Tonight I will confront Dandelion Wine and ask, “What’s a dirty ol’ wench like you doing in a fine castle like this?”

I write bad medieval jokes for a living. These inane comments make up most of my routine, and it’s a bit dull. I need new material.

After a lousy performance at High Fly two nights ago, I witnessed a black-haired goddess dancing with an assemblage of puppets. I was new to the rave of puppet dancing. I don’t think I would have been as invested into the scene if it weren’t for Dandelion Wine. I felt the sky open up and suck me in through a fabulous vortex that night. She had this aurora, it was hard to describe. She fished for a while in a small pool. The fishing line was tied to her toe. Puppets dressed as trout swooped over her line until she snagged a keeper. Her legs could be seen for miles, they were dazzling. Marvelous. Incredible. Legs that could strangle a steer. And her hair, it was black, but there were these shining stars bubbling from her tips. Mesmerizing. Exotic. I couldn’t take my eyes, or mind, off of those bubbles. I know it was all part of an act, but lord, did she ever have a performance of the ages. I thought to myself, she is my wench, fit for my castle. It was just a mild daydream, but I’d rather have her appear in a ray of light during the early evening than clasped in the shadow of a nightmare.

My joke must, must, must break the tension. It’s my only hope. There is a line to cross here. Puppet dancers are forbidden to date outside the performing arts scene. They must be present with a respectable live performer, and I certainly fall into that category, if I get my act together, that is. Even though I’m about three bad reviews from being fired from the trade, I still have at least one chance to prove myself to be a real pro if I’m seen latching arms with Dandelion Wine. It’s all about celebrity status in this business. These reviews come from the top journalists of both the comedy and puppet dancing cultures, both owned and operated by competing millionaires at the top of the business. They have their cuff links deep in all the newspapers, journals, online blogs, and social networks. Believe me, I’ve been around, got the scoop. Now I know what I have to do: Make Dandelion Wine my bona fide punch line.

I snuff out my cigarette and step into The Rage Page for my fifteen minutes of fame. For now my search for Dandelion Wine remains in limbo.

After what turned out to be a lousy performance with a hysterical crowd, I meet a heckler in the alley with bitter enthusiasm. I would ignore the awkward man any other day, but his pointy hair and bulging eyes keep me wary.

“Look at my tattoos,” he says, moving closer. So I look. Nothing special. His outlined veins are tinted with retardant flames. There was something vaguely reminding about his black pearl eyes.

“What? Am I supposed to be impressed? They’re foolish and ironic,” I say. I take out my phone. No signal. What a terrible city for reception.

“Take a gander at this irony!” he says. The heckler rips his shirt sleeves off. I can tell he’s done this before. Angel wings spread across his shoulder blades. He sticks his tongue out.

“Get out of my face with those repulsive tattoos.”

He refuses to move. I warn him again. He does not budge, instead, he spits on me. I push the heckler against the wall with enough force to crumble a dungeon. A brick in the foundation pancakes the heckler. He slumps to his knees and mutters, “You and whose army?” and passes out.

Staccato rhythms run up my sides. The rush is intense after any fight. A common phenomenon riddled with adrenaline. Usually I brush off these mighty golden boys like wasps darting at my morning cereal. One whack usually does it. I shudder at the thought of leaving this man behind. But he just irked me. I don’t have time to deal with yokels. Someone else can escort this heckler to the hospital before his brains splurge out his cranium.

I check Dandelion Wine’s blog on my phone. She spotlights a variety of clubs as a fly girl/interpretive dancer for theatrical puppet reenactments, and there are many places she could be dancing tonight. I’ll check Spice Ties first. Hank told me to meet up there at ten. It’s just after nine now, so I can manage to kill some time with a brisk walk. I bank sixty dollars quick cash from an A.T.M. and drift downtown.

 

“Hank, you butterball, what are you drinking?” I say. Hank’s cowboy hat tells me he’s drinking Makers on the rocks. He swoons like a pro and swills like a champ.

“Well, well, whiskey, if it isn’t Rocky Surface. What’s up, cankersaurus rex?”

I show devil horns with my right hand to the bartender, hiding my bitten nails. She understands that I’ll have what Hank’s having.

