion, I leave you with these words:

    I know that Ozma is pretty much closing the Gates, cutting off ties with Earth altogether. It makes a lot of sense to me, but it also makes me sad. There are so many people, with decent hearts, who would love to experience this kind of magick. And now they won't get to. At least not here.

    But if you are one of those people, I urge you to create as much magick as you can, right where you are. Just know that it's possible. Good deeds beget good will. Good will brings the energy higher. If the people of Earth could come together, with love, and raise that energy level, maybe Ozma would open the Gates again. And maybe then, the magick that fows from Oz could actually work for you there.

    In the meantime, good luck. Question authority. Spank its ass to a rosy red. Don't take any wooden nickles. Have fun. Love each other. I think you know the drill.

    And if you run into Gene, be nice to him. He's a really great guy, and he means no harm.

    P.S.—If by any chance the Gates open again, and you happen to visit, bring more CDs!!! An amazing meal will be waiting for you.

    And if you want, it'll taste just like chicken.

There was more sex, drugs and rock and roll in Oz than I'd ever imagined, and I spent most of the next couple of weeks checking these out, when I wasn't writing of course. Or having a hangover.

    After everything, after the non-stop partying, the post-war euphoria I never thought I'd ever personally experience, after all the strokes, the accolades, after writing down what I'd been through, fnally there was a silence there. Oh, the festivities hadn't shown any sign of letting up any time soon, but I wasn't participating any longer. I stood in the eye of the hurricane, in the still moment where I had to make a move.

    It was time to go.

I was a ball of confusion all the way over to the gate building, feeling like maybe I should reconsider. I took a last look around the wide, green-glowing streets of Emerald. Even rubble-strewn and damaged as it was, the place was starting to look pretty good to me. I fgured they'd probably fx it up like new just as soon as everyone got tired of drinking, feasting, singing, fucking and taking drugs. I was thinking maybe I should be there to help.

    Sure, I had a lot of bad memories. I'd almost been killed about forty times (at least it felt that way), but that seemed like another lifetime ago somewhere. I had started to collect a bunch of good memories, too. Emerald was back to being the righteous fairyland it was supposed to be. Like I'd never seen it.

    The people here were certainly sweet, if spookily cheerful. If I stayed here, nobody would probably try to give me cancer or shoot me, or snuff me in any other baroque manner like the CIA might. I could probably live a pretty nice, quiet life for a few hundred years, who knows? Maybe Dorothy's Uncle Henry could teach me to ranch goomers or something. (Yeah, the old bird was still around!)

    On the other hand, if I continued into the gate building, and took the Ozma Express back to Kansas or wherever I landed, my life was a lot less certain. I could die. Or become obscenely famous for ffteen minutes. Or both. But hell, the place I'd be headed for was my world,
my earth, and did it deserve to be co-opted by the likes of Meaty
Meat Corps and Pace/Horner? That was the big question. Not that I was gonna stop them or anything, but I had at least the capacity to pull their pants down around their ankles in public.

    Speaking of pants around your ankles: it was tough to say goodbye to everyone, but it was extra tough saying goodbye to Ledelei. We both knew that the whole arrangement had been temporary, but when I picked up my pack and headed out her door for the last time— well, we weren't in love, but it still hurt. She gave me a really good kiss and told me that I might see her sooner than I thought, whatever that meant. And then she turned around and closed the door.

    My backpack was cradled in my arms as I ambled down Gilabola Avenue towards Ozma's Gate. It was early morning, and most of the revelers were still in bed. I was still a little bit worried that somebody would try to snatch my laptop. Of course it wasn't as sexy now that its little occupant had taken off for the Burzee Universe, but it worked better than it ever did. I'd been thinking of writing some code to randomly insert nonsense every once in a while. But it wouldn't really have been the same.

    I guess I really kind of missed that little Mickie.

Ralph had assured me that nobody would want my computer now, now that the shit had hit the fan, and most of the shit had been blown back into Uncle Sam's face. But I was still paranoid. I thought about what was on the hard disc, and whether or not it would still be there when I got to the other side. Hell, there was still the unpleasant possibility that I wouldn't get to the other side, no matter how remote that possibility was.

    I was about ninety-nine point nine percent decided to return to Earth, but that little part of me that wanted to stay was still yammer ing away. I stood there for a long time, in the street in front of the giant gingerbread door to the Gate building. There was no way to make a rational decision in a situation like that. So I didn't. I followed the path my heart makes, the one Allallo had told me about.

    There was no line to wait in that morning. I pushed the door open.

    The trip through Ozma's gate was not at all the same as my frst wild ride. For one thing, no ugly, uptight creep checked to see if I was carrying contraband. On the contrary—people kept coming up to me while I waited for the few in front of me to go through to Earth. They kept trying to give me stuff: cookies, bottles of strange alcoholic (and otherwise) concoctions, kisses. But I graciously declined their offers (aside from the kisses). I was carrying enough weight.

    A little mustachioed bald man in overalls fnally escorted me into a tiny room with an overstuff sofa in it. He asked me to sit down. Then he, of course, smiled and left.

    And there I sat. Like I said, it wasn't at all like the frst time. I was reasonably relaxed, for one thing. For another, I was stationary.