Strange Tails

Whack!

The light turned from emerald green to deep black. It encased them in something, and then flung them, somewhere. Their stomachs leapt, they were all still moving, and fast. Abruptly they halted. The elevator of full tickles, it seemed, had reached the penthouse floor.

A few seconds later the lift doors of perception opened on Potbelly’s mind. “Wha’ ’appened?” she said, though barely. Some kind of stretchy material had wrapped itself around her jaw and she could move only slightly. Her nether bits and special places felt Snodberry’s furry warmth against them, but her snout pressed into … what is this stuff?

“We’ve been attacked!” yelled Squirrel, his voice muffled too. He was in a pocket of Snodberry’s armpit, the contents of which, judging by the aroma, had been there for some time. He yelled again to be heard. “Something stinks!”

“We ’ave a ’ight to comp-ain,” agreed Potbelly, her jaw still rammed against the whatever-it-was.

Then a small, high voice materialized into her thoughts. It came from nowhere, like a bunch of flowers in the hands of a magician. “It’s some sort of fabric,” said the voice.

“Michel, is ’at oo? Did ’oo mek it ur-k?”

“No,” replied the voice, cryptically. Again it appeared in her head where it hadn’t been before, just like a sink hole, only not.

“Can oo ’ee anything?” she asked of the voice.

“Yes, everything thanks.”

“’ere are-oo?”

“Please be quiet, I’m trying to remember.”

“’emember ot?”

“If I knew that I wouldn’t need to remember.”

“Whoever you’re talking to Potbelly, make them do it quicker.”

“Shus’ ’eep ’rea … thing.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“R ’oo trine ’oo he hunny?”

“I’m doing my best,” said the voice. “Bear with me.”

“Dop ’alking and ged on witit.”

“You’re the one yakking,” it admonished.

Potbelly urged the voice on, but she was not entirely sure if she was still talking to another creature—given its odd, dislocated intonation—or her own, newly-split personality—like she needed someone else crammed in there with her.

“I’m suffocating!” yelled Squirrel, in case anyone had forgotten.

“’ink, ’ink,” Potbelly thought to herself, trying to be useful. Were they in a bag? Maybe. But who could put Snodberry in a bag? A crane would have trouble. A tractor beam, maybe. Yes, a tractor beam, just like the one on Star Check, or whatever it was Michel had been watching. That’d be it. But where did the bag come from? And were the Star Checkers going shopping?

“Skirrel! ’ow ’oo doing?” She was growing increasingly concerned.

“Not good,” he replied, just loud enough for her to hear.

“’dop ’alking, ’onserve air.” She kicked herself for making him do just the opposite—or would have done, if she could only lift a leg. Some time elapsed. How much, she couldn’t tell, there were no more voices to mark it.

“’ichel? ‘ow you geddin’ on?” she asked, eventually.

“I’m not ’ichel,” insisted the voice.

“Wad oo mean, ’oo not ’ichel?”

“Would it help if I rearranged the words?”

“Jus’ ged on wid—“

Potbelly chose not to finish her sentence, occupied as she was by falling through the air. After she was done with that she became rather embroiled in having a squirrel land on her head. The rodent rolled free and bobbed up, gasping.

“Jeez Snodberry! That smell! Your armpit! It could be weaponized!”

Happy at last to stretch out his limbs, Snodberry wet one finger, ran it under his armpit, and gave it a lick. He shrugged. Then out of nowhere, but presumably from his mouth, he produced a long, slow keening sound.

“See! It’s like a skunk with irritable bowel syndrome.”

“I don’t think it’s his armpit, Squirrel,” replied Potbelly, recovering. “Look.”

She pointed with her nose towards a flat brown lump at Snodberry’s feet. It was Siobhan. One great banana finger nudged her limp body forward. Wordlessly, it flopped back. Then a great hand, a baseball mitt made of coconut shells, shoveled her still frame and cradled it in the crook of his arm.

“Is she dead?” said the small, high voice.

“I think so,” replied Potbelly.

“You think so what?” asked Squirrel.

“It’s too horrible, don’t make me say it.”

“Then how the hell will I know what you mean?”

“Use your eyes.”

“You’re going to write it down?”

“What are you talking about?”

“How do I know? You started it.”

“All I know is—waaarrrghhhwotsat!” Potbelly stepped back in alarm.

“I’m surprised you even know that, fricking weirdo.”

“It’s a moth!”

“Never heard of a moth called waaarrrghhhwotsat.”

“I’m sorry,” said the moth. “I was too late.” The small, high voice had suddenly taken corporeal form and fluttered onto Potbelly’s nose. “The controls are surprisingly easy to work, it’s just I have such little mass, even for these touch screens. Then I realized I don’t even need to touch them. I can just make them work using my brain.”

“You got us out of that bag?” she asked, trying to focus on the near-distance. Stepping back farther didn’t help.