“Just had a gig uptown. One rowdy heckler with outlandish tattoos confronted me outside. I housed him on principle. Plus he spit on me.”

“That yokel must have prodded you with a red-hot poker. He’s lucky I wasn’t around. His knee caps would have exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Louisville Slugger.”

“Easy trigger, steady sipper,” I say.

“Valid point,” says Hank. He tips his cowboy hat at a dancer counting tips three barstools away. Hank is a yes man with a negative attitude. She slides down a cocktail napkin with her phone number written in bold lipstick. He folds the napkin and puts it in his pocket.

I write a message on Dandelion Wine’s blog while the bartender tends my drink.

 

Hey there, Dandelion Wine. Remember that guy who kept whistling at The Devil Wears Nada? That was me. And we will dance the dance of romance if you ever give me the chance. I am your Knight in Shimmering Shellshock. I messed up a guy outside The Rage Page in your honor this evening. His outlandish angel wing tattoos disrupted my mood. You would be proud. I will claim my prize at a later time. –Rocky Surface

Hank blares an air horn he keeps strapped to his leg. He adjusts the settings to belch mode. The patrons at the bar laugh.

“Where’s Dandelion Wine dancing tonight?” asks Hank, watching courtship behavior on the other end of the bar between two students. He licks his lips and snorts.

“Her blog doesn’t say. We’ll have to check them all,” I say. Hank fidgets his drink. It only takes one drink to put Hank in prime-time mode. He’ll drink all night, and he’ll get reckless, but never completely drunk. He has amazing stability when it comes to alcohol.

“Where was she last Friday?”

The bartender rolls down on her skates. “Dandelion Wine? Are you talking about Dandelion Wine? She was at Cruel Vibrations last week,” says the bartender. “You boys need another round of devil horn shots?” Hank belches one more time. The bartender pours out our fill and we down the whiskey. I can sense the sky cracking open a bit at a time. The scintillating vortex sends weak signals, but they will gain in strength. We pay our tab and leave the premises.

 

A pack of streetlight hoodlums surround a cluster of pigeons outside. Hank sharks through the crowd and blares his horn at max power. The gutter punks scatter. The odds of finding a reluctant messiah in these neighborhoods are slim and morose. The pigeons disperse in lethargic smithereens. Hank’s taxi lingers on the corner. I glide into permanent shotgun. He owns Honk Loud Taxi Cab Co. and fares when he needs quick cash.

We pick up a man holding something necessary or dangerous in his right hand. Maybe both. “Riches and Maids on Redhook and Mars Avenue,” says the man with perfunctory nonchalance. The device in his hand does all the talking and looks like a mustache trimmer. Hank nods and hits the meter.

“This just in…” blurts Hank’s intercom. “Be on the lookout for two men dressed in plaid shirts. Police reported them armed and dangerous. They took the zoo hostage and have escaped.”

The mustache trimmer springs to life. “I wonder if they mean the people or the animals at the zoo were taken hostage.”

“Well, it’s after ten, so I’m guessing the animals,” says Hank.

“Bunch of two-faced monsters if you ask me,” I say. “Who honestly holds a zoo hostage? Are they going to give a clan of monkeys an arsenal of automatic weapons and see who’s King Ape? If I were them, I’d create unimaginable mischief between the animal kingdoms. Spruce up Darwin’s Survival of the Fittest idea to the fullest extent by tossing domesticated pets into cages with serpents and birds and videotape the reactions. Tumble turtles into carnivorous badger containers. Dip pelicans in the barracuda aquariums. Boil hippos in their tanks. Watch the blood stick to the surface of the water like balloons on the static electricity convention ceiling.”

“Take it easy, Rocky,” says Hank. “You’re not making any sense.” He rolls down his window and lights up a cigarette. Max fine of a hundred dollars if he is caught. Hank has most of the cops in his back pocket, but not all of them.

“And that’s a zap,” says the mustache trimmer. The man taps his mechanical larynx. I can tell he’s itching to make a purchase. First probable bet: batteries. A pack of smokes is a close second.

