The Kingdom of Folklore has been written and re-written for well over 21 years. Just recently I have published Books I and II on the Amazon Kindle. But before that, it was published (the complete works) on www.lulu.com.
In the following you will be able to read the 1st 20 pages of 'The Kingdom of Folklore Book II: enjoy:
PART II
Discovery
Chapter 5
Anti-Smalls
Blue Hills of Canterbury
The eighteen-wheeler pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of an overnight café. The giant, white sign out front referred to the place as ‘The Mug’. The truck slowly roamed the lot, soon parking between two other similar trucks.
Stepping out of the truck’s cab was an Anti-Small dressed in a red flannel checkered shirt and wearing a blue, baseball cap. Appearing apprehensive, he approached the small café that resembled a small, red brick school. It even had a big bell out front in shape of an upturned mug with coffee pouring into thin air. What he had seen earlier in the day would make for good conversation even though no one here would likely believe him.
Opening the door, he heard the familiar sound of the bell as it tapped the inside of the door’s glass. The truck driver nodded greetings to the five people scattered within. The sounds and smells of sizzling eggs and bacon were familiar to him like the road was to a biker.
He recognized two of the café’s patrons right away. There was Big Paul who was seated in the back booth. He was downing a sandwich and sucking down a large mug of coffee. Another one was a woman with long, flowing black hair. She was seated closer to the exit, next to three other women. The truck driver nodded greetings, as he took a seat two booths away. He knew her by the CB handle ‘Long Haired Angel’, and had just passed her up on the highway some ways back.
The waitress walked up, taken his order. She wore the usual white outfit, with an apron tied around her waist. The truck driver told her what he wanted: two scrambled eggs, three slices of bacon and a large mug of coffee. The waitress turned, just as the other trucker, Big Paul, slid into the booth. He was dressed in a blue, long sleeve shirt and jeans.
He glanced at the driver that just came in. “Well, I’ll be…if it ain’t Ole Randy! How you been…ole buddy?” he asked, revealing three teeth that were almost hidden by a thick mustache that dangled from his lips, covering most of his mouth. The open window behind him revealed three large, eighteen-wheelers making the highway, disappearing into the slow moving traffic.
As Randy watched the trucks leaving, he removed his cap and ran his fingers through his thick curly, black hair. He had just entered the café himself, a day after hitting the fox and seeing the little person. After some recollecting of what had happened, he started to wonder rather or not it actually took place at all.
Shaking Big Paul’s hand, Randy smiled. “Well…guess it’s been alright?” He looked around the establishment like someone might hear what he was about to say.
“If I told you somethin’ would you take it seriously?”
The trucker named Big Paul leaned back in the booth, fingers interlocking behind his head.
“Randy…hell, man, you know me? I would believe anything you said. Remember da money? Didn’t tell a soul.”
He was referring to the time Randy had discovered five thousand dollars on the road, hidden away in a briefcase.
It was pouring down rain on that particular day, but he helped his friend just the same. Big Paul played lookout for the cops or whoever else might drive by. As it so happened, no one came by, or for that matter, no one even asked about the money. So he and Randy did what any other good old country boys would have done: they kept it, splitting it amongst themselves.
The waitress came back giving Randy his breakfast. Watching her leave, he thanked her. Eating his eggs, he stared through his sunglasses to Paul.
“It’s nothin’ like that, Ole Buddy, I assure you. You…probably won’t even believe it. Hell…I don’t even know if I do.” He scooped up another helping of eggs and a slice of bacon, washing it down with a gulp of hot, steaming coffee.
Big Paul started wondering, looking around the establishment as if spies where everywhere. With a whisper, he asked, “What is it? Find a bunch of drugs or somethin’?”
Randy grinned. “No…no, nothing like that, I assure you.”
“Than what?” questioned Paul, helping himself to one of Randy’s slices of bacon. The suspense was killing him. He started to wonder rather his friend had found a dead body or something?
Finishing off the eggs and bacon, Randy adjusted his glasses, and wondered weather it was a good idea to tell his old friend about this. The time the money ordeal happened between them, Big Paul was right about not telling anyone about it, but he starting spending it so quick the police got suspicious. No one ever was arrested, but now the cops were watching them like hawks.
“You won’t believe it, Paul?” he repeated, hoping he wouldn’t regret the words later. Drinking more of the coffee, he eyed his friend through one good eye.
“Just tell me, alright? It can’t be that weird?”
Randy looked out the window again and saw three police officers walking toward the café. He wondered if they would overhear him, calling the men in white to come and take him away. Then again, the cops would most likely just follow him around as usual.
It was now or never as the door opened letting the officers inside. Right away Randy recognized one of them as Parker Williams. He was an old friend he met some years back, and one of the cops that had followed him around after the money ordeal. Later, he had given Randy a speeding ticket. Afterwards, they got together and went fishing three days later.
“Oh…it’s just that…” Randy started, as Officer Williams walked up to his table, taking his mirror sunglasses off. His uniform looked like a steamroller had just pressed it. His black, curly hair was slicked all the way back, looking just combed. Randy figured his friend, the cop, probably washed the uniform and fixed his hair at least twenty times a day.
“Well…I’ll be a money’s uncle if it isn’t Randy Samuel? How’s it been going? Got any speeding tickets lately?” butted in the police officer laughing like a hyena. He had changed the ‘monkey’ in his sentence to ‘money’ just to get a rise out of Randy. At the same instant, he slid in the booth right next to Big Paul. The other two officers turned around headed toward the bathroom.
