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Authors: Robert Paul Weston

BOOK: Zorgamazoo
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Katrina stood up. It would likely be best
to break out of her room on a miniature quest.
She would snoop just a bit, go sneaking around.
She would sort out the source of this mystery sound…
She pulled up the carpet, where no one would look,
revealing an almost invisible nook;
and there in the dark was a treasury trunk
filled with a clutter of jumble and junk.
 
Most people would think it was nothing but fluff,
a collection of doodads and whatchamastuff.
To Katrina, however, one thing was true:
This stuff came in handy—you just never knew.
 
She dug up a spring from a grandfather clock…
It was just the right thingy to
jimmy a lock!
 
She twisted the spring and she made it a key
(she was rather inventive, I'm sure you can see).
Then gripping the spring in her sensitive fist,
she opened the latch with a flick of her wrist.
 
Then quietly pacing with caution and care,
she crept down the hall to the top of the stair;
and down a few steps, like a gossamer ghost,
she peered 'round a lopsided banister post…
A man stood below, on the entranceway mat,
his collar turned up to the brim of his hat.
He took off his gloves, his cap, and his coat.
He loosened the muffler that covered his throat.
 
His features were drawn and incredibly dark,
but his eyes were aglow with a sinister spark.
 
Old Krabby was there. She was wringing her hands,
like a criminal, hatching felonious plans.
 
She quietly spoke to the man in the hall:
“Doctor, I'm glad you could answer my call.
It's nice you could visit so late in the night,
I'm certain your skill will set everything right!
You'll cut out the naughtiest bits of her brain,
so only the parts that are normal remain.”
 
“I will do what I can,” the stranger replied,
“your need for a surgeon cannot be denied;
because Madam, your case is a serious one.
So let us discuss it. Just what's to be done?”
Above, in the stairwell, Katrina was still,
her fingers and throat in the grip of a chill.
This stranger, she sensed, by his timbre and tone,
was the sort to send shivers that shook to the bone.
 
Now, here's what Katrina so furtively heard,
as her guardian spoke in a whispering word:
 
“It's my girl. She's upstairs, and she's coming unwound.
Why, she's quite a few ounces short of a pound!
Delusions of grandeur, that's what she's got!
She thinks she's so special! She thinks she's so hot!
 
She thinks of herself as courageous and brave,
but doctor, I wish she would simply behave!
But her brain is diseased, it's gone on the blink!
She's completely insane! She's right on the brink!
 
Why, only today she redoubled my doubt
by claiming some creature was skulking about.
Some sort of a beastie, with horns on its head,
and wearing a tie! Or that's what she
said
…”
As he listened, the Doctor was thumbing his case,
Silent and solemn and gazing in space.
His brow furrowed up like a fisherman's knot,
and cried, “We must strike while the iron is hot!
 
Her condition is worse than at first I'd assumed,
so we mustn't delay, or else she is doomed!
It is clear to me now that certainly she's:
got Parapsychotic Delusion Disease!
 
There is only one method to fix it within…
which I'll demonstrate now, before I begin.”
 
He opened his bag with imperious pride,
and Katrina saw horrible things were inside:
needles and skewers that filled her with fright,
as they glinted and shone in the shadowy light.
 
The doctor reached deep in his medical case,
and took out a tool too gruesome to face.
It looked like a drill, but especially made,
with clappers and claws and a rotary blade!
He fondled this
thing
, with the subtlest touch.
“I love it!” he cried. “Oh, ever so much!
It's the finest, most delicate tool of its kind.
It's the
And if you'll excuse some innocuous fun,
I'll demonstrate now how the mincing is done!”
 
He spun on his heel, and he leapt in the air,
recalling the cadence of Freddy Astaire,
but never as nimble, not nearly as spry
(more like a hippo with mud in its eye).
He leaped and he danced with his terrible tool!
He flourished and spun like a blathering fool!
 
“Madam,” he puffed, when his dancing was done,
“In the surgical world, I am second to none!
So you've nothing to fear, for I'll snip off her top.
I flip up her lid and I'll give her
the chop!”
But Old Krabby was bored. She looked up at the clock.
She was eager to get to the butchery block.
 
“Doctor LeFang,” she said, with a smile,
“I don't mean to rush you or hamper your style,
but perhaps we should start by moving upstairs.
It's best if Katrina is…
caught unawares.
It's not that your banter is dreary or dull,
it's just that I'm anxious to crack at her skull!”
 
They both looked above at the balcony ledge,
but Katrina already had left from the edge.
She had scampered away and back to her bed,
trembling with panic and dizzy with dread.
 
