“Help, help!” they cried.
But no one answered. The fat orange blossoms ranged over the helpless boggie bodies, squirming and moaning with desire. A bloated blossom fastened to Spam’s boggie belly and began its relentless sucking motion; he felt his flesh drawn up to the center of the flower. Then, as Sam looked on in horror, the petals released with a resounding pop!, leaving a dark, malignant weal where the horrid pucker had been. Spam, powerless to save himself or his companions, watched terrified as the nowpanting sepals prepared to administer their final, deadly soul kiss.
But just as the long, red stamen descended to its unspeakable task, Spam thought he heard the snatch of a lilting song not far distant, and growing louder! It was a muddled, drowsy voice that sang words that were not words to Spam’s ears:
Though mad with fear, all strained to the rising melody sung by someone who sounded like he had terminal mumps:
Suddenly a brightly colored figure burst through the foliage, swathed in a long mantle of hair the consistency of muchchewed Turkish taffy. It was something like a man, but not much; it stood six feet tall, but could not have weighed more than thirty-five pounds, dirt included. Standing with his long arms dangling almost to the ground, the singer’s body was covered with a pattern of startling hues, ranging from schizoid red to psychopathique azure. Around his pipestem neck hung a dozen strands of beaded charms and from the center, an amulet imprinted with the elf-rune Kelvinator. Through the oily snaggles of hair stared two huge eyeballs that bulged from their sockets, so bloodshot that they appeared more like two baseballs of very lean bacon.
“Ooooooooooh, wow!” said the creature, assaying the situation quickly. Then, half loping, half rolling to the foot of the murderous tree, he sat on his meatless haunches and peered at it with his colorless, saucerlike irises; he chanted an incantation that sounded to Frito like a hacking cough:
Thus speaking, the withered apparition raised his spidery hand in a two-fingered “V” sign and uttered an eldritch spelclass="underline"
The towering plant shivered and the coils fell from its victims like yesterday’s macaroni, and they sprang free with joyful yelps. As they watched with fascination, the great green menace whimpered like a nursling and sucked its own pistils with ill temper. The boggies retrieved their garments, and Frito sighed with relief to find the Ring still firmly Bostiched to his pocket.
“Oh thank you,” they all squealed, wagging their tails, “thank you, thank you!” But their savior said nothing. As if unaware of their presence, he stiffened like the tree and gasped, “Gah gah gah” while his pupils opened and closed like nervous umbrellas. His knees buckled and unbuckled, then buckled again and he fell to the mossy earth in a ball of frantically thrashing hair. He foamed at the mouth and screamed, “Oh God get ’em off me! They’re all over the place, and green! Argh! Org! OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!” He slapped at his hair and body hysterically.
Frito blinked with astonishment and grabbed his Ring, but did not put it on. Spam, stooping over the prostrate freak, smiled and offered his hand.
“Beggin’ your leave,” he said, “can you tell us where—”
“Oh no no no! Look at all of ’em! All over the place! Keep ’em away from me!”
“Keep who away?” asked Moxie politely.
“Them!” screamed the stricken stranger, pointing to his own head. He then sprang to his horny feet and ran directly at the trunk of the hickey tree and, charging full tilt with his head lowered, butted it a mighty lick, and, before the startled eyes of the boggies, passed out cold. Frito filled his narrow-brimmed hat with clear water from a nearby trickle and approached him, but the stunned figure opened his marbled eyes and gave another high-pitched scream.
“No, no, not water!”
Frito jumped back with fright and the skinny creature wobbled to his feet and knuckles.
“But thangs loads anyhoo,” said the stranger, “the rush always arfects me like dat.” Offering a filthy hand, the oddspeaking stranger smiled a toothless grin. “Tim Benzedrine, ad yen serbice.”
Frito and the rest solemnly introduced themselves, all still casting a worried eye toward the kissing plant, which was sticking out its stamen at them.
“Oh wow, doan’ worby about him,” wheezed Tim, “he just sulking. Yoo cats noo aroun’ here?”
Frito guardedly told him that they were on their way to Whee, but had become lost. “Can you tell us how to find our way there?”
“Oh wow, oh sure,” laughed Tim, “thad’s easy. But led’s split to my pad firz, I wan’ yoo meet my chick. She name Hashberry.”
The boggies agreed, for their stores of potato salad were gone. Gathering their packs, they curiously followed after the wildly zigzagging Benzedrine, who occasionally halted to rap with a likely looking rock or stump, giving them time to catch up. As they circled through the menacing trees aimlessly, Tim Benzedrine’s throat croaked merrily:
A few moments later they broke into a clearing on a low hill. There was a ramshackle hovel shaped like a rubber boot with a little chimney that emitted a thick fog of sick-looking green smoke.
“Oh wow,” squeaked Tim, “she’s home!” Led by Tim, the company approached the unprepossessing little hut. A flashing white light blinked from its only window, at the top. As they stepped over the threshold, littered with cigarette papers, broken pipes, and burnt-out brain cells, Tim called: