Zorgamazoo (12 page)

In a cage to their left were a satyr and faun;
their shoulders were drooped and their faces were drawn.

 

Meanwhile, the mermaids were lockedin a pot
(and to tell you the truth, they weren't looking so hot).
There were phoenixes too,
but their feathers were dim,
their fiery eyes had gone dismal and grim.

 

But surely the worst, the saddest of all,
was a
CREATURE
so broad, so impossibly tall,
that he needed the widest and mightiest cell,
and was fitted with shackles and fetters as well.

 

 

 

He was called the Behemoth,
this thundering brute,
this monstrously massive, enormous galoot.
To see him, perhaps, you'd be stricken with dread,
with only a glance at his elephant's head.

 

But to look at him
here
, in his shackles and chains,
would induce only pity, and sympathy pains.
For in spite of his monstrous, magnificent size,
his trunk was all runny. There were tears in his eyes.

 

It was curious then that Winnie would smile,
as she peered down the cages, at aisle after aisle.
But smiling she was, as she pointed her claw.
“Look! It's my Auntie and Uncle McPaw!”

 

So it was true. The windigo clan,
every windigo woman and windigo man,
were locked into cages and huddled in groups,
like curious chickens in miserable coops.

 

And next to their cages, can you guess who was there?
Creatures with shorter, more whiskery hair. . .
Who were these creatures? I'll bet you know who.
“It's the zorgles,” cried Morty, “from Zorgamazoo!
“They're here!” he resounded. “Our adventure is done!
We're finished, Katrina! We found them! We won!”

 

Katrina was comically rolling her eyes.
“Morty,” she said, “a word to the wise:
You
might
be rejoicing a little too soon,
you might want to think about changing your tune.

 

Just look at the others, they're mostly in tears.
They look like they've been here for hundreds of years!
And what about us? We're not doing too hot.
We've been
kidnapped
, remember? Or have you forgot?
So I hate to sound morbid, or even morose,
but I don't think we're finished—no, not even close!”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Morty frowned, going suddenly glum,
“Well, this is the pits! We should never have come!”

Katrina turned back to the miniature man.
Who was he?
she wondered.
What was his plan?
“Hey, you!” she cried out.
“Do you want some advice?
How 'bout

The man remained mute. He said nothing at all.
It was sort of like talking to bricks in a wall.

 

“You're a lout!” said Katrina. “And a criminal too!
I'd say that you've got some explaining to do!”

 

But the man only stared. He was cold and aloof.
He twisted his gaze to the curve of the roof.

The stranger peered up, looking suddenly meek,
and decided, at last, he was ready to speak.

 

He spoke as if listlessly reading a script.
“Welcome,” he said, “to Moonagerie Crypt.
My name is
Dullbert
Hohummer, the Third,
and you'll be here forever…I give you my word.

 

So there's no going home. You're all here to stay.
Your planet, like mine, is a loooooong ways away.”

 

He said to Katrina. “But, maybe it's true.
I imagine I've got some explaining to do.
In that case, I'll make it abundantly clear,
as to why you were taken, and why you are here.”

 

So that's what he did.
He plunked down on the ground.
He began to explain, to recount and expound…

The story of Dullbert
Hohummer, the Third
is not like the rest of the story you've heard.

Dullbert had come from a faraway place.
In fact, he belonged to an alien race.

He came from a place called Graybalon-Four,
a planet well-known as a bit of a bore.

 

It was smaller in size than even the Earth.
It had nothing of Jupiter's generous girth,
and nothing like Saturn's magnificent rings.
It had none of those wondrously singular things.

 

This was a planet where day after day,
the weather was always the rainiest gray,
and not only the sky, but the sea and the land,
everything gray and stupendously bland.

 

Why, even the people were grayer than gray,
as if all of their color had faded away.

 

They had built up their planet with cities and lanes
traveled by Graylian trolleys and trains,
from Graylian houses to Graylian shops,
while traffic was guided by Graylian cops.

 

Most of them toiled at monotonous jobs,
manufacturing gadgets and thingamabobs.

In the evening, they drove along Graylian roads
to the uniform gray of their boring abodes.

 

And then, climbing into their Graylian beds,
with Graylian reveries filling their heads,
the Graylian people would finish the day,
with dreams that, of course, were entirely gray.