“Yes,” replied the moth.

“Potbelly, do you really think this bizarre behavior is fitting for a poignant death scene?” The entire time Squirrel had not been looking in her direction, still staring as he was at the keening Snodberry, feeling some strange pull in his belly that must have been something like sadness. Sympathy, maybe. He’d heard about that.

“It’s that telepathy thing again,” she said. “Like with Tina at the Aldi.”

“Siobhan is talking to you?”

“The fricking moth, idiot. Here, on the end of my nose.” She focused back on the moth. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Stinkeye. At least, that’s my nickname. I have one of those faces apparently.”

“You do?”

“My wife, she was forever apologizing. He doesn’t mean to look so mean, she’d say. Poor, dear Vanessaconshaltamaressasitiamamorena. Gone now, as you know.”

“I do?”

With one eye still on Snodberry’s tragic cargo, Squirrel hopped over to see who Potbelly was talking to. It made him cross-eyed.

“Are you marrying it?” he asked, uncrossing his vision and focusing on the creature at the end of her snout. It was big for a moth.

“Shut up, Squirrel. Carry on.”

“Your friend tried to save my love, and now I fail too.” The moth gestured a wing towards Siobhan, still cradled in Snodberry’s arm. “If life were to be any more unbearable, it would have a modern jazz soundtrack.”

“Wait. The pool table? That room? The moth caught in the light fitting? That was your Vanessaconshorta … thingy … molester?”

“Vanessaconshaltamaressasitiamamorena. Yes, you remember. How kind. I was at the window. I don’t blame you, you tried. She loved the limelight, but a little too much, sadly. She was a sucker for a lightbulb. Hadn’t seen a hundred-watter in some time, of course. She knew they were up to something, using that much power for one lamp above a table.”

“Squirrel witnessed it.” Potbelly turned to him, waving Stinkeye in his general direction. “What was on the pool table at the Silence, Squirrel?”

“I can’t comment.”

“Why?”

“Because you told me to shut up.”

“You may now speak.”

“Thank you, oh flea-bitten one, but I still can’t comment.”

“Now what?”

“’I don’t remember anything about it. Hey, would this be a good time to ask what we’re going to do about the human in the popsicle wrapper?” Squirrel gestured to the pod next to Snodberry.

“Oh I completely forgot about that,” said Stinkeye. “You guys were my priority.”

“Ah, that’s so sweet.”

“What is? Does he have candy?” Squirrel perked up.

“Can you include Squirrel in the conversation?” asked Potbelly. “Even by his usual standard, he’s confused.”

“Silly me, of course. How about this?”

Squirrel shivered. Potbelly was right, it did sound like Tina. Something in that voice crept along his spine and poked its nose where it probably now regretted. “I can hear it!” he exclaimed. “Thin and reedy, like … a reed … if it was a thin one. So the mothman talketh.”

“Sorry, yes, wasn’t in broadcast mode. I’m Stinkeye.”

“Well, thanks for upgrading us out of economy. But just so you know, that ratty snout you have up your butt belongs to Potbelly and she gets antsy about these bipeds being kept alive.” He motioned to the human in the pod again. “Personally, I think we’re better off if it stays in there.”

“For the moment, Squirrel, and I’m struggling to find the correct phrasing because it’s never happened before, but you may be correct. Is she still alive, Stinkeye?”

“Oh, quite alive. You can see it breathing. Some sort of suspended animation. I’m thinking it’s the same sort of thing Coralane and her cronies were up to in the lab.”

“You saw all that?”

“I followed you the entire time. Had to see if my Vanessaconshaltamaressasitiamamorena was right. Until you came along I couldn’t get past that door. Key pads are a problem. If I had my way the whole world would be voice activated.”

“And then you followed us up into the spaceship?”

“Yes. Little old me didn’t need the light show, of course. Did love the super trouper though—much more glamorous way to fly.”

“So you just press this stuff?” asked Squirrel, scrambling up the central control terminal Stinkeye had used. He surveyed its options. “It does seem familiar. Like if I press this bit, I’m pretty sure that far door will open.”

Squirrel pressed it and nothing happened.

“Oh right, probably this one. No, that just makes a beeping sound. Is that a bad sign?”

“Are there any good ones? So Stinkeye, did you not see Coralane?”

“No. She was with you?”

“She came up in the beam, pretty sure. Could she have flown away?”

“Don’t know, sorry. I only just squeaked in as the portal closed.”

“Any idea how to get out of here?”

“Nope.”

“Any idea where we’re going?”

“Nope.”

“That really is an annoying beep, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“Oh good it’s stopped.”

A second later they were covered in the same stretchy, gauze-like fabric as before, but this time deposited around the room by some unseen force, and into separate pods. This time, and with just a hint of tickles, they fell soundly sleep.