THE UNKNOWN PLOT

By Jo

PART SEVEN: Rescuing the Rescuer

Terry had fallen to the floor, amongst the toasted parsley crumbs and the dehydrated apple

chunks, clutching the front of his camo shirt. Never had an epi character been so close to

extinction, well, if you didn't count the time Maximus leapt through the rainbow of Victoria Falls, or when he was thrown from the crashing passenger car of the Polar Express and the

tiger cage landed on his legs, or when he croaked as the giant golden eagle soared into the

sun, or when his cellular essence had been sucked from him inside the Toronto computer and

his DNA began to revolve backwards, or when the leopards attacked him during the 10,000

mile Sandbiscuit race in the Arabian desert, or when he, um, well, actually died there in that

abandoned shed across the Never Never River from the set of Eucaplyptus, um, Eucalpptyuss,

um, Eupyltausses, um, YOOK, or...you get the picture. Joimus looked in great and nearly splendid relief at her currently healthy General, who was neither dismembered nor had

forgotten who he was. Or who she was...which was worse, much worse. Usually, though, when

he forgot who he was he also, alas, forgot who she was. But I digress....

"STAND BACK!" called out a voice with much authority.

It was, of course, Bridgid. The Jackly-masticated gummi was instantly forgotten as her paramedically-marinely-firefighterly-coast guardly-bicycle championly self came to the four,

er, fore.

Thalamus, however, was already administering CPR as Doree watched in silent approval.

Swiss K-9's were more highly trained than anyone west of Lausanne really knew.

Bridgid knelt across the prostrate Thorne, scooping off great handfuls of the toasted parsley

crumbs, knowing the just-now-arriving Pittsburgh River Rescue squad would need a clear

path to his chest.

Bejay looked up, her tears already rehydrating  several pounds of apple chunks.  "River Rescue?" she moaned in disbelief. "He...he's not drowning."

"Not yet, miss," one of the rescuers said, "but he might. You never know when a Pittsburgh

river's gonna rise right up through the Strip District."

Getting out a two-liter hypodermic, he quickly slammed its needle into Terry's chest, pumping

in carbonated epinephrine while another rescuer connected his paddles to the metropolitan power plant. At Bejay's dismayed expression, the man smiled benignly and said compassionately, "Lights the whole city, miss. Should be enough current to start up this guy's heart."

The rescuer with the needle shook his head. "Not sure, Fred. Look at the wheelbarrow. Man

obviously ate two Pittsburgh sandwiches." It was then the fire truck pulled up close and Terry

was connected to its massive stomach pump.

Bud, who'd not yet tasted his mustard crispies, began pushing his plate as far away from himself

as he could get it.

Terry, though, was built of good stuff, stuff much better than bricks, stuff no wolf could huff

and blow down. He was an Aussie, born and even possibly bred, though his mother always was

a bit vague on that point. Most importantly, his equipment was not blunted. For a while, he'd

considered using it in an attempt to slice through the crust of the Heart Attack Hoagie, but had

wisely thought the better of it. So what if he weren't breathing or his heart wasn't beating or

his fingernails had ceased to grow. None of that was of consequence, not when his equipment

remained unblunted.

"I feel somewhat left out," Robin remarked to Lady Meggie as he helped her tug on her long

peach-colored veil that was caught in the doughnut hole machine. "Here I am the newest

character and I've hardly had a thing to do."

"I'm the newest character," Brennan said.

"You're not the newest character," Robin objected. "Trailers don't count."

"In my estimation, Mr. Loxley, they do!"

"You got to drive the chicken!" Robin spat. "You only have a trailer and you still got to drive

the chicken! And look at me! What do I get to do? Pull a veil out of a doughnut hole machine?

I don't even know what a doughnut hole machine IS !!" He was nearly as vexed as Commodus.

Which was very vexed. There being no Roman infantrymen to execute, however, he settled for

glaring at Joimus, who instantly put fingertip to keyboard key and typed:

The long peach-colored veil suddenly came free from the grip of the doughnut hole machine,

surprising Lady Meggie, who overbalanced and tipped forward right into the longbowly-

strengthened arms of the medieval warrior, who gathered her to himself, his warm lips sliding

slowly, lingeringly over those of the delectable young Hoosierette, whose own lips parted

welcomingly, her breath sweet on his face as he closed his eyes, basking in the delightful feel

of her supple body pressed down the length of his battle-hardened form which yearned achingly

for....

"Don't stop now!" Robin growled, wondering if the restaurant had a cold shower on the

premises.

"It was all one sentence," Joimus protested. "Another hundred or so words and it would

threaten to become almost run-on."

Robin narrowed his sea green eyes. "Do you think in the midst of that I was concerned with

grammatical construction?"

"Probably not," she agreed, adding, "but you should have been."

"TERRY!" Bejay cried, waking the dead cockroach that had met its demise as the Aussie

had crashed to the floor. "You're all right!"

Terry blinked his eyes, both of them, then smiled up into Bejay's face. "I'm hungry," he

announced. 

"Your stomach was just pumped," Himself explained, casting a quick look to the door through

which he could see the seven dump trucks ready to haul its contents off to the landfill where

the new mall would be built.

"Some...someone please get rid of the briefly-dead roach," Atonia gasped. In her youth she'd once mistaken a sack of them for pecans and the resulting pie had not been, well, a success.

Hando, who had yet to eat in the epi, quickly plucked it up, popped it into his mouth and

crunched away. Atonia paled somewhat as she watched him tug the brown legs out from

between his teeth. Legs. Always it was the legs, she thought. If only she had noticed years

ago that pecans seldom had legs.

She needed something to get the all-too-well-remembered taste of the pie off her palate. Ah,

sliced oranges. She picked up the first slice, squeezing its juice happily onto her tongue,

wondering, though, that in Pittsburgh they decorated their orange slices with raisins. Strange,

too, that the raisins had been using the slice as a seesaw. But, then, Pittsburgh was turning out

to be very strange in many ways. Just then a raisin leg caught between her incisors.

Marilyn, for some time, had been studying a sign behind the cash register that read: Give

Peas A Chance. "Jim," she asked after long moments of consideration, "have you ever given

a pea a chance?"

Jim adored her, really he did, so it was as kindly as he could that he whispered in her ear,

"Some talk, my love, is best kept only in the bathroom."

Ute, meanwhile, was totally distracted by a different sign.

"At last!" she sighed in relief, understanding finally why it was that pickles always reminded

her of the skinheaded Melbourner descending the stairs.

Jeffrey was warily eyeing a particularly evil-looking pickle perched menacingly on the

condiment cart. He'd once peered out a window in his pajama bottoms, but never had he

descended stairs clad only in tighty-whities. He was...civilized. "Come," he urged softly,

guiding Ute away from the pickle's presence.

"There's been no reference to squirrels in this whole chapter," Layne complained. "How's

this supposed to be a tale of combat with squirrels when no squirrels get mentioned?"

Ben just smiled, ending the chapter by twisting a fork into an appropriate shape.

"Are you really going to let Wade get the last mention in chapter seven?" Atonia, feeling

grumpy ever since she'd eaten the orange slice, asked.

"You wish me to have the last mention, Love?"

Max then smiled even more broadly than the outlaw, pulled out his wallet and...

ON TO PART 8

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