Nar getting some rays

John Clark is wrestling with the insidiousness of mortality, and the results, while not pretty, are darkly humorous. Given that, I hope this literary exercise in creative insanity meets your approval.

A few years ago, Kate and I briefly considered creating a series called the Bodice Repair Mysteries, or some such thing. This was partly to parody old time romance pulps, but also in response to the increasing use of profanity and gratuitous sex scenes. Well, both have gotten a lot worse…even in YA fiction, my genre of choice. I think it’s safe to say that this trend is mirrored in current society as well. I’m neither a saint, nor a prude, but I can write a short story or have a conversation without needing to drop any F-bombs. With that said, let me introduce you to Werbshiker and Narpoozle. They, along with some crystal mice who spoke Russian, appeared during an acid trip some 50 years ago. The mice emigrated to Nigeria where they disappeared in the jungle, but Werb and Nar have hung around, hoping I’d give them their own story.

We’ll start with their backstory. Werb is a sentient garden gnome, brought to life by a super powerful lightning strike in San Marino, California. Nar is a six foot tall Banana Slug who escaped from a clandestine research lab at one of the branches of the University of California. As best he can recall, the scientists were trying to create cheap labor, so he believes some of his genetic material came from migrant workers, but since he has a tendency to wax poetic, he suspects some of it came from Alan Ginsberg or Richard Brautigan.

To honor their patience and interest in literary bodice repair, I’ve reanimated them and set these fine fellows up as investigators, somewhat like the Ghostbusters. Please note that they ARE NOT attempting to invoke censorship, but are willing and able to intercede when a work in progress strays into smut and sex where a decently crafted plot would do better. They’re happy to offer one or more alternatives from their arsenal. Read on.

Cut to a dusty office in a rural Maine town. Werb and Nar are in the process of organizing their new operational HQ as soon as the crew from Bubba’s Bait and Broom finishes spiffing it.

Werb stifles a cough as he opens the first box of literary resources. “Dang Nar, I do believe we have a real challenge just to get organized. I can barely believe some of these haven’t vanished from the collective memory.”

Nar, busy applying a fresh coat of Panama Banana Sheen to keep his appearance up to snuff, reaches into the box and holds a barely used phrase up to the light. “”Ooh, I surely like this one. My stars and garters. Best we put it in the drawer, no pun intended, with Don’t get your panties in a twist, and Pantywaist.”

Werb nods in agreement. Shouldn’t Bouncing Betties go in there too?”

Aye, matey, but best be careful or there be Not enough room to swing a cat in that’un.”

Nar, losing patience with Bubba’s crew, shoos them out and proceeds to dump the rest of box one on the table which is splotted with a substance resembling as mix of splooshed deer ticks and pistachio ice cream (It was included in the lease at no cost, so our duo ran with it).

“Jezum crowbar, Werb, We’re gonna be busier than a fart in a mitten if we want to get set up in time to work on our first case come Monday,” Nar shook his head, while sorting out the mess.

An hour later, several more drawers had been partially filled, based upon mutually agreed categories. There was the behavioral description pullout that had a strong Maine flavor. In it were Wound up tighter than a teddy bear, Wingnut, Gawmy, Some hot suppah, Ain’t you cunnin’, Boiled as an owl, Tougher than a bag of hammers, Godfrey Diamonds, and My kitchen table has better legs.

The better sex(ual) description lot was sparser, but Werb hoped he’s find some additional ones at the Wesserunsett literary flea market over the fourth of July. Thus far all they had were, Animated lobster claw, Perfect Johnson, Quivering bosom, His glistening pistil broached her eager petals, Pulsing Virginia, and They caused angels to scream loud enough to shake the windows. He paused before tossing one into the waste basket. “Activated ejaculation system sounds too much like it came from a military training manual.”

The retro sayings required two drawers and threatened to occupy a third. Some inside were more common, but a few were, as Nar aptly put it, as quaint as a hame.”

“I’m still nonplussed by many of these,” Werb said, as he attempted to alphabetize them. He proceeded to read them aloud, shaking his head while doing so. “We’ve accumulated Not enough room to swing a cat, Armed to the teeth, Boil the ocean, By cracky, Jumping Jehoshaphat, Darker than a pocket in here, Go lay in the road and count mufflers, Tight enough to rupture Abe on a penny, That’ll put some red in your rhubarb, Well hemlock tips and buttermilk, If ya cahn’t drive it, park it and throw rocks at it, That smell would make a skunk sick, and Five months of winter, seven months of rough sledding.”

Nar grinned, quite a feat for a Banana Slug given the shape of his mouth. “Good thing we planned a miscellaneous drawer ain’t it. We have some sure Jim Dandies here, like scrid or a dite, muckle onto, pooched, bang a uey, Ayhu, Chummy, dubbin around, all stove to hell, humdingah, ass over teakettle, cattywampus, and lickety split. Guess we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

Werb still enjoys getting stoned every so often

Stay tuned to find out how well our derring duo do as literary bodice repairers. While you’re at it, what other replacements might you suggest they stock?