“Have a seat,” Paul said in irritation, desperately wanting to hear the rest of Randy’s story. But he knew Randy sure as hell wouldn’t spill the beans now, especially with Wyatt Earp setting amongst them.
Randy finished his coffee, and looked up at his old friend, the police officer. He heard the ‘money’ remark and right away knew what it meant. Parker had been jealous ever since they discovered the money. Big Paul wouldn’t stop running to Wal-Mart every other day, so they reported it and later was rewarded with all of it when no one filed a claim.
It had been way over three years since the money ordeal, Randy getting the ticket, and of course Randy and the cop going fishing together.
The act of kindness was due to the fact their fathers knew each other. Not to mention Parker was eager to share in the wealth.
When Officer Williams pulled Randy over three years before, he noticed the name on the driver’s license. With a large grin, he questioned, “Are you kin to old man Samuel?’ Randy had said it was his father.
That was how it all happened. Of course the friendly notion of fishing didn’t make Randy give Parker a dime of the money. Even though they went fishing some days afterward, Randy was issued a speeding ticket for doing 70 in a 65-mile per hour speed zone.
Still smiling, Randy looked about the café where they were all at today. “Been doin’ okay, I guess, Williams. And no…to answer your question…I haven’t gotten even more speeding tickets since you gave me that last one.” He eyeballed his friend, Paul, and winked. “And…no…we’ve haven’t found anymore money laying around, either.”
The cop smirked like a bully in high school, but finally forced a smile while putting his mirrored sunglasses back on. “I hope not, friend. But to be on the safe side, I’ll run you over the radio. Never can tell? Might of forgot ‘bout one?”
Big Paul had been setting there all along minding his own business. He didn’t want to butt in, but that last remark was all he could take. “You know, Officer, if Randy says he ain’t got no more tickets, or found no mo money…then he ain’t, understand?”
Randy lowered his head, looking at the sticky floor. He knew all too well about Paul’s temper when it came to rudeness, especially from uniformed cops. The officer turned his attention toward the heavyset guy. Removing his glasses again, he forced a cocky-like smile. “And…you are …friend?”
Randy knew he had to break in or else Paul would jump the officer. If that happened he would have no one to tell his tale to. And besides, Randy never told a soul about his friend, Paul, getting the money. “Oh…that’s my friend, Big Paul. He’s just…” he glanced at his friend hoping he would know what he was up to, “…over protective of me, Williams. He doesn’t mean any harm.”
Officer Williams’ two partners joined him. “I see, Randy.” He put his glasses back on again, and stood up. “Well …I suggest you keep your, eh, friend under some sort of control, alright? Hate to follow you ‘round all day, waiting to give you both a ticket.” He withdrew a black pen. “Brand new ball point. The ink’s never seen paper yet.”
The cop smiled again, this time like a large mouth bass. “Oh…by the way, you haven’t ran through any fruit stands lately, Randy? We’ve got a pretty good description of a Peterbuilt truck matching yours.”
Randy just set there with a small grin crossing his lips. “No…can’t say I have. Ran right through it, you say?”
Officer Williams’ radio whined from his belt. He turned it down, and turned to leave, standing behind his cop friends.
“That’s the report we’re getting. I’m heading to the office right now to check up on it.”
“Have fun, old friend.”
Officer William said his goodbyes and went to the bar, ordering donuts and coffee for his police partners. He glanced in Randy’s direction one last time. Easing his sunglasses down giving his eyes a half moon look, he added, “Be seeing you soon…ole buddy.”
“You went fishin’ with ‘em?” asked Big Paul with surprise. “After he gave you a ticket and all?”
Randy looked to the officers that had just left, then to his friend across the table from him. “Yeah…I guess I did. You see, my father had passed away some weeks before, and I,” he glanced out the window watching more truck drivers walking toward the café, “just thought he might have some insight on it, knowing he knew my old man and all. And besides…I wanted to rub it in ‘bout the money, you know what I mean?” They both laughed.
Big Paul waved a hand, ordering himself some coffee. “Well, I guess I can understand that. Now…about that story? What happened?”
Randy watched the waitress pour them some more coffee, and told the story about how he had hit the fox, and what he thought he had seen in the middle of the highway.
“A little person, you say?”
“I know…sounds crazy doesn’t it, Paul?”
Paul sipped his coffee with a smile. “No it doesn’t my friend. You might not believe this yourself, but just two weeks ago, an old friend of mine said he almost caught one…alive.”
Randy almost spilt his coffee over the tabletop. “What? Almost caught one?”
Paul finished his mug, and waved at the waitress. “Like I said…he almost caught one. Said somethin’ ‘bout being attacked by wild bees or somethin’.”
Randy couldn’t believe the outcome of the meeting, as they paid their tab. Leaving the café, Randy asked Big Paul if he knew where the ordeal had taken place.
“From what I got of the story, old buddy, it happened somewhere close to the South Hills, close to Highway 26.”
Randy leaned up against his blue truck, not believing his ears. He thought it would be hard to get anyone to believe his story, and now he was having a hard time believing what he was hearing. “Jesus, Paul, that’s close to where I hit that fox!”
Paul moved his glasses up his nose, smiling. “Well, ole friend, what do ya say ‘bout us doing a little looking round ourselves?”