It’s all relative to him, a ritual after so many times; batteries, a snack, hand soap, aftershave, and condoms. Another day in the life of a proactive spender soaking in on the cash flow of malpractice. Hank claims (he has a knack for these bewildering things) that the mustache trimmer suffered a serious case of the willy nillys as a kid. An EMT performed an outdated tracheotomy on his throat after he swallowed a gob of gum the size of a tambourine. Hank read about his case in a journal while waiting for a suited clown at a funeral to finish his eulogy. It probably isn’t the same guy. The likeliness of those odds is slim. But Hank isn’t wrong often.

The mustache trimmer tips forty four percent. Hank gives him the finger. It’s an instinct he can’t shake no matter the monetary surplus. He never feels bad about it either. People need cabs, and his business is thriving. What does he care if his customers are appalled or shocked? Not much they can actually do about it at this point, now that Hank controls most of the city’s populated regions.

Two blocks down, the Cruel Vibrations sign glows next to a bakery. Redhook is a popular street for clubs, eateries, and tailoring. Shady men and women with cash in hand swarm to the performances. Some nights are better than others. It relies heavily on the star attraction. There have been instances where the lead puppet receives better reviews than the dancer. After that moment, the dancer usually loses their fame and sent down to the Cat’s Cradle leagues. One can easily tell, for the dancers usually end up flabbergasted. In an instant, their careers and credibility washes away. Many women spend years working amateur shows to get to the big stage, only to be sent back down again.

Hank parks the taxi in the yellow criss-crossed space. Outside Cruel Vibrations, businessmen strive to peek inside. It’s essential to have an “in” because Cruel Vibrations sells tickets faster than a lunch lady amalgamates chunky milkshakes for troubled children. Our “in” is with Boris the Bouncer, an ex-Russian National Team Rugby player. He was banned from international competition shortly after he caught the mascot eating his protein powder. The dead horse was thought to be grinded into dog food, as per proper procedure, but was actually found as a mangled, taxidermy replica in Ohio by local authorities.

“Boris, you sorry old kraut, what’s the story tonight?” says Hank. They exchange a complicated thumb shake. They must have slept with the same woman. Copulation cousins. Do women have similar lingo if they sleep with the same man?

“Dandelion Wine isn’t here tonight,” says Boris, winking at me, lacking indiscretion. Always with the jokes. I thought that was my job. “But October Country and Ice Cream Suit will be on in fifteen minutes. You will regret missing that show if you two gallants don’t plan on staying.”

“Police women attacked by foreign tourists?” I say. I’ve been here for that show. Disposable cameras and a plethora of puppets with aggrandizing agendas make up most of that routine. Authoritative Action.

“Nope. Ice Cream Suit acts as an astrologist on the brink of universal discovery when October Country and her lab assistants revolt,” says Boris. He traces an oval in the air near his temples and crosses his eyes. “And that’s when things get cuckoo.” He unhooks the velvet rope. Hank and I walk inside.

 

Cruel Vibrations is a trendy club that saturates your mind like uncouth telekinesis. The club lacks risk with a pungent odor of horrid Indian food. Usually these are felicitous attributes for a puppeteers club. But this place is stuck in ominous limbo, a horrifying cantos in the underground world of puppet dancing. It casts a magnetizing effect in the heinous volition of eager spenders.

Hank steps to the bar and holds out the devil horns. Body Electric slides down on her skates. All the bartenders in this part of the city wear skates. “If it isn’t the dynamic duo,” says Body Electric. She puppet dances the quiescent weeknights and bartends the hectic weekends.

“What’s the word on Dandelion Wine,” I ask.

“I’m filling in for her later tonight. I’m not sure where she is dancing tonight. Have you checked her blog?” says Body Electric.

My phone lacks a durable signal. “Can I use your laptop in the back?”

“Sure thing, Rocky. Just let the Codfather know I gave you permission before he sends Vladimir to investigate.”

 

The Codfather operates most of the puppet clubs in the city including The Pen Fifteen Club, Blank Checks and Pillows, South of Heaven, and Perfect Despise. Dandelion Wine features in all of The Codfather’s clubs as well as Spice Ties and The Devil Wear’s Nada, both owned by The Codfather’s cross-town business rival, Holy Mackerel.

