|Yet another pickled pack of illuminating missives, recently dispatched from Mister Wonderful, our man in the jam.
You know what's so fantastic about being me? Neither do I, but it's too late to stop now.
If I wasn't me, I'd have to get rid of all my clothes. One can't wear some stranger's clothes, for Vishnu's bloody sake. I'd have to go naked. Nakeder. More often.
But how did we get here? Here, to this point, now, so many days since last Mister Wonderful sent e-massages to your aching brain folds... it was not merely time that transported us, let me tell you. Time is on my side. On my hip, actually, in this attractive silver pocket watch emblazoned with the entwined MW lemniscate of Wonderful Laboratories. Sweet Wonderful Laboratories, when shall I see thee again? By the Waters of the Roger I sat and wept, thinking of my ailing DAGUERROTHRAX computer and the able-bodied Miss Yakamoto whom I've left behind.
Could I wear my pocket watch if I was naked? Not unless Miss Yakamoto was around, I assure you.
We were crossing the southern border of Macedonia, finally back on the road to Damascus (despite Mister Malice peeling back his eyelids and giggling "Dig me, I'm Bob Hopeless!" every twenty minutes), when Mister Dark announced that we could not continue on to Greece and Cyprus as planned.
I announced that someone had better be fucking joking.
"Our delays are not unknown to me, Wonderbubble," said Mister Dark. "We have, however, reason to believe that our hidden artefacts will remain un-cluster-bombed for a few days yet. I insist on a detour to Alaska, where I have to see a man about a, a... duck."
It is perhaps no surprise that I was struck by the realization that his last word had not been intended as a noun at the same time as the boomerang.
It was the monkey who chased away the assassins (with a bazooka!) and cared for me the next few days, as I sweated restless in hazy semi-consciousness. I remember he filled out the uniform nicely. I could feel the world rocking beneath the caravan and a dim knowledge that we were on the sea drifted over my mind's bloodshot eye.
They tell me there was also a storm. And a shortage of compass-like things. And a bit of unfortunate squid business that resulted in a rudder-ectomy.
When I finally recovered my wits, we were encamped on the north shore of the distant island nation of Potrzebie.
Potrzebie! Is it not amazing? Of course, Potrzebie is actually only the name of the largest island in this chain which extends north from Argentina, up around Chile and all that, through the Panama Canal, all along the Gulf of Mexico, across the Atlantic, around the North Pole, and back, essentially crossing the entire Earth in a tremendous spheroid figure-8. Potrzebians are to Atlanteans what the Ancient Greeks are to a gyro.
Potrzebie, dammit! If I cannot be answering the queries you, dearest readers, have sent, then dispatching postcards of wonder and experience from this arcane land shall have to be my fulfillment.
yours with an umbrella in my drink and exploration in my pants,
WONDERFUL LABS - The Grits Aren't All You Can Kiss
You disappeared rather mysteriously the other night, but I attribute this to your life of crime in the movies.
- Groucho Marx in a letter to Peter Lorre, 10/05/1961
|Mister Wonderful Recommends: Blacker than black. Oh, they can do it for physics, but when will they ever build me my Disaster Area stunt ship?