Page 39 - Unlikely Stories 2

Earl King and his Puppet Thing

Of course, I am not telling you to rob fresh graves, am I?” The scrawny
exophthalmic assistant shook his head violently. “And I’m not telling
you to dismember helpless hospital patients, am I?” Again a wordless
but vehement denial. “And I’m certainly not telling you to attack young
girls on the road, and cut their bodies up into little pieces, am I?”
Didjiridu clutched his hat, squeezing his head to the point of facial
compression. He twisted in all directions, reacting to the projectile
paths of logic ricocheting within his brain. From the audience small
voices, unsuppressed and growing bolder, supplied the morally correct
answer—but it went unheeded. “Uh, yes, you’re not telling me, boss. I
mean, you’re telling me that you’re not, aren’t you? Or am I not
supposed to tell you that you told me? But how can you tell if I know
you didn’t tell me, if I don’t tell you I know you didn’t tell me what you
told me?”
The scientist, who had begun trembling during the other puppet’s
scrambled recitation, exploded in fury. He swatted Didjiridu right and
left, driving him off stage in a torrent of oaths and blows. “Enough,
you mental midget! You blockhead! Take that—and that and that! Now
get out of here and bring me what I need! A tongue and a leg for my
Living Doll! And make it snappy! Go, go, you numbskull! Go!”
Calamari returned to his lab bench, met by a smattering of
disapproval uttered by children experienced in life sufficiently to
recognize unfair treatment, but not broad satire. The doctor, apparently
stung by this criticism, whirled around to confront his accusers. “Hah!”
he snarled, lashing out like a baited bear. “You think I’m too hard on
him, eh? You don’t like the way I treat poor Didjiridu, is that it?”
“Yes, yes!” cried the children, flushed with righteousness.
“Well, that’s just too bad! I’m the mad scientist here, and I’ll do what
I want! Now, stop bothering me with your silly complaints and let me
get down to work here. Hmm-hmm-hmm, oh Living Doll, I’m so in
love with you!” He flipped the table over; it was mounted on a swivel.
“Hee-hee-hee!” gloated Calamari. “Old Griselda doesn’t suspect a
thing! I’ve been building my Living Doll right here under her nose for
months!”
Strapped to the newly-revealed surface was a hideous figure,
misshapen and grotesque even by the standards of a decadent and
impoverished puppetry. Loosely stitched yarn of many colors bound
together a patchwork of gaudy fabric scraps and moldering bits of fur

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