I surf through the swinging doors and gape at an atrocious sight. There’s a geriatric wing with behind the scenes behavior. Not a photograph to keep stored in the old memory bank. I close my lids and smack my hands against the door for the handle like an imbecile rummaging his hand in a snake pit for a fortune cookie.

The Codfather is smaller than I remember. His crisp black suit groans with desolation. The scar on his face looks like a carp. “You’re the pesky comedian, Rocky Surface, right?” says The Codfather.

“It’s just a pen name,” I say. I hold up the devil horns. The Codfather accepts the sign. He cracks his knuckles against his dense upper cheekbones.

“What can I do for you?” says The Codfather.

“I need to check Dandelion Wine’s blog.” I move closer and stand over the tiny man. “It’s imperative.”

The Codfather adjusts his posture. I can see his swarthy raven eyes. The carp swims in the sweaty stream of his forehead. “First you have to do something for me.”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Rub my shoulders and tell me a joke.”

I swivel his legs clockwise, exposing his shoulders. “Ok.” I rub his shoulders. The skin is taut against his collarbones and gives a feeling of rawhide.

“So, this woman around Christmas time waits by her door as the farmhand stops at the stoop to ask if there are any more chores to take care of before the sun goes down and he has to rush home to light the evening candles. The rich woman grabs the young farmhand by the collar, rips off both of their clothes, and screws him right there on the spot. The farmhand doesn’t know how to react. Then she gives him a dollar and wishes him a Merry Christmas. The farmhand asks the woman why she proceeded with this deed. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I was talking with my husband last night and I asked him how I should tip you for Christmas. My husband said, “Screw ‘em! Give him a dollar and wish him a Merry Christmas.’”

The Codfather only smirks. Not a belly bloater. I must remember to scratch that joke off my list.

“You may use the computer for five minutes. No longer,” he says. He stands perpendicular and twists his torso left and right as he limps begrudgingly out of the office.

Got to make this fast. I pull up the Internet Machine. Check. Type in blogsRus in the search engine. Check. Email? Which one do I use for this account? Oh yes. noquarterafternoon@lowmail, password is…********, enter, damnit, that wasn’t it, what about *************, enter, damn, how do I look at the asterisks without jeopardizing the contents page? Oh, I remember, I type GorillaPantyHose. Eureka. It works, but I guess I can’t hide my password anymore? I’ll have to lock that door later. No time. Three minutes left. Dandelion Wine: Peace of Pi. (Clever). Loading. Refresh.  Ok. Here it is.

Dandelion Wine’s blogspace background speckles clay figurines sleeping under a willow tree. Each grotesquely carved caricature wears a pallid mask hiding shameful temerity. She posted this two minutes ago.

Hey fans! I’ll be at Perfect Despise at 2:15 to dance with Apocalypse and the Winnebago Thieves, and then it’s off to the horse races with Holy Mackerel for the rest of the weekend. Hope to see you there! Tugs and Strings!

Holy Mackerel, that flounder. She did not respond to my blog message. Times up. The screen goes black and asunder. The Codfather stands in the doorway swinging the outlet plug like a lasso.  “Now get out.” Vladimir, the unfriendly bouncer, waves for me to move along. I leave with my eyes closed, afraid of the geriatric playground in the hallway.

 

Hank found out about Dandelion Wine sooner than I did. Body Electric received a mass text from her as soon as she posted the blog. And to think I had to rub The Codfather’s skinny shoulders when I could’ve been patient. But why would she be with Holy Mackerel? I hold up the devil horns to Body Electric. She pours two whiskeys. We drink them up. The shot goes down smooth, swallows more moisture than a sweater vest.

“The show’s about to start,” says Body Electric. Hank bullies a man and his date out of a table near the stage. I grab our drinks and head to our table.

A booming storm confronts the speakers and clashes everything into silence. October Country’s clad in a lab coat with glasses. Cages of mice on bleached tables run their marathon wheels. Her lab assistants, six crude puppets, black framed glasses, red pens, take notes on yellow legal pads glued to their hands, watch the mice.

“Ice Cream Suit must be stopped before she runs these mice to death. There is no cheese at the end of the maze. What’s the point?” says October Country. The puppets shake their heads and search their pockets. One pulls out a tongue depressor and sticks it in the wheel, stops the momentum.

