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Authors: Robert Paul Weston

BOOK: Zorgamazoo
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It was surely a face she would never forget.
It peered from the dark in an odd silhouette.
It wasn't a hog, or a bear, or a cat,
though perhaps if all three were stirred in a vat,
muddled and mixed into something anew:
a wildebeest, polar bear, antelope stew!
 
There were horns on its head, all twisty and curled;
they shot from its noggin, they spiraled and swirled.
Its shoulders, however, were stocky and stout,
and a thicket of whiskers hung down from its snout.
 
But perhaps the most shocking, incredible sight
she saw when the creature leaned into the light.
 
Not a soul would believe that it wasn't a lie,
but this creature—
this thing
—it was wearing a tie!
 
The train sped ahead and the shadows were back.
The creature was lost in the Stygian black.
It was gone in an instant, gone in a blink,
but not before giving Katrina…
a wink!
 
She turned to her guardian, there at her side.
She was certain the truth could not be denied.
“You see now?” she said. “You can't disagree!
You looked out the very same window as me.
 
A creature! A thing! It was just like I said!
Perhaps there are more of them, farther ahead!”
 
But Mrs. Krabone was severely irate.
She spat when she spoke with fury and hate.
“A creature?!” she shrieked. “A ‘mysterious beast?!'
You're crazy, Katrina, and that's saying the least!
 
You listen to me, you insufferable brat.
What you saw—it was probably only a rat!
 
So I've had quite enough! You tell me no more!
Your lies and your tales and your fibs I abhor!
If you tell me again, I shall do it myself:
I'll scoop out your brain for a spot on my shelf!”
 
“But didn't you see it? His horns and his beard?
And he winked I believe, which was awfully weird.”
Mrs. Krabone made a shriek like a bell.
I'm the boss around here! I'm your guardian, see?
Why else would your parents have sent you to me?
 
Well, I'll tell you why—because they know what's
best!
That's why they made such a special request:
That
I
be the one to raise you up right!
So you'd learn to be quiet and nice and polite!
 
So from now on,
you pest
, you'll say not a word!
You'll say nothing silly or strange or absurd!
You'll be a good girl and you'll do what I say!
So Katrina was silent. She made not a sound,
but her eyes remained actively darting around,
watching the weave of the wandering track,
examining close every cranny and crack,
in search of the thing that had briefly appeared,
all hairy, with horns and a whiskery beard.
 
 
A creature?
A TROLL
or
a gnome?
But she saw nothing more,
all
 
 
the
 
 
 
way
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
home…
Chapter 2
a
likable guy
What do you
think was sneaking around, in the shadowy passages under the ground?
Katrina, of course, was thoroughly sane
(it was Mrs. Krabone who was lame in the brain).
I know this, good reader, for I can reveal:
The creature she saw—he was
perfectly real
.
If you met him yourself, that beast in the dark,
you would say, “Why, hello there!” or some such remark.
I'm certain of this. Would you like to know why?
Because Morty the zorgle's a likable guy.
 
A
zorgle?!
you ask. Now, don't be absurd!
A zorgle's not real! It's not even a word!
A zorgle?! What's that? you're tempted to ask.
Well, it's fine if you do, as I'm up to the task…
 
The zorgles are creatures fantastic and rare.
On their heads they have horns and disorderly hair.
They have pot-bellied stomachs;
their shoulders are broad;
their fingers and toes are commonly clawed.
Yet despite being fearsome in manner and mien,
the zorgles are known to be fairly serene.
 
They live underground, in tunnels and chutes,
in meandering caverns of tangled-up roots,
which are fed by a system of gullies and streams,
in cities like places you see in your dreams!
Now, perhaps you are thinking:
Hey, wait, what's the deal?!
A
“zorgle?!”
You're crazy! I doubt that they're real!
In that case, I ask you (and be honest please):
Would you call
observation
your top expertise?
After all, people often ignore what they see.
Just think for a moment. I'm sure you'll agree.
 
When someone sees something especially odd,
they assume it's a fake, or a fishy façade.
They think it's a trick of the shadows and light,
their brain playing games with their powers of sight.
 
The reason for this is decidedly plain:
Too often we use just a speck of our brain.
“Too busy,” we say, “too tired and such.
Daydreams? Oh no, I don't use 'em so much.”
 
So if you're a person who's tired or pooped;
if the edge of your mind has been drearily drooped,
then of course you'd ignore any zorgally face,
that perhaps you would see in some shadowy place.
So if you've no time for the whimsical things,
for pirates and gadgets and creatures and kings,
 
if you spurn the fantastic to never return,
then
PUT
THIS
BOOK
down…
for it's not your concern.
Ah, you're still here. Then I'm grateful to you.
(This book needs a reader, as all of them do.)
Now Mortimer Yorgle, or “Morty” for short,
was a zorgle, you see, of a singular sort.
He was certainly pleasant, and friendly enough,
but his edges, I'd say, were a little bit rough.
 
For instance, his necktie was always awry.
His trousers were striped with ridiculous dye.
On each of his hands he wore fingerless gloves,
and a rumpled-up raincoat was one of his loves.
 
His home, underground, was a humble abode:
A tumbledown hovel on
Rumbleton Road,
in a neighborhood known to be rowdy and rough,
near the slums of a town called
Underwood Bluff
.
 
He worked on the staff of the newspaper crew,
at
The Underwood Telegraph Rumor Review
,
where the office was stormy with printers and ink.
They made such a racket you could hardly think!
 
Like a clock running wild, it's machinery broke,
the office was raging with newspaper folk,
yelling, “I've got the scoop!” or “Hold off the press!”
(How the newspaper printed was anyone's guess.)
 
The nature, most often, of Morty's reports
were the innings and outs of Zorgledom sports.
 
From judo to jousting, he covered it all,
but his favorite, of course, was
Zorgally Ball
—
an elegant game of tremendous finesse,
a cross between cricket, and swimming, and chess.
 
When it came to the game he was sort of a geek.
In fact, every day (or at least every week),
he would go to the stadium, take in a game,
or visit the
Ballplayer's Hallway of Fame
.
 
The Hallway, of course, was his favorite place.
To Morty, it harbored a mythical grace:
with its dark wooden walls, with its trophies and plaques,
with its statues of ballplayers polished in wax.
He always would pause at the end of the Hall,
where a special exhibit emblazoned the wall.
The display was an ode to his neighborhood team,
whom Morty held up in the highest esteem.
 
The
Underwood Titans
, that was their name.
They were commonly known as the best in the game…
 
 
 
Though Morty was fond of the place where he worked,
his duties were something he commonly shirked.
 
He often came late, not a second too soon,
and sometimes arrived at a quarter past noon!
(Which gave Porterman Shorgle, the Editor Chief,
three ulcers, gastritis, and nothing but grief).
 
One particular morning, when Morty blew in,
old Porterman shouted above all the din.

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