And an awakening nation heard the famous weatherman say: "This ring-tailed rascal is one of the most popular characters here at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Go ahead, tell us your name."
And in a high squeaky voice, Joe Winder gamely replied: "Hi, Willard! My name is Robbie Raccoon."
"You're certainly a big fella, Robbie. Judging by the size of that tummy, I'd say you've been snooping through a few garbage cans!"
To which Robbie Raccoon responded: "Look who's talking, lard-ass."
Briefly the smile disappeared from Willard's face, and his eyes searched desperately off-camera for the director. A few feet away, Charles Chelsea tasted bile creeping up his throat. The burglars seemed pleased to be standing so close to a genuine TV star.
A young woman wearing earphones and a jogging suit held up a cue card, and valiantly the weatherman attempted to polish off the segment: "Well, spirits are obviously running high for the big Summerfest Jubilee, so pack up the family and come down to" – where Willard paused to find his place on the card – "Key Largo, Florida, and enjoy the fun! Yon can swim with a real dolphin, or go sliding headfirst down the Wet Willy or bust some broncos with Wild Bill Hiccup. And you kids can get your picture taken with all your favorite animal characters, even Robbie Raccoon."
Obligingly Joe Winder cocked his head and twirled his tail. Willard appeared to regain his jolly demeanor. He prodded at something concealed under one of the fuzzy raccoon arms. "It looks like our ole pal Robbie's got a surprise for Uncle Willard, am I right?"
From Winder came a strained chirp: "Fraid not, Mr. Scott."
"Aw, come on. Whatcha got in that paw?"
"Nothing."
"Let's see it, you little scamp. Is it candy? A toy? Whatcha got there?"
And seventeen million Americans heard Robbie Raccoon say: "That would be a gun, Willard."
Chelsea's ankles got rubbery and he began to sway. The burglars each grabbed an elbow.
"My, oh, my," Willard Scott said with a nervous chuckle. "It even looks like a real gun."
"Doesn't it, though," said the giant raccoon.
Please, thought Bud Schwartz, not on national TV. Not with little kids watching.
But before anything terrible could happen, Willard Scott adroitly steered the conversation from firearms to a tropical depression brewing in the eastern Caribbean. Joe Winder was able to slip away when the weatherman launched into a laxative commercial.
On the path to the Cimarron Saloon, Charles Chelsea and the burglars heard howling behind them; a rollicking if muffled cry that emanated from deep inside the globular raccoon head.
"Aaaahhh-oooooooooo," Joe Winder sang. "We're the werewolves of Florida! Aaaahhh-oooooooooo!"
The smoke from Moe Strickland's cigar hung like a purple shroud in The Catacombs. Uncle Ely's Elves had voted unanimously to boycott the Jubilee, and Uncle" Ely would honor their decision.
"The cowboy getups look stupid," he agreed.
The actor who played the elf Jeremiah, and sometimes Dumpling, lit a joint to counteract the stogie fumes. He declared, "We're not clowns, we're actors. So fuck Kingsbury."
That's right," said another elf. "Fuck Mr. X."
Morale in the troupe had been frightfully low since the newspapers had picked up the phony story about a hepatitis outbreak. Several of the actor-elves had advocated changing the name of the act to escape the stigma. Others wanted to hire a Miami attorney and file a lawsuit.
Moe Strickland said, "I heard they're auditioning up at Six Flags."
"Fuck Six Flags," said Jeremiah-Dumpling elf. "Probably another damn midget routine."
"Our options are somewhat limited," Moe Strickland said, trying to put it as delicately as possible.
"So fuck our options."
The mood began to simmer after they'd passed the joint around about four times. Moe Strickland eventually stubbed out the cigar and began to enjoy himself. On the street above, a high-school marching band practiced the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Filtered through six feet of stone, it didn't sound half bad.
One of the actor-elves said, "Did I mention there's a guy living in our dumpster?"
"You're kidding," said Moe Strickland.
"No, Uncle Ely, it's true. We met him yesterday."
"In the dumpster?"
"He fixed it up nice like you wouldn't believe. We gave him a beer."
Moe Strickland wondered how a homeless person could've found a way into The Catacombs, or why he'd want to stay where it was so musty and humid and bleak.
"A nice guy," said the actor-elf. "A real gentleman."
"We played poker," added Jeremiah-Dumpling. "Cleaned his fucking clock."
"But he was a sport about it. A gentleman, like I said."
Again Moe Strickland raised the subject of Six Flags. "Atlanta's a great town," he said. "Lots of pretty women."
"We'll need some new songs."
"That's okay," said Moe Strickland. "Some new songs would be good. We'll have the whole bus ride to work on the arrangements. Luther can bring his guitar."
"Why not?" said Jeremiah-Dumpling. "Fuck Kingsbury anyhow."
"That's the spirit," Moe Strickland said.
From the end of the tunnel came the sound of boots on brick. A man bellowed furiously.
"Damn," said one of the actor-elves. He dropped the nub of the joint and ground it to ash under a long, curly-toed, foam-rubber foot.
The boots and the bellowing belonged to a jittery Spence Mooher, who was Pedro Luz's right-hand man. Mooher was agitated because none of the other security guards had shown up for work on this, the busiest day of the summer. Mooher had been up all night patrolling the Amazing Kingdom, and now it looked as if he'd be up all day.
"I smell weed," he said to Moe Strickland.
In this field Mooher could honestly boast of expertise; he had served six years with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration until he was involuntarily relieved of duty. There had been vague accusations of unprofessional conduct in Puerto Rico – something about a missing flash roll, twenty or thirty thousand dollars. As Spence Mooher was quick to point out, no charges were ever filed.
He shared his new boss's affinity for anabolic steroids, but he strongly disapproved of recreational drugs. Steroids hardened the body, but pot and cocaine softened the mind.
"Who's got the weed?" he demanded of Uncle Ely's Elves.
"Lighten up, Spence," sighed Moe Strickland.
"Why aren't you shitheads up top in rehearsal? Everybody's supposed to be there."
"Because we're boycotting," said Jeremiah-Dumpling. "We're not going to be in the damn show."
Mooher's mouth twisted. "Yes, you are," he said. "This is the Summerfest Jubilee!"
"I don't care if it's the second coming of Christ," said Jeremiah-Dumpling. "We're not performing."
Moe Strickland added, "It's a labor action, Spence. Nothing you can do."
"No?" With one hand Mooher grabbed the veteran character actor by the throat and slammed him against a row of tall lockers. The actor elves could only cry out helplessly as the muscular security officer banged Uncle Ely's head again and again, until blood began to trickle from his ears. The racket of bone against metal was harrowing, and amplified in the bare tunnel.
Finally Spence Mooher stopped. He held Moe Strickland at arm's length, three feet off the ground; the actor kicked spasmodically.
"Have you reconsidered?" Mooher asked. Moe Strickland's eyelids drooped, but he managed a nod.
A deep voice down the passageway said, "Let him go."
Spence Mooher released Uncle Ely and wheeled to face...a bum. An extremely tall bum, but a bum nonetheless. It took the security guard a few moments to make a complete appraisaclass="underline" the damp silver beard, braided on one cheek only; the flowered plastic rain hat pulled taut over the scalp; the broad tan chest wrapped in heavy copper-stained bandages; a red plastic collar around the neck; one dead eye steamed with condensation, the other alive and dark with anger; the mouthful of shiny white teeth.