“It’s too late for that,” says Ice Cream Suit. The suit is translucent, blending in to the white. She opens her body like tulip petals on the waxed stage floor.

The puppets turn on October Country. This was Ice Cream Suit’s plan. She sneaks behind October Country and sticks a rubber needle into her arm. She faints. Ice Cream Suit pulls a curtain across the stage. We hear glass breaking and mice scurrying across the floor. October Country cries muffled exclamations until she is dragged away.

A class act. Ice Cream Suit and October Country should be pleased with the reviews. We get up after the lights shine back on. I bump into the table next to us. “Sorry,” I say to the woman, but her stare is blank. “Would a joke cheer you up?” She doesn’t respond, hypnotized by the puppets. We leave Cruel Vibrations.

Hank starts up the cab. A hooded man taps on the window. He piles into the back and licks his lips a lot.

“Perfect Despise,” says the hooded man. Hank hits the meter. This will be easy. No detours. Hank changes the radio station to an FM station, 103.5. A meek, static voice launches the major telecast.

“Cough, cough, cough. Good evening, I’m Glen Quake and welcome back to my show, His Evil Stereo, on WZYZ: Fisticuffs and Metronomes. Our guest speaker tonight is Fog Horn, a head case out of Wyoming who believes the Earth is still flat as, and I quote, ‘turbine generator security tape.’ The janitor found her unwrapping a meatball sub in the parking lot, conducted in a heated debate with a light post over stock tips. What’s that? This crucial counsel just in! The light post suggests illuminating fixtures to invest in plastics, aluminum, and all things cold and slimy.”

Glen Quake reveals the number to call in. I bust out my phone and ring him up.

“You’re on with Glen Quake and His Evil Stereo, please don’t swear.”

“I want to tell you about my dream last night.” Dream requests are a regular thing as long as you keep it under one hundred words. It is standard procedure with this station for long time callers, first time listeners. I read about it in the paper.

“Who am I talking to?”

“Vast Terrain.”

“Vast Terrain. Might as well be, right? Go ahead, wow me.”

“A burning flamingo tripped my friend Hank while drifting on a billowing cloud of execution smoke. ‘Come all the merry dwellers,’ utters a French commander, knife in his teeth and hooves instead of feet. A giant lizard outside the frosty terminal scribbles over airplane emergency exit directions. And then there’s me, a powerless yet informed member in a society with no public, like a turtle tied to a stick. Dandelion Wine was there, basking in a prickly coffin of cauliflower and decay. A crude puppet stood triumphant over her, mocking…”

“Sorry Vast Terrain, but I hate to cut you off there, but you’ve reached a hundred and one words and your next sentence would have made it VERY unfair for our other callers this evening. You’ve GOT to understand. Cough, cough, cough, Click.”

Glen Quake hangs up on me. Like clockwork, Hank calls in next.

“You’re on with Glen Quake and His Evil Stereo, please don’t swear.”

“I want to tell you about my dream last night.” Everyone has to say it that way or Glen Quake hangs up on you. Hank reads the same paper.

“Give it the heave ho, whoever you are.”

“The television blanks dead during reruns of America’s Fantastic Cauldrons with The Wizard. The top prize is awarded to a fruitful, temperamental child and his family of pranksters. They replay the video. The biscuit rounded child attempts to blow out his birthday candles but can’t seem to snuff out the last trick candle. He boils into a fit of rage and tosses the whole cake into the laundry hamper. Snarling with vicious incisors, the young dysfunctional rapscallion rips open his gifts with gusto. His mother slaps his face and reprimands him sternly in front of his fellow construction paper sharers.”

Laser beams echo and ring loud and true. “Whoever this is, you just won discount coupons to your nearest Wayne Jackson’s Urban Corral for using exactly 100 words! Unfortunately, the establishment ran out of business due to infringement and is no longer in legal operation because of cough, cough, cough, Click.”

Hank turns off the radio and parks in the lot. He collects his bounty from the hooded man. Only ten percent tip. He deserves the middle fingers Hank makes sure he sees.