Randy grinned like a fox. “You know, we might just do that.”
Exchanging cell phone numbers, they both went their separate ways to finish their truck routes. The following day they agreed to call one another, and take a look at the South Hills, where Highway 26 ran through it.
As Randy’s semi drove off down the interstate, Big Paul watched something fall out from underneath it. Thinking it was a dead animal, he walked over for closer inspection. To his surprise it was a torn stuff dog, about the size of a real one. Picking it up and turning it around in his hand, he grinned.
His friend, Randy, must had been the one who supposedly drove through that Mexican’s rode side sale the other morning, smashing all of his stolen goods. Old Randy never liked those people anyway. No one was hurt, but the police was still checking it out.
As Big Paul got behind his truck’s steering wheel, he wondered how many more of those stuffed animals Randy had attached to the underside of his trailer?
Opening his eyes, he didn’t recognize the surroundings. What was this place? How did he get here? It resembled a house made from mud. The walls and ceiling were carved out roughly like someone had sliced through one side of a hill. Pictures of strange, small people were attached to the walls here and there.
He turned his head left and noticed a badly, hacked-out window that revealed large, blooming yellow flowers just beyond the outside window seal. Better inspection revealed the hut-like house to be tiny, maybe no larger than an Anti-Small’s kitchen. An uneven table sat beside the bed, or whatever he was laying on. Another door was half open and revealed the outside that lead to a small, grass trail disappearing over a small hill. Hugging either side of the trail was dozens of different species of plant life.
Trying to get up, he felt severe pain engulfing his hind legs like someone has just dipped them in hot oil. “Ohhh!” he found himself howling, as something walked into the mud-hut carrying a basket of acorns and nuts.
“Lay back!” ordered the tiny person, as he quickly walked over to the bed. “You’re in no shape to be moving about!” He placed the basket of food on the table, and sat back in a chair that was fashioned from a pine comb. “Eat up! You need your energy.”
HERETrying to use his hands to grab some food out of the basket, he found he could not. He didn’t have a hand! Instead, they were both red, looking paws. He was about to cry in terror when some memories of his life came rushing back to him. He wasn’t human after all! He was a fluffy, red-looking fox. And he resembled a messed-up rug that had been thrown from a moving train!
As if reading his thoughts, the tiny person replied, “You think you are an Anti-Small, still within the confines of Folklore, do you not?”
Thoughts swirled around inside his head, when he suddenly remembered. He was indeed a fox. When he was in the kingdom, he was like a human, or Anti-Small. But outside it, he was simply a red fox again.
HERE“The truck? It hit me…ran over me!” he cried, remembering the horrible thing that had happened to him. “I…remember! How…am I here with…?”
He stared at the tiny person, recalling quickly that it was a Small, just like the ones revealed in the pictures on the walls. The tiny person was older than the pictures, and his face revealed kindness like that of a fox cub’s mother who had just laid next to her baby, keeping it warm. Somehow, that face was like every happy childhood memory he ever had. He was an old looking Small called…a Wiser, or perhaps even an Elder; the dimples were red when he smiled, and the ancient eyes seemed to have every answer to one’s questions within them. A long, wavy white beard dangled from his face, and a white robe surrounded him, making the Small look wiser beyond his years.
The old Wiser rummaged through the basket, selecting three, dark red acorns. They were like oblong marbles, and glowing like a lightning bug had been trapped within. “With these…I have brought you back among the living.” With a tiny, prune-like hand, he handed the fox one. “Eat. You must regain your strength.”
Not knowing why, the fox opened his snout, accepting the acorn. It tasted like the greatest of all chickens, and believe him, he had had the best chickens ever.
“It…tastes…like…chicken,” he said, through bites of the small food. And instead of a simple mouthful, it appeared he had eaten a buffet.
“Yes,” said the old Small in the voice like one who had read a speech aloud for ten days, none stop, with hoarseness here and there. “It is any food you find most…attractive.” Taken one himself, he grinned. “I always favored Anti-Smalls’ bananas.” Biting into it, he swallowed it like it was a bowling ball, then smiled. “Yes…I do love those bananas!”
The fox laughed a little, as the old Small slowly ate the acorn, making faces as he did so. With thought, Red D. Foxx asked, “The four Smalls I was with…are they alright?”
“Yes,” answered the Wiser, pouring cider juice into a tall mug. Putting it to the fox’s snout, he replied, “Drink up. It…renews your soul.” The fox dove his snout into the cider, licking the mug clean. It tasted better than the alcohol of Canterbury where the giants lived.
Answering the fox’s query, the tiny person replied, “The four Smalls are the reason I have brought you back.” With that, he turned, rummaging through what resembled an oak desk. Pulling out five pages, one at a time, he laid them on the table next to the fox. They were old with age, yellowish and wrinkled, not unlike the Wiser’s body.
Foxx looked at the pages and then back to the Wiser. “What…are they?” He helped himself to another mug of cider, noticing with every drink that he felt stronger, and able to remember more about what had happened.
The Wiser pulled the pine comb chair closer to the bed, gathering up the papers. “They are Folklore’s. They belong in the ‘Book of Ka-Knear’.” He didn’t seem at the least disappointed at the next sentence, as he grinned, saying, “I…sort of…borrowed them from it.”
The red fox laughed aloud, feeling almost a hundred percent better now. “You mean…you took them without permission? Why…you little thief, you.”
