Zorgamazoo (6 page)

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Authors: Robert Paul Weston

BOOK: Zorgamazoo
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Nobody spoke.
Who there would dare?
An odd sort of peace had come into the air.
 
The host of the night, the Lottery Boss,
leapt up on the stage and sauntered across.
A plump little fellow, this captain of chance,
who twitched like his jacket was crawling with ants.
 
“Good evening!” he bellowed. “Welcome, as well!
Are you anxious to start? You are, I can tell!
This machine, as you know, just off to my rear
is the reason you've come. It's the reason we're here!
And
what
a machine! Why, isn't it nice?
It's the
Hero Selection Divining Device
!”
 
Everyone clapped. They hollered and cheered.
All except Morty. He was scratching his beard.
 
The Lottery Boss, he waited until
the crowd, once again, was quiet and still.
 
“Your names,” he went on, “are within the machine.
They're written on marbles—
nine hundred nineteen!
When I yank on the lever that's here at my side,
the nine hundred marbles will go for a ride.
 
They will enter the funnel that starts at the top,
they will tumble and roll 'til they come to a stop;
because only one marble will finally roll
to the end, to the base, to the
Destiny Bowl!”
 
The “Destiny Bowl” was more like a flask;
it was heavy and broad, like a barrel or cask.
On its side was a letter, which Morty could see
was written in rubies—a big letter
“Wait!” Morty called. “Before we begin?
You still haven't said what the winner will win!”
 
The Lottery Boss tipped the brim of his hat.
“Well, of course!” he exclaimed. “I was getting to that.
You see, my good friends, there's adventure ahead!
Perhaps you have read what the newspaper said.
The countryside zorgles have all disappeared!
They were lost in the night, or so it is feared!
 
So the winner tonight wins a compass, a map,
a flashlight, galoshes, a coat and a cap,
to help with the search, when the going is rough!
…plus all kinds of other adventuring stuff!
 
And then something better than all else combined!
An expenses-paid trip to head out there and find
the zorgles who vanished with nary a clue:
those countryside zorgles of Zorgamazoo!”
 
To Morty, this sounded like less of a prize,
and more like a punishment put in disguise.
But there wasn't much time to consider for long,
for the orchestra started performing a song,
and the Lottery Boss went over to stand
in the place where the lever awaited his hand.
 
“Now remember,” he said, “that in any event,
this machine is correct, one hundred percent!
It will magically choose from this clamoring mob
the most suitable zorgle for doing the job!”
 
He beamed at the crowd with his simpering grin.
“Now! Let the lottery raffle begin!”
With his hand on the lever, he gave it a push,
and the marbles came down with a
Then into the funnel
and onto the tracks,
and wire and wax,
guided by channels and panels and planks,
battered and clanged in mechanical cranks,
 
over
the motors and rotors and ramps,
 
under the glow of electrical lamps,
crossing
 
the miniature bridges and piers,
rolling and reeling in winches and gears,
bouncing between all the balancing bars,
flung by the flingers and into the hubs,
caught in the catchers and
funnels and tubs…
Then, when the running was finally done,
with odds that were more than nine hundred-to-one,
a particular marble was down at the goal.
Alone, on its own, in the
Destiny Bowl.
 
The Lottery Boss, he skipped and he hopped,
to the bowl on the floor, where that marble had stopped.
 
He plucked it right up and read what it said.
Then he paused.
And he frowned.
And he waggled his head.
 
“Fancy that,” he said softly. “I suppose this is right!
Where's
‘Mortimer Y?'
He's our winner tonight!”
 
All of the zorgles were looking around
to see if this “Mortimer Y.” could be found.
Mortimer knew they were looking for him.
He had won, though the odds were incredibly slim.
 
It can't be,
he thought,
they've made a mistake!
He was suddenly woozy and started to shake.
His palms were all clammy; he thought he would faint.
For he was no hero, no idol, no saint!
He was just Morty, just Morty the hack,
and he sensed he was having a panic attack.
 
But then he remembered his desperate dad,
whose illness was growing increasingly bad.
He thought of his Pop in that hospital bed,
swaddled in gauze from his hips to his head…
 
So in spite of reluctance, confusion, and fear,
the thoughts in his head were surprisingly clear.
 
He planted his feet.
He started to rise.
He went to the stage,
and collected his prize…
 
 
 
Back at the hospital, Bortlebee lay,
musing about the events of the day.
His mind was befuddled with thoughts of his son,
wishing and hoping that Morty had won.
 
So when Morty arrived, with a map in his hand,
charting the course to a faraway land,
old Bortlebee smiled. He instantly knew:
his incredible dream was incredibly true!
 
“Well,” Morty croaked, with a lump in his throat.
“They gave me this map, plus a cap and a coat.
It's awful! I won! As you probably guessed.
So they're sending me off on some sort of a quest.
But I'm not the right guy,” he fretfully said.
“I'm telling you, Pop, I'm in over my head!”
 
“Don't be a scaredy-cat,” Bortlebee teased.
“Can't you see that I'm happy? I'm terribly pleased!
Just do it for me and wipe off the frown.
Be happy! For once you'll get out of this town.”
 
He looked at his son, and uttered a sigh.
It was time, he could see, for saying goodbye.
“I hope,” he said slowly, “you have nothing but luck.
But remember: Whenever you're stuck in the muck,
when the travels are rough and you're stuck up a tree,
you remember this, Morty: You've always got me.”
 
“Aw, Pop,” Morty grumbled. “I love ya, too.
And that's why I'm going. I'll do it for you.”
 
Then they hugged one another, especially tight,
and Morty set off, that very same night…
Chapter 6
the
gang
of mccrook
On the surfac above, in the world that you know,
Katrina Katrell was a girl on the go. But where was she headed? She hadn't a clue. She just had to keep going—it was all that she knew.
 
Yet a terrible rain was flooding the streets,
falling in thundering, merciless sheets.
Katrina was soaked. She was practically drowned,
but she had to escape. She couldn't be found.
For Mrs. Krabone was hot on her trail,
tracking her down, by tooth and by nail;
and with her that lunatic, Doctor LeFang,
who would mince up her mind into lemon meringue!
 
What she needed was shelter, some haven or place,
to escape from the chill and the rain and the chase.
 
It was then
that she spotted a place she could hide:
at the end of an alley, off to the side,
a hatch in the wall that might be a door,
or an entrance that wasn't in use anymore.
 
On the wall near the hatch was a kind of sign.
It was hung on the brick with some raggedy twine.
The words on the placard were sloopy and wild,
as if scrawled by the hand of an ignorant child.

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