It would seem she was caught in a bit of a scrape,
and the only way out was to stage an escape!
So she packed up a sack, full of clothing and socks,
and much of the junk from her treasury box.
 
Then she tied up her sheets in a delicate line,
like Tarzan would do with a tropical vine;
one end she tied to the foot of her bed,
while the other she tossed out the window, instead.
 
Then she leapt out herself, swung down on the sheets,
repelling below, to the dark of the streets.
 
While up in her bedroom, Old Krabby was there,
ranting and raving and tearing her hair.
She had searched all the rooms, from hither to yon,
and discovered Katrina was thoroughly gone.
 
She howled with a shriek that was bitter and shrill.
It was just as the doctor leaned over the sill.
“Look! Out the window!” he said with a scoff,
“…I wonder why all of my patients run off?”
 
Mrs. Krabone cried: “Don't mess around!
We can catch her again if we get to the ground!”
 
She wrangled the doctor away by his cuff,
and they sped down the stairs in a tumbling huff.
But when they arrived at the base of the stair,
Katrina was gone—by barely a hair!
She had fled! She was free! (Not a moment too soon.)
She had scampered away, by the light of the moon!
Yes, she'd escaped, when the timing was right,
but what dangers awaited, out there, in the night?
 
Meanwhile, Old Krabby was red as a beet.
She was gnashing her teeth! She was stomping her feet!
She clutched at the collar of Doctor LeFang,
subjecting the man to a hairy harangue:
If it wasn't for you and your yakkety-yak,
I'd have my Katrina now under the knife.
She would finally give me some peace in my life!
 
But instead of my peace, as I'm sure you can guess,
I get only a lousy, lamentable mess!
So listen up good, you botchery buff!
You bungler! You dunce! You pandering puff!
May it take us a week! Or a month! Or a year!
We will find my Katrina, and
bring her back here!
Then using that miserable ‘Mincer of Mind,'
you'll finish the job that you were assigned!”
 
So Mrs. Krabone (and the Doctor, as well),
began searching the streets for Katrina Katrell.
They scoured the ground. They hunted and hoped.
They rummaged and rooted and grabbled and groped.
 
They sniffed with their noses. They narrowed their eyes.
They even looked up to the dark of the skies.
They listened as well, but heard nothing at all…
 
just the flap
of the sheets
that hung from the wall.
Chapter 4
a
fluttering flame
With Katrina, her story began with a leap, eluding LeFang—that nefarious creep
.
Mortimer's story was hardly the same.
It began with a sort of a lottery game…
A game with a prize that was
truly
bizarre:
Not a nifty new house or a nimble new car.
Not the tastiest meal or the fanciest clothes.
A prize that was nothing like any of those.
Not boodle, not moolah, not money or gold,
or anything else you could handle or hold.
 
What sort of prize could it possibly be?
Read on, my good reader, and soon you will see…
 
 
It was late in the night, in Underwood Bluff,
as Morty tramped home in a bit of a huff.
All day he had toiled at the
Rumor Review
,
at a legion of deadlines, soon to be due.
 
So staggering home, he was bleary and beat.
He was sluggish and slow. He was dragging his feet.
There was only one thought in the whole of his head:
To find his way home and to climb into bed.
 
But he couldn't quite yet. He still had to stop
and check on his Pop in the Hospital Shop.
 
It was then something happened: a scent on the breeze.
It blew up his nose and he thought he would sneeze.
The odor was acrid. The odor was hot—
like a casserole burning inside of a pot.
It tickled the whiskers that grew in his nose.
He stopped in his tracks. He suddenly froze.
 
Holy smokes!
Morty thought.
A fire?! But where?!
He snuffled and followed the smell in the air.
It led him away, to the end of the block,
where Mortimer Yorgle was in for a shock…
 
There stood the Ballplayers Hallway of Fame.
It glimmered within with
a fluttering flame!
“Oh, no!” Morty cried, with a panicky yelp.
“The Hallway! It's burning! Hey, somebody!
HELP!”
He ran in a circle and waggled his arms.
“Hurry!” he hollered. “Sound the alarms!”
 
But no one came running to Mortimer's aid.
He was all by himself, completely dismayed!
For here was his favorite place in the world,
going up in a fire that flickered and swirled.
 
Feeling woozy, he wobbled and fell to the ground.
No one was coming. There was no one around.
He thought of the trophies, the statues and plaques,
melting in puddles of silver and wax;
and all of that history—all of it lost!
It had to be saved! No matter the cost!

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