At this, they both sort of laughed, as the Small leaned back in the chair, crossing his tiny legs that were clothed with the robe, all the way passed his feet if indeed he had any. “Sorry to disappoint you, my friend, but when…I…sort…of left the kingdom…I needed them. Not the entire books…just these five pages.”
Setting up now on his hind legs, the fox looked cursorily at the pages. “What…what’s in them?”
“That is why I brought you back, Red D. Foxx.”
The fox flinched at the Small mentioning his name, but made no remark about it.
“Ka-Knear wrote these centuries ago.” He went through the torn-out pages trying to find the right one. “Ah…here we go. It reads in Folklore’s prophecy:
“In the year of the last year, the fox shall come out of death to lead them against the Ratz…and the final Anti-Small War.” The one sentence was written in blue tree sap and almost took up the entire page. He glanced up at the fox whose eyes where wide as saucers. “That’s you, my friend. That is why I have brought you back.”
“But how? Why me? I’m…nothing but a fox?”
“Yes…my friend, and I am,” he glanced around the hut for signs of anyone spying on them, “Graham Berry…the Wiser who ran off so many years ago. You were my lawyer…and sucked back then as well. I had no choice but to run. But even back then…I knew you were the one.”
“The one?” questioned the fox with amazement. “I think you for bringing me back to life and all…but you’ve got the wrong fox…I’m telling you!”
Graham Berry looked up, smiling. “Who said I brought you back to life?”
“The acorns, and the cider? They brought me back to life…didn’t they?”
“Helped…yes. But…brought back to life…no. That…my dear fox, you did on your on.”
With that, Graham told the tale of how he had saved the fox from certain death.
“Remember, Foxx, when you and the little ones attempted to cross the waterless river?”
He rose up more on his hind legs, listening intently. His old eyes revealed what the old Wiser wanted. With intense concentration, he listened as the old one continued:
“After the three young Smalls crossed to the other side, the one left behind, the one that still sucks his thumb, was trapped there with you.” The fox remembered as if it had happened only moments before, as the old one went on: “You tried everything to save the young one’s life. When the truck was upon you, you slapped the little one across the road with your tail…as a baseball player hits a home run. I tell you, Foxx, you’d been good with the Red Sox.”
Red Foxx had no idea what the Wiser was referring to, as the thoughts and memories of the manmade monstrosity came into focus as clearly as the nose on his face. He remembered the heat of the waterless river, the smell of deadly oil and Anti-Small fuel, and the sight of massive round wheels like rolling boulders slamming his way. Red Foxx could see the whale-size thing’s engulfing his body, as he, at the last second, slapped the Small across to the other side where it landed in the grass, safely next to the others.
The sound of everything that was evil, more terrifying than any chicken farmer blasting his shotgun, swallowed him, as the round monsters ate at his body, tearing the flesh from their places as a bear would rip the hide from a tree. The thoughts and memories made the fox ducked back down to the safety of his bed, as Graham went on:
“There, after the truck had gone, and the Smalls leaving you behind for dead, I found you upon the road. You were barely alive, my friend, but you were alive. From there, I used my Na-tuate twig, summoning the turtles of distant Pearl Lake. They were the ones that carried you here to my dwelling. I don’t really know how, my friend, but you cured yourself.”
Red Foxx didn’t believe what he had heard. How could he cure himself, after getting run over by a mountain? “I…don’t understand, Graham? I…thought you brought me back with,” he gestured at the half-full basket of acorns and empty mug of cider, “those?”
Graham chuckled like one who had had too many bottles of whiskey. “No, my friend, they only mended you, being just remedies out in the wood. The animals call them permanently acorns, because they heal you with whatever food you love most. And, besides,” he took another one, “I love bananas. No, Foxx, you must not thank I cured you, ‘cause death was so close.”
The fox rose back up some more, eating and drinking more of the provisions, with a few fuzzy nuts that he just realized was nearby. He knew that the old one was a Wiser with the power to heal, but he would listen to him just the same, after all, he owed him his life.
“In your haste to escape, Foxx you did not notice what the Anti-Smalls call potholes.” Seeing the puzzled look on the fox’s face, he went on. “Anyway,” he took another acorn for himself, “that stretch of roadway is covered with them…sort of like freckles on my arms.” He lifted his arm in the air with the silk sleeve falling back revealing freckles all over, and the fox stared at it with amazement. It did indeed resemble miniature holes.
“Well, not to say, you tripped, falling in one, as the big rig struck more of them. I’m telling you…the potholes in that road could hide a medium-size boar. As the truck jumped and bounced like gigantic jackrabbits in the forest, it did strike you, but instead of wheeling you underneath, it threw you to one side. If any of the Smalls would of thought to look, they would of seen you still breathing. But, alas, they are babies, and didn’t know what to do.”
Red Foxx leaned back in his bed of straw, laughing aloud. In his best Irish accent, he said, “’Tis da funniest story I’d ever ‘eard, me friend. How …can holes have pots in ‘em? Potholes? I’ve never ‘erd such!” Again, he buried his snout in his front paws, laughing to almost hysterics.
Graham looked at him like an English teacher to a student that had cheated on every subject. “No, no, my friend. There are no pots in the holes, but manmade, or Anti-Small’s leftovers they leave behind when they create…such waterless rivers…or highways.” A grin like that of an opossum’s crossed his face, as he continued, “And besides…that driver had already struck a fruit stand.”
