Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I will never make any money
from this story. Period.
40 Years from Now by The Inner Genie
*** 1962
Forty years on the plateau. Who would have predicted that? The members of the Challenger expedition, along with their kind host Veronica, still dwell in the treehouse high in the jungle canopy. Of course, things have changed. After all those years, that must be expected.
Our dear Professor Challenger is nearly ninety years young. The red beard no longer shines bronze in the sun, but fluffs whitely out around his face as if he were chewing on a particularly furry bunny. The poor man now walks with a cane, having lost a foot several years ago in an experiment gone wrong. Natural gas-powered sock warmers was one of his more unfortunate ideas. But his curiosity is just as overpowering as ever, as is his ego. He still believes that when he gets back to London, his discoveries and inventions will find him a place in the history books. In the meantime, he insists that the others give him a tickertape parade every time one of his inventions actually works. Cleaned and polished, the old man hobbles around the base of the treehouse waving at the admiring foliage while his friends stand at the balcony high above and shower him with fruit peels-paper being in short supply. Alas, his inventions are not quite as spectacular or original as of old. His latest one was a device (found lying on the dinner table next to the spoon) for spreading jam on bread. The others got the hang of it right away and a delightful high tea was had by all.
His friends do all they can to humor the eccentric genius because they realize that he can't help the way he is. When the plateau dinosaurs became extinct about 10 years ago, something in Challenger's mind snapped. His raison d'être was gone. No longer could he dream of leading a thirty foot high T-Rex through the door of the London Archeological Society to the deafening applause of his fellow scientist. Instead, he became obsessed with spotting creatures even more rare and elusive. It took him two years to spot the cunning Jabberwocky and another five before he could add Lassie to his list. For the last three years he has been hunting the dangerous and often invisible Heffalump. He often wishes aloud that when he finds it, it will have its parasitical companion Winnie-the-Pooh attached to its side. A wish heartily shared by everyone in the treehouse as they are getting too old themselves to carry the old man to the hundred acre wood.
Challenger is not the only one in the treehouse affected by the years. His companions are also showing the wear and tear of a life of action and adventure.
Lord John Richard Roxton. A noble name for a noble man. Dear Roxton is not the man he was. He's twice the man. Yes, Marguerite has finally learned to cook and, not being a woman who does things in half measure, she cooked up a storm. Roxton has come to love her cooking---maybe a little too much. Veronica has sewn his two pair of suspenders together to reach over the aristocratic paunch.
Marguerite still thinks him the most handsome and adorable man she has every known, but sad to say, their romance is still stuck in coquettish flirting and the patient declarations of love. Poor Roxton--his failing eyesight led him into a painful week of teasing when he declared his undying love to the fichus tree thinking that Marguerite was wearing a particularly lovely green moo-moo.
Even though he can barely see his hand in front of his face, he refuses to give up hunting and insists that his job is still to bring home the bacon. On one memorable occasion, he squeezed through the door of the elevator with his prey slung over his shoulder and dumped it with unabashed pride on the kitchen table. His voice shook with excitement as he told the others how he had snuck up on the beast, jumped on its back and after a fierce wrestling match had finally managed to reach out and arm himself with a large rock. A fatal blow had ended the creature's struggle. He was sure there was enough meat here to last them a month! The others had looked at each other and it was Marguerite who stepped forward to break the news to the fearless hunter that what he had brought home was a log.
Ah, Marguerite. The lovely Miss Krux. Her gray eyes are as bright as ever, her curly tresses as dark. The years had not changed the appearance of this beauty one bit-thanks to her careful hording of the magical little red fruit she had brought back with her from a long ago adventure. The little red fruit---Mother Nature's equivalent of the Fountain of Youth. Just as promised, a nibble a day kept the wrinkles away. However, one of the untold side effects of long term use was the unfortunate tendency to "talk funny". Over the years Marguerite's speech has become more and more undecipherable. Veronica, who had always had trouble knowing what the hell Marguerite was talking about anyway, was the first to point out to the others that Marguerite was a mush mouth. The others hadn't noticed because A) Marguerite got the words ALMOST right, and B) they never listen to what she's saying anyhow. They were forced to notice one day, though, when Marguerite came screaming out of her room shouting that a cornchip was eating her special panties. The men were intrigued to say the least. Snickering and leering at each other, they grabbed up their rifles and hobbled/waddled/ghosted into Marguerite's bedroom. Their faces drooped with disappointment when all they could see was a cute little chipmunk sitting under a vase of pansies, a gift from Roxton, and nibbling on one of the purple petals. Marguerite yelled at the men to shoot it, but the frightened little rodent jumped down from the table and scurried under the bed. The men slapped each other on the back for another job well done and another damsel saved. Marguerite fumed and muttered under her breathe, "Could this tray get any butter?".
