Onion & Reginald Blisterkunst, Ph.D.
is a sequel to Reginald Blisterkunst's Among the Remembered
Saints: My Life and Subsequent Death, which was originally
serialized in WAG.
Readers who prefer to begin at the beginning may read
the first book by clicking here.
(pompadour lightly dusted cobweb-gray)
When I wake up the next morning, there is a pounding
in my head. It takes me a minute to realize that it is
in fact coming from downstairs. Stooped over, I limp to
the head of the stairs and peer down. A short, fat man
with an enormous shining-black pompadour is standing in
the front hall, inspecting the taped panel.
—May I help you? I call down.
—No, he says, without looking
up. I'm going to help you. I'm Ronnie.
—Oh, I say, descending.
We shake hands and he nods at the
panel, pompadour swaying.
—Did you tape this up?
—Yes, actually. I did.
He looks from me to the panel and
shakes his head.
—You a writer?
—Yes, I say, steeling myself.
How did you know?
—Eddie told me. Says you're
trying to lock his papa up.
—That's absurd, I say.
—What's the lock for, then?
—I keep my computer in there,
—Well, I don't blame you for
wanting some extra security for it, if the best you can
do with this front door is taping it shut.
—I knew you were coming this
morning. It was temporary.
He nods the pompadour, disbelieving.
—She also says you need a medicine
—This way, I say, leading him
up the stairs.
We crowd into the bathroom and I wave
my hand game-show-like over the empty cavity above the
—Where is it?
—Um, I say, under the house.
He stares at me, suspicious.
—Under the house, I say.
—How the hell did it get there?
—Fell, actually. Bang. She closes
the door and it's gone.
Without another word, he disappears
down the stairs and out the front door. A few minutes
later, while I'm making coffee in the kitchen, I hear
him crawling around under me, cursing. Maybe he'll get
wedged under that, I tell myself, hopefully. Then I hear
him dragging the cabinet toward the crawl door and, momentarily,
he is knocking on the kitchen door. I fumble for the key
and as I swing it open, I find Ronnie (pompadour lightly
dusted cobweb-gray) holding the medicine cabinet under
one arm while with the other he holds out the cabinet's
abandoned dental plate.
—This yours? he says.
—Yes, I say, for the hell of
it. I've been missing that.
I take the plate it stick it in my
He grunts and walks past me. While
he bangs away at the door panel, I slip next door to Woody's
house and make a bowl of cereal and find a shovel. I come
back in time to find Ronnie inspecting the padlock on
the front room door.
—Can I help you?
—I'm trying to free Eddie's
papa, he says, without looking up.
—Don't worry, I say, walking
past. I let him out at night.
—I'll bet you do, he mutters,
to which I decide not to respond.
—I'll be in the garden if you
need me, I call over my shoulder.
—Okay, here's what I need. Have a pencil? No. Of course.
How foolish of me. So—oh yes. Here we are. We're
moving the production north this weekend—yes, that's
right. El Capitan's hitting Broadway. But I want to leave
the peasants with a bang. So I'll need a dozen chupas,
at least eighteen hoverers and an even dozen of those
sparkly things—you know, the ones that make it look
like the sky's falling. Right. Now I want you to spread
them out over a ten mile radius here—yes, that's
right. Spread them too far apart and we miss critical
media mass. Right you are, old man. And—
Oh. Hello there. I didn't see you
at first. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is—
1 | Part
2 | Part 3
| Part 4
5 | Part
6 | Part 7
| Part 8 |
9 | Part