If you enjoyed this little taste, than go ahead....check out www.amazon.com/author/terryparker
Thank you.
Until next time we meet.....
T.A. Parker
In the following you will be able to read the 1st 20 pages of 'The Kingdom of Folklore Book II: enjoy:
PART II
Discovery
Chapter 5
Anti-Smalls
Blue Hills of Canterbury
The eighteen-wheeler pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of an overnight café. The giant, white sign out front referred to the place as ‘The Mug’. The truck slowly roamed the lot, soon parking between two other similar trucks.
Stepping out of the truck’s cab was an Anti-Small dressed in a red flannel checkered shirt and wearing a blue, baseball cap. Appearing apprehensive, he approached the small café that resembled a small, red brick school. It even had a big bell out front in shape of an upturned mug with coffee pouring into thin air. What he had seen earlier in the day would make for good conversation even though no one here would likely believe him.
Opening the door, he heard the familiar sound of the bell as it tapped the inside of the door’s glass. The truck driver nodded greetings to the five people scattered within. The sounds and smells of sizzling eggs and bacon were familiar to him like the road was to a biker.
He recognized two of the café’s patrons right away. There was Big Paul who was seated in the back booth. He was downing a sandwich and sucking down a large mug of coffee. Another one was a woman with long, flowing black hair. She was seated closer to the exit, next to three other women. The truck driver nodded greetings, as he took a seat two booths away. He knew her by the CB handle ‘Long Haired Angel’, and had just passed her up on the highway some ways back.
The waitress walked up, taken his order. She wore the usual white outfit, with an apron tied around her waist. The truck driver told her what he wanted: two scrambled eggs, three slices of bacon and a large mug of coffee. The waitress turned, just as the other trucker, Big Paul, slid into the booth. He was dressed in a blue, long sleeve shirt and jeans.
He glanced at the driver that just came in. “Well, I’ll be…if it ain’t Ole Randy! How you been…ole buddy?” he asked, revealing three teeth that were almost hidden by a thick mustache that dangled from his lips, covering most of his mouth. The open window behind him revealed three large, eighteen-wheelers making the highway, disappearing into the slow moving traffic.
As Randy watched the trucks leaving, he removed his cap and ran his fingers through his thick curly, black hair. He had just entered the café himself, a day after hitting the fox and seeing the little person. After some recollecting of what had happened, he started to wonder rather or not it actually took place at all.
Shaking Big Paul’s hand, Randy smiled. “Well…guess it’s been alright?” He looked around the establishment like someone might hear what he was about to say.
“If I told you somethin’ would you take it seriously?”
The trucker named Big Paul leaned back in the booth, fingers interlocking behind his head.
“Randy…hell, man, you know me? I would believe anything you said. Remember da money? Didn’t tell a soul.”
He was referring to the time Randy had discovered five thousand dollars on the road, hidden away in a briefcase.
It was pouring down rain on that particular day, but he helped his friend just the same. Big Paul played lookout for the cops or whoever else might drive by. As it so happened, no one came by, or for that matter, no one even asked about the money. So he and Randy did what any other good old country boys would have done: they kept it, splitting it amongst themselves.
The waitress came back giving Randy his breakfast. Watching her leave, he thanked her. Eating his eggs, he stared through his sunglasses to Paul.
“It’s nothin’ like that, Ole Buddy, I assure you. You…probably won’t even believe it. Hell…I don’t even know if I do.” He scooped up another helping of eggs and a slice of bacon, washing it down with a gulp of hot, steaming coffee.
Big Paul started wondering, looking around the establishment as if spies where everywhere. With a whisper, he asked, “What is it? Find a bunch of drugs or somethin’?”
Randy grinned. “No…no, nothing like that, I assure you.”
“Than what?” questioned Paul, helping himself to one of Randy’s slices of bacon. The suspense was killing him. He started to wonder rather his friend had found a dead body or something?
Finishing off the eggs and bacon, Randy adjusted his glasses, and wondered weather it was a good idea to tell his old friend about this. The time the money ordeal happened between them, Big Paul was right about not telling anyone about it, but he starting spending it so quick the police got suspicious. No one ever was arrested, but now the cops were watching them like hawks.
“You won’t believe it, Paul?” he repeated, hoping he wouldn’t regret the words later. Drinking more of the coffee, he eyed his friend through one good eye.
“Just tell me, alright? It can’t be that weird?”
Randy looked out the window again and saw three police officers walking toward the café. He wondered if they would overhear him, calling the men in white to come and take him away. Then again, the cops would most likely just follow him around as usual.
It was now or never as the door opened letting the officers inside. Right away Randy recognized one of them as Parker Williams. He was an old friend he met some years back, and one of the cops that had followed him around after the money ordeal. Later, he had given Randy a speeding ticket. Afterwards, they got together and went fishing three days later.
“Oh…it’s just that…” Randy started, as Officer Williams walked up to his table, taking his mirror sunglasses off. His uniform looked like a steamroller had just pressed it. His black, curly hair was slicked all the way back, looking just combed. Randy figured his friend, the cop, probably washed the uniform and fixed his hair at least twenty times a day.
“Well…I’ll be a money’s uncle if it isn’t Randy Samuel? How’s it been going? Got any speeding tickets lately?” butted in the police officer laughing like a hyena. He had changed the ‘monkey’ in his sentence to ‘money’ just to get a rise out of Randy. At the same instant, he slid in the booth right next to Big Paul. The other two officers turned around headed toward the bathroom.