 

(Think of counting the granules of sand on a beach,
or imagine a lengthy political speech.
Just think of the utmost deplorable bore.
That's ten times as thrilling as Graybalon-Four!)

 

But why, you may ask, was it lacking in spice?
Like, wouldn't a
little
excitement be nice?

 

As with much of this story, the answer is found,
by digging a bit, looking
under
the ground…

 

Because under the surface of Graybalon-Four,
there was little to look at, even less to explore.
It wasn't like Earth, full of boulders and stones,
and minerals, metals, and dinosaur bones.

Inside of this planet was hollow and bare,
like a ball that was filled with unusual air.

 

But the air wasn't
air
. It was more of a mist.
It quietly wafted and billowed and hissed.
It would sluggishly swirl. It would languidly teem,
and the name of this vapor was:
Tedium Steam.

It was dreary and almost invisibly pale.
It rolled and it flowed at the pace of a snail.
It curdled and churned in swishes and swarms.
It was
boredom
, you see, in its purest of forms.

Now, before you begin to protest or object,
believe me, good reader, my facts have been checked.

 

It may strike you as weird, and I know how you feel,
but Tedium Steam, I assure you,
is real
.
It's also on Earth. Yes, we've got it too.
No ifs, ands, or buts! What I'm saying is true!
It's produced as a residue, deep in the brain,
in people whose lives are indelibly plain.
You'll find it near braggarts and prattlers and snobs,
or people with overpaid clerical jobs.
It clouds around people with limited views,
and salesmen with products that no one can use.

 

It builds up in such people, 'til over the years,
there's so much of the stuff it leaks out of their ears.
And not only from people, but from places as well.
There's a great many places the vapor can dwell.

 

All around the TV it's especially thick,
which is why a TV can make some people sick.
It can also be found in the emptiest nooks
of bookshelves that no longer have any books.

 

While this Tedium Steam, for whatever it's worth,
is not really noticed, down here, on the Earth,
up on Graybalon-Four, the stuff is like gold!
It was mined from the ground. It was traded and sold.

 

In fact, it was used as an energy source,
to power their trains (and their buses, of course).
All that Tedium Steam, through the night and the day
kept everything moving in every which way.

There were steam-powered toasters
and steam-powered drills.
There were steam-powered factories,
steam-powered mills.
There were steam-powered houses
and steam-powered cars,
and steam-powered everything under the stars!

 

And so, over time, it would certainly seem,
that Graybalon-Four…would run out of Steam.

The politicians, you see, had stiffly decreed:
“There's a ton of the stuff! Even more than we need!
There's more,” they declared, “than at first it appears!
There's enough to last upwards of billions of years!”

 

So all of the people on Graybalon-Four,
built factories, houses and buses galore!
Because everyone thought, without even a doubt,
that their Tedium Steam—it would never run out.

Politicians, however, are commonly wrong,
and the Tedium Steam didn't last very long.

Where once the whole planet had “more than enough,”
there soon was a worrying lack of the stuff.

 

So the Graylians gathered on Parliament Hill.
Some were shaking their fists.
Some were solemn and still.

 

“Prime Minister, sir!” the Graylians cried.
“You said we had tons! But we haven't!
You lied!”

 

Unmoved, the Prime Minister uttered a snort.
In his mind, he was planning a pithy retort.
But before he could speak, he was rather amazed
to hear someone's voice being suddenly raised.

 

“Wait!” said the voice. “Please! Hold on a sec!
Our situation is grim! It's a bit of a wreck!
But here's what I'm thinking: If we've got the guts,
then I've an idea—and it might save our butts.”

 

The Prime Minister, startled, looked over the crowd.
He adjusted his glasses and shouted aloud,
“Who said that? Who are you? Which one of you spoke?
I certainly hope you weren't making a joke!”

(You see, telling a joke or pulling a prank,
on Graybalon-Four, was like robbing a bank.
If you said to a stranger,
“Knock, knock,”
or
“Who's there?”
you'd be dragged off to jail by the roots of your hair.)

 

“Oh no,” said the voice, sounding suddenly small,
“It wasn't a joke! No-no, not at all!
I was telling the truth. I've thought of a way,
to keep everything working and perfectly gray.”

The Prime Minister paused. He squinted. He stared.
(He was old, after all, and his sight was impaired.)
“Well, whoever you are, before making your claim,
you first must come out! You must tell us your name!”