Edward Malone. Neddy-boy. Dear sweet Ned. The years have been kind to him although he looks faded now, as if he had been hung out in the sun too long. His boyish face is still smooth, his sweet smile just as sweet, his soft blue eyes still watery and vacant. But Time's cruel humor has not left him completely untouched. The wavy, blond hair that had captured many a lady's eye was now to be seen only on his old, useless hairbrush. Baldy, chrome-dome, cannibal head-the taunts of the Zanga boys don't bother him. His mind is often far away, so far that the others often forget he's there at all and ask one another if they have seen the old boy lately. It's usually Veronica who answers, "He's sitting right here."
He and Veronica have been married for over thirty years, but it's as if it were yesterday to Ned. Still shy and tongue-tied around the beautiful jungle woman, they have yet to consummate their marriage. Veronica tried everything she could think of to get her handsome hunk between the sheets, but Ned's Victorian upbringing is like a rubber ball---no sooner do you think you've gotten rid of it, when, surprise, it comes bounding back again. He didn't want to rush her, he said. He respected her womanly modestly, he said. They would know when the time was right, he said. What in God's name have I done to Gladys, he said, but only to himself. Actually for the last two years, Ned really hasn't been in the treehouse. Veronica, frustrated beyond control, gave her husband to the Amazons. Let's see what they can do for him, she said, but only to herself.
The others still occasionally ask if anyone has seen old Neddy-boy and nod their heads, perfectly satisfied when Veronica, with a secret smile, answers, "He's sitting right here."
The Jungle Beauty. The Protector of the Plateau. Veronica Layton Malone. Obsession can turn into habit and habits can last a lifetime. Veronica is still looking for her mother and, much to the confusion of her friends, she's also looking for her "little sis" Finn. No one remembers Veronica having a little sister, and, to tell the truth, Veronica is a little hazy about it herself. Missing is missing though, so she doesn't mind the haze. Last year her excitement was high when she saw someone in the jungle who looked very familiar to her. The others felt a memory of familiarity, too. Poor Tribune spent a week in black leather shorts before he found a way to escape from the treehouse and from big sister V.
Veronica's still wearing her jungle girl outfit. She thought it might get Ned all hot and bothered. The person it bothered was Marguerite. As the years passed, and Veronica's breasts inched every nearer her waist, there came a day when Marguerite could stand it no longer. As nicely as she could, she pulled her friend aside and told her that her sagging breasts were getting so long that they were beginning to look prehensile. Veronica, for some reason, took this observation the wrong way and pulled away from her so fast that her two assets swung into Marguerite's side breaking two of her ribs. The girl-talk was not a wasted effort, however. Marguerite learned not give Veronica advice, and Veronica was happy to learn that she had two more weapons in her arsenal.
Oops, let's not forget the sixth adventurer. Professor Arthur Summerlee. Shot with an arrow and vanished over a waterfall in 1920. Arthur Summerlee had always been a lucky son of a b. He fell over the waterfall, floated down the river and bobbed up right beside a ship that was setting sail for New York. A world famous physician renowned for his skill in healing tummy wounds was aboard, and soon had our old friend as right as rain. Summerlee was a big hit in New York. He became quite a raconteur and, when television came in, became a regular on The Ed Sullivan Show. Billed as the world's oldest goofy guy, he made a fortune and retired to Tahiti when he turned 100. He made news again a few years later when his first book became a world-wide best seller. Perhaps you've heard of it. The title? I See Dinosaurs.
Yes, forty years is a long time. It's good to know they're all doing well. Let's check in again in say, oh, about forty years from now.
40 Years from Now by The Inner Genie
*** 1962
Forty years on the plateau. Who would have predicted that? The members of the Challenger expedition, along with their kind host Veronica, still dwell in the treehouse high in the jungle canopy. Of course, things have changed. After all those years, that must be expected.