“Have a seat,” Paul said in irritation, desperately wanting to hear the rest of Randy’s story. But he knew Randy sure as hell wouldn’t spill the beans now, especially with Wyatt Earp setting amongst them.
Randy finished his coffee, and looked up at his old friend, the police officer. He heard the ‘money’ remark and right away knew what it meant. Parker had been jealous ever since they discovered the money. Big Paul wouldn’t stop running to Wal-Mart every other day, so they reported it and later was rewarded with all of it when no one filed a claim.
It had been way over three years since the money ordeal, Randy getting the ticket, and of course Randy and the cop going fishing together.
The act of kindness was due to the fact their fathers knew each other. Not to mention Parker was eager to share in the wealth.
When Officer Williams pulled Randy over three years before, he noticed the name on the driver’s license. With a large grin, he questioned, “Are you kin to old man Samuel?’ Randy had said it was his father.
That was how it all happened. Of course the friendly notion of fishing didn’t make Randy give Parker a dime of the money. Even though they went fishing some days afterward, Randy was issued a speeding ticket for doing 70 in a 65-mile per hour speed zone.
Still smiling, Randy looked about the café where they were all at today. “Been doin’ okay, I guess, Williams. And no…to answer your question…I haven’t gotten even more speeding tickets since you gave me that last one.” He eyeballed his friend, Paul, and winked. “And…no…we’ve haven’t found anymore money laying around, either.”
The cop smirked like a bully in high school, but finally forced a smile while putting his mirrored sunglasses back on. “I hope not, friend. But to be on the safe side, I’ll run you over the radio. Never can tell? Might of forgot ‘bout one?”
Big Paul had been setting there all along minding his own business. He didn’t want to butt in, but that last remark was all he could take. “You know, Officer, if Randy says he ain’t got no more tickets, or found no mo money…then he ain’t, understand?”
Randy lowered his head, looking at the sticky floor. He knew all too well about Paul’s temper when it came to rudeness, especially from uniformed cops. The officer turned his attention toward the heavyset guy. Removing his glasses again, he forced a cocky-like smile. “And…you are …friend?”
Randy knew he had to break in or else Paul would jump the officer. If that happened he would have no one to tell his tale to. And besides, Randy never told a soul about his friend, Paul, getting the money. “Oh…that’s my friend, Big Paul. He’s just…” he glanced at his friend hoping he would know what he was up to, “…over protective of me, Williams. He doesn’t mean any harm.”
Officer Williams’ two partners joined him. “I see, Randy.” He put his glasses back on again, and stood up. “Well …I suggest you keep your, eh, friend under some sort of control, alright? Hate to follow you ‘round all day, waiting to give you both a ticket.” He withdrew a black pen. “Brand new ball point. The ink’s never seen paper yet.”
The cop smiled again, this time like a large mouth bass. “Oh…by the way, you haven’t ran through any fruit stands lately, Randy? We’ve got a pretty good description of a Peterbuilt truck matching yours.”
Randy just set there with a small grin crossing his lips. “No…can’t say I have. Ran right through it, you say?”
Officer Williams’ radio whined from his belt. He turned it down, and turned to leave, standing behind his cop friends.
“That’s the report we’re getting. I’m heading to the office right now to check up on it.”
“Have fun, old friend.”
Officer William said his goodbyes and went to the bar, ordering donuts and coffee for his police partners. He glanced in Randy’s direction one last time. Easing his sunglasses down giving his eyes a half moon look, he added, “Be seeing you soon…ole buddy.”
“You went fishin’ with ‘em?” asked Big Paul with surprise. “After he gave you a ticket and all?”
Randy looked to the officers that had just left, then to his friend across the table from him. “Yeah…I guess I did. You see, my father had passed away some weeks before, and I,” he glanced out the window watching more truck drivers walking toward the café, “just thought he might have some insight on it, knowing he knew my old man and all. And besides…I wanted to rub it in ‘bout the money, you know what I mean?” They both laughed.
Big Paul waved a hand, ordering himself some coffee. “Well, I guess I can understand that. Now…about that story? What happened?”
Randy watched the waitress pour them some more coffee, and told the story about how he had hit the fox, and what he thought he had seen in the middle of the highway.
“A little person, you say?”
“I know…sounds crazy doesn’t it, Paul?”
Paul sipped his coffee with a smile. “No it doesn’t my friend. You might not believe this yourself, but just two weeks ago, an old friend of mine said he almost caught one…alive.”
Randy almost spilt his coffee over the tabletop. “What? Almost caught one?”
Paul finished his mug, and waved at the waitress. “Like I said…he almost caught one. Said somethin’ ‘bout being attacked by wild bees or somethin’.”
Randy couldn’t believe the outcome of the meeting, as they paid their tab. Leaving the café, Randy asked Big Paul if he knew where the ordeal had taken place.
“From what I got of the story, old buddy, it happened somewhere close to the South Hills, close to Highway 26.”
Randy leaned up against his blue truck, not believing his ears. He thought it would be hard to get anyone to believe his story, and now he was having a hard time believing what he was hearing. “Jesus, Paul, that’s close to where I hit that fox!”
Paul moved his glasses up his nose, smiling. “Well, ole friend, what do ya say ‘bout us doing a little looking round ourselves?”
Randy grinned like a fox. “You know, we might just do that.”