The hooded man walks to the back of the velvet rope line. For us, it’s another bouncer, another quick way in. Dandelion Wine’s portrait promotes the Friday night festivities. The paint is still drying on the canvas. Her submissive figure waves tender feathers with Apocalypse, the puppet star of the masquerade. The marionette pulling Apocalypse’s strings has worked in gargantuan theaters across the United States, including Carnegie Hall, The Roseland Ballroom, and the biggest Outback Steakhouse in Mesa, Arizona.

A couple of frauds hold the doors open as we stroll in. We are the diameter of concern. Reckoners best kept locked in the basement with discarded toys.

Golden Apples winks at us from the bar. I shoot the devil horns her way. She skates over with a couple of drinks. Right on time. The lights turn off. Hank and I find a table near the front of the stage.

Dandelion Wine appears on the stage. Her tar eyes shine through the darkness. She wears a sleek kimono with three dimensional lizards crawling over the brown and yellow silk. She dances. Her movements remind me of synchronized octopus swimming. The interlude combines a bit of classical strings with a spark of a sitar. It’s soothing, like the drone of mosquitoes hovering lily pads. A fisherman’s tranquility.

The puppets drop down. Four Winnebago Thieves contort questionable chagrins. They huddle close together, devising some kind of master plan, hiding it from Dandelion Wine. One looks up with speculation, stares and studies her, nestles back in the powwow. Nodding in agreement, they circle the felicitous dancer. Watching her react opens the sky over head. I pine for the vortex to scoop me up. She seems frightened yet aware of the predicament. They want her to join their team of Solicitation. This is their sales pitch.

“Beauty shops!” they bellow. “Bank lobbies, high school business departments, dental offices!”

The puppets shift positions into a circle of strife. “Daycare centers, accountant break rooms, law conference dens, bus driver stations, pee wee hockey rink concession stands! We take them all under our wing! Commissions galore! Not just during the holiday seasons! We sell cook books, dieting procedures, make-your-own-get well cards, thingamajigs for coffee tables, conversation starter handbooks, Train Your Parakeet to Swear magazine subscriptions, leather-bound Mason jar accessory tablets…”

“ALL YEAR ROUND!” sings Apocalypse as he descends from the rafters. The star puppet crescendos a fortunate howl. He mutes it with a snap of his fingers. The audience buzzes an effigy.

Apocalypse bows. The four Winnebago Thieves follow. Their message conveys. The bar patrons are transfixed. We all half-heartedly cheer and toss imaginary roses on the stage. The puppets rise like souls from homeless bodies. Only the wise recognize Dandelion Wine’s failed attempts before the curtain sucks up the afterglow. The crowd shakes their head at Dandelion Wine standing alone on stage. Journalists run for the payphones to report to their chief editors. She was outclassed tonight.

The sky snaps shut. The vortex catches an infection. How can I salvage this moment? I confront Dandelion Wine at the bar after she changes into a halter top and jeans.

“What’s a dirty ol’ wench like you doing in a fine castle like this?”

“Excuse me?” says Dandelion Wine. Her black pearl eyes are bloodshot and watery. She dabs at her face with a handkerchief. A faint smile appears on her delicate lips. “Rocky Surface, right? The comedian who got booed off the stage at The Devil Wears Nada the night I danced with Yoshi the Parrot and his Flourishing Fledglings?”

“That’s right. I wanted to meet you in person.”

“Instead of obsessively writing me messages on my blog?”

I wrote three messages in two days. But what does it matter? She is washed up, lowest of the lows. Cat’s cradled down the ladder, literally. Holy Mackerel won’t want her after this explosion. Neither do I. She’ll be wiping up blood for weeks from overworked fingers plucking and pulling in downgraded performances.

“Want to fight about it?” I don’t know why I ask this.

“Oh yeah? You and whose army?” Her phone rings.  “Hold on.” She answers the phone. The voice is hysterical on the other end. She listens and puts a dismayed hand to her mouth. “What? Oh no. I’ll be right there.” She claws at her purse for car keys. She pats my elbow. “Another time, Rocky. Sorry, I’ve got to run.”

Dandelion Wine leaves Perfect Despise. The vortex disappears like a mirage. That’s the last time I’ll ever see her. The saga continues. The puppeteers coast out the door carrying giant duffel bags of ravishing puppets in phasing glory. I toss the bartender devil horns for two more drinks.