POTATO MOON, Part 52 by Elizabeth Graham

Note From PAD:  I have to say, considering the challenge thrown down to Elizabeth, I think she responded brilliantly. I think the two most recent chapters have raised the bar, folks.

“You are the very models of performing mediocrities.
I’d summon executioners to poison you like Socrates
But wouldn’t waste the hemlock on such talentless nonentities:
I leave you to the vengeance of the musical Eumenides.
I’ve never sat through anything that was quite such a droning bore.
You couldn’t find the key if it was sticking in your own inn door,
Your phrasing and your pitch are so ear-twistingly inaccurate
If you were my apprentices, I’d give you all the sack, you rats.

“Yet I must pick a winner from you pitiful unfortunates,
For my dark mistress Newton grows increasingly importunate,
And therefore, though the rhyme involved offends my sense of poesy,
I hereby give the victory to Bela’s daughter Woeisme.

“I’m tired of judging morons that the screaming public throws at me!
If I were more religious I would turn unto my rosary,
Alas, no god will have me, and the Devil sold your souls to me…
But nonetheless, the prize shall be awarded to young Woeisme.”

Cowbell drew a long, shuddering breath and spoke.  “Yes… In the name of Juice Newton… I hereby declare the least loathsome of you cringing amoebae to be…  Woeisme Sullen.”

Shadows of introspection crawled across Edwood’s pale countenance as Bela clung to him, weeping hot tears of hysteric relief.  “Neither Time, Fate nor Juice Newton can part us, my eternal love!”  Jakob, meanwhile, bared his canines and growled in his throat.  “If you think you can take away the girl I swore to marry while she was still covered in amniotic fluid, then you, Mr. Limeypants, have another think coming!”

“Down, Jakob.  Sit.  Stay.”  Woeisme’s face was bleak, her voice soft but certain.  She untwisted her fingers from Something’s agonised grip.  “Mr. Cowbell, I’m ready.”

“Keep your knickers on, McGuffin.  A messenger will come to collect you –and, of course, Mr. Sullen– shortly.  In the meantime, I wash my hands of this smorgasbord of morons.  You have my permission to say your farewells, if only because the cruelty amuses me.”  Cowbell turned his back and hooked himself up to the iron lung that allowed him to retain his youth by inhaling the forlorn sighs of musicians whose dreams had been torn from them.

“Edwood, Edwood!” sniffled Bela.  “Must I lose you after all?”

“Be strong, my love,” murmured Edwood.

“Don’t leave me, Woeisme.  You can’t do this,” whispered Jakob. “You were my only chance of any trouser action in the next millennium.”

“Shut up, all of you!” cried Woeisme. “We don’t have long, so listen.  Cowbell said that Juice Newton is developing the ultimate union of music and potato.  I’ll observe what she’s doing and report back to you, Jakob, when I can.  This could be the answer to all your spudlust.”  She turned to Bela.  “I’ll arrange to have my pay sent to you, Mother, which should clear you of debt to that annoying gynecologist.”  She paused so the narrator could point out Bela’s ketchup-hued blush.  “See that Something gets safely back to Aunt Alesse.  Sorry about breaking your spine that one time.  Goodbye.”

She turned at last to her father, but had no chance to speak:  an explosion of multicolored spotlights, baby bunnies and Twinkies filled with Botox heralded the arrival of Juice Newton’s messenger, come to take young Woeisme to the sculpted potato bosom of stardom.  All stood stunned at the mysterious figure that coalesced in the midst of the glow and began to speak.