Exchanging cell phone numbers, they both went their separate ways to finish their truck routes. The following day they agreed to call one another, and take a look at the South Hills, where Highway 26 ran through it.
As Randy’s semi drove off down the interstate, Big Paul watched something fall out from underneath it. Thinking it was a dead animal, he walked over for closer inspection. To his surprise it was a torn stuff dog, about the size of a real one. Picking it up and turning it around in his hand, he grinned.
His friend, Randy, must had been the one who supposedly drove through that Mexican’s rode side sale the other morning, smashing all of his stolen goods. Old Randy never liked those people anyway. No one was hurt, but the police was still checking it out.
As Big Paul got behind his truck’s steering wheel, he wondered how many more of those stuffed animals Randy had attached to the underside of his trailer?
Opening his eyes, he didn’t recognize the surroundings. What was this place? How did he get here? It resembled a house made from mud. The walls and ceiling were carved out roughly like someone had sliced through one side of a hill. Pictures of strange, small people were attached to the walls here and there.
He turned his head left and noticed a badly, hacked-out window that revealed large, blooming yellow flowers just beyond the outside window seal. Better inspection revealed the hut-like house to be tiny, maybe no larger than an Anti-Small’s kitchen. An uneven table sat beside the bed, or whatever he was laying on. Another door was half open and revealed the outside that lead to a small, grass trail disappearing over a small hill. Hugging either side of the trail was dozens of different species of plant life.
Trying to get up, he felt severe pain engulfing his hind legs like someone has just dipped them in hot oil. “Ohhh!” he found himself howling, as something walked into the mud-hut carrying a basket of acorns and nuts.
“Lay back!” ordered the tiny person, as he quickly walked over to the bed. “You’re in no shape to be moving about!” He placed the basket of food on the table, and sat back in a chair that was fashioned from a pine comb. “Eat up! You need your energy.”
HERETrying to use his hands to grab some food out of the basket, he found he could not. He didn’t have a hand! Instead, they were both red, looking paws. He was about to cry in terror when some memories of his life came rushing back to him. He wasn’t human after all! He was a fluffy, red-looking fox. And he resembled a messed-up rug that had been thrown from a moving train!
As if reading his thoughts, the tiny person replied, “You think you are an Anti-Small, still within the confines of Folklore, do you not?”
Thoughts swirled around inside his head, when he suddenly remembered. He was indeed a fox. When he was in the kingdom, he was like a human, or Anti-Small. But outside it, he was simply a red fox again.
HERE“The truck? It hit me…ran over me!” he cried, remembering the horrible thing that had happened to him. “I…remember! How…am I here with…?”
He stared at the tiny person, recalling quickly that it was a Small, just like the ones revealed in the pictures on the walls. The tiny person was older than the pictures, and his face revealed kindness like that of a fox cub’s mother who had just laid next to her baby, keeping it warm. Somehow, that face was like every happy childhood memory he ever had. He was an old looking Small called…a Wiser, or perhaps even an Elder; the dimples were red when he smiled, and the ancient eyes seemed to have every answer to one’s questions within them. A long, wavy white beard dangled from his face, and a white robe surrounded him, making the Small look wiser beyond his years.
The old Wiser rummaged through the basket, selecting three, dark red acorns. They were like oblong marbles, and glowing like a lightning bug had been trapped within. “With these…I have brought you back among the living.” With a tiny, prune-like hand, he handed the fox one. “Eat. You must regain your strength.”
Not knowing why, the fox opened his snout, accepting the acorn. It tasted like the greatest of all chickens, and believe him, he had had the best chickens ever.
“It…tastes…like…chicken,” he said, through bites of the small food. And instead of a simple mouthful, it appeared he had eaten a buffet.
“Yes,” said the old Small in the voice like one who had read a speech aloud for ten days, none stop, with hoarseness here and there. “It is any food you find most…attractive.” Taken one himself, he grinned. “I always favored Anti-Smalls’ bananas.” Biting into it, he swallowed it like it was a bowling ball, then smiled. “Yes…I do love those bananas!”
The fox laughed a little, as the old Small slowly ate the acorn, making faces as he did so. With thought, Red D. Foxx asked, “The four Smalls I was with…are they alright?”
“Yes,” answered the Wiser, pouring cider juice into a tall mug. Putting it to the fox’s snout, he replied, “Drink up. It…renews your soul.” The fox dove his snout into the cider, licking the mug clean. It tasted better than the alcohol of Canterbury where the giants lived.
Answering the fox’s query, the tiny person replied, “The four Smalls are the reason I have brought you back.” With that, he turned, rummaging through what resembled an oak desk. Pulling out five pages, one at a time, he laid them on the table next to the fox. They were old with age, yellowish and wrinkled, not unlike the Wiser’s body.
Foxx looked at the pages and then back to the Wiser. “What…are they?” He helped himself to another mug of cider, noticing with every drink that he felt stronger, and able to remember more about what had happened.
The Wiser pulled the pine comb chair closer to the bed, gathering up the papers. “They are Folklore’s. They belong in the ‘Book of Ka-Knear’.” He didn’t seem at the least disappointed at the next sentence, as he grinned, saying, “I…sort of…borrowed them from it.”
The red fox laughed aloud, feeling almost a hundred percent better now. “You mean…you took them without permission? Why…you little thief, you.”
At this, they both sort of laughed, as the Small leaned back in the chair, crossing his tiny legs that were clothed with the robe, all the way passed his feet if indeed he had any. “Sorry to disappoint you, my friend, but when…I…sort…of left the kingdom…I needed them. Not the entire books…just these five pages.”
Setting up now on his hind legs, the fox looked cursorily at the pages. “What…what’s in them?”
“That is why I brought you back, Red D. Foxx.”
The fox flinched at the Small mentioning his name, but made no remark about it.
“Ka-Knear wrote these centuries ago.” He went through the torn-out pages trying to find the right one. “Ah…here we go. It reads in Folklore’s prophecy:
“In the year of the last year, the fox shall come out of death to lead them against the Ratz…and the final Anti-Small War.” The one sentence was written in blue tree sap and almost took up the entire page. He glanced up at the fox whose eyes where wide as saucers. “That’s you, my friend. That is why I have brought you back.”
“But how? Why me? I’m…nothing but a fox?”
“Yes…my friend, and I am,” he glanced around the hut for signs of anyone spying on them, “Graham Berry…the Wiser who ran off so many years ago. You were my lawyer…and sucked back then as well. I had no choice but to run. But even back then…I knew you were the one.”
“The one?” questioned the fox with amazement. “I think you for bringing me back to life and all…but you’ve got the wrong fox…I’m telling you!”
Graham Berry looked up, smiling. “Who said I brought you back to life?”
“The acorns, and the cider? They brought me back to life…didn’t they?”
“Helped…yes. But…brought back to life…no. That…my dear fox, you did on your on.”
With that, Graham told the tale of how he had saved the fox from certain death.
“Remember, Foxx, when you and the little ones attempted to cross the waterless river?”
He rose up more on his hind legs, listening intently. His old eyes revealed what the old Wiser wanted. With intense concentration, he listened as the old one continued:
“After the three young Smalls crossed to the other side, the one left behind, the one that still sucks his thumb, was trapped there with you.” The fox remembered as if it had happened only moments before, as the old one went on: “You tried everything to save the young one’s life. When the truck was upon you, you slapped the little one across the road with your tail…as a baseball player hits a home run. I tell you, Foxx, you’d been good with the Red Sox.”
Red Foxx had no idea what the Wiser was referring to, as the thoughts and memories of the manmade monstrosity came into focus as clearly as the nose on his face. He remembered the heat of the waterless river, the smell of deadly oil and Anti-Small fuel, and the sight of massive round wheels like rolling boulders slamming his way. Red Foxx could see the whale-size thing’s engulfing his body, as he, at the last second, slapped the Small across to the other side where it landed in the grass, safely next to the others.
The sound of everything that was evil, more terrifying than any chicken farmer blasting his shotgun, swallowed him, as the round monsters ate at his body, tearing the flesh from their places as a bear would rip the hide from a tree. The thoughts and memories made the fox ducked back down to the safety of his bed, as Graham went on:
“There, after the truck had gone, and the Smalls leaving you behind for dead, I found you upon the road. You were barely alive, my friend, but you were alive. From there, I used my Na-tuate twig, summoning the turtles of distant Pearl Lake. They were the ones that carried you here to my dwelling. I don’t really know how, my friend, but you cured yourself.”
Red Foxx didn’t believe what he had heard. How could he cure himself, after getting run over by a mountain? “I…don’t understand, Graham? I…thought you brought me back with,” he gestured at the half-full basket of acorns and empty mug of cider, “those?”
Graham chuckled like one who had had too many bottles of whiskey. “No, my friend, they only mended you, being just remedies out in the wood. The animals call them permanently acorns, because they heal you with whatever food you love most. And, besides,” he took another one, “I love bananas. No, Foxx, you must not thank I cured you, ‘cause death was so close.”
The fox rose back up some more, eating and drinking more of the provisions, with a few fuzzy nuts that he just realized was nearby. He knew that the old one was a Wiser with the power to heal, but he would listen to him just the same, after all, he owed him his life.
“In your haste to escape, Foxx you did not notice what the Anti-Smalls call potholes.” Seeing the puzzled look on the fox’s face, he went on. “Anyway,” he took another acorn for himself, “that stretch of roadway is covered with them…sort of like freckles on my arms.” He lifted his arm in the air with the silk sleeve falling back revealing freckles all over, and the fox stared at it with amazement. It did indeed resemble miniature holes.
“Well, not to say, you tripped, falling in one, as the big rig struck more of them. I’m telling you…the potholes in that road could hide a medium-size boar. As the truck jumped and bounced like gigantic jackrabbits in the forest, it did strike you, but instead of wheeling you underneath, it threw you to one side. If any of the Smalls would of thought to look, they would of seen you still breathing. But, alas, they are babies, and didn’t know what to do.”
Red Foxx leaned back in his bed of straw, laughing aloud. In his best Irish accent, he said, “’Tis da funniest story I’d ever ‘eard, me friend. How …can holes have pots in ‘em? Potholes? I’ve never ‘erd such!” Again, he buried his snout in his front paws, laughing to almost hysterics.
Graham looked at him like an English teacher to a student that had cheated on every subject. “No, no, my friend. There are no pots in the holes, but manmade, or Anti-Small’s leftovers they leave behind when they create…such waterless rivers…or highways.” A grin like that of an opossum’s crossed his face, as he continued, “And besides…that driver had already struck a fruit stand.”
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Until next time we meet.....
T.A. Parker