Our dear Professor Challenger is nearly ninety years young. The red beard no longer shines bronze in the sun, but fluffs whitely out around his face as if he were chewing on a particularly furry bunny. The poor man now walks with a cane, having lost a foot several years ago in an experiment gone wrong. Natural gas-powered sock warmers was one of his more unfortunate ideas. But his curiosity is just as overpowering as ever, as is his ego. He still believes that when he gets back to London, his discoveries and inventions will find him a place in the history books. In the meantime, he insists that the others give him a tickertape parade every time one of his inventions actually works. Cleaned and polished, the old man hobbles around the base of the treehouse waving at the admiring foliage while his friends stand at the balcony high above and shower him with fruit peels-paper being in short supply. Alas, his inventions are not quite as spectacular or original as of old. His latest one was a device (found lying on the dinner table next to the spoon) for spreading jam on bread. The others got the hang of it right away and a delightful high tea was had by all.
His friends do all they can to humor the eccentric genius because they realize that he can't help the way he is. When the plateau dinosaurs became extinct about 10 years ago, something in Challenger's mind snapped. His raison d'être was gone. No longer could he dream of leading a thirty foot high T-Rex through the door of the London Archeological Society to the deafening applause of his fellow scientist. Instead, he became obsessed with spotting creatures even more rare and elusive. It took him two years to spot the cunning Jabberwocky and another five before he could add Lassie to his list. For the last three years he has been hunting the dangerous and often invisible Heffalump. He often wishes aloud that when he finds it, it will have its parasitical companion Winnie-the-Pooh attached to its side. A wish heartily shared by everyone in the treehouse as they are getting too old themselves to carry the old man to the hundred acre wood.
Challenger is not the only one in the treehouse affected by the years. His companions are also showing the wear and tear of a life of action and adventure.
Lord John Richard Roxton. A noble name for a noble man. Dear Roxton is not the man he was. He's twice the man. Yes, Marguerite has finally learned to cook and, not being a woman who does things in half measure, she cooked up a storm. Roxton has come to love her cooking---maybe a little too much. Veronica has sewn his two pair of suspenders together to reach over the aristocratic paunch.
Marguerite still thinks him the most handsome and adorable man she has every known, but sad to say, their romance is still stuck in coquettish flirting and the patient declarations of love. Poor Roxton--his failing eyesight led him into a painful week of teasing when he declared his undying love to the fichus tree thinking that Marguerite was wearing a particularly lovely green moo-moo.
Even though he can barely see his hand in front of his face, he refuses to give up hunting and insists that his job is still to bring home the bacon. On one memorable occasion, he squeezed through the door of the elevator with his prey slung over his shoulder and dumped it with unabashed pride on the kitchen table. His voice shook with excitement as he told the others how he had snuck up on the beast, jumped on its back and after a fierce wrestling match had finally managed to reach out and arm himself with a large rock. A fatal blow had ended the creature's struggle. He was sure there was enough meat here to last them a month! The others had looked at each other and it was Marguerite who stepped forward to break the news to the fearless hunter that what he had brought home was a log.
Ah, Marguerite. The lovely Miss Krux. Her gray eyes are as bright as ever, her curly tresses as dark. The years had not changed the appearance of this beauty one bit-thanks to her careful hording of the magical little red fruit she had brought back with her from a long ago adventure. The little red fruit---Mother Nature's equivalent of the Fountain of Youth. Just as promised, a nibble a day kept the wrinkles away. However, one of the untold side effects of long term use was the unfortunate tendency to "talk funny". Over the years Marguerite's speech has become more and more undecipherable. Veronica, who had always had trouble knowing what the hell Marguerite was talking about anyway, was the first to point out to the others that Marguerite was a mush mouth. The others hadn't noticed because A) Marguerite got the words ALMOST right, and B) they never listen to what she's saying anyhow. They were forced to notice one day, though, when Marguerite came screaming out of her room shouting that a cornchip was eating her special panties. The men were intrigued to say the least. Snickering and leering at each other, they grabbed up their rifles and hobbled/waddled/ghosted into Marguerite's bedroom. Their faces drooped with disappointment when all they could see was a cute little chipmunk sitting under a vase of pansies, a gift from Roxton, and nibbling on one of the purple petals. Marguerite yelled at the men to shoot it, but the frightened little rodent jumped down from the table and scurried under the bed. The men slapped each other on the back for another job well done and another damsel saved. Marguerite fumed and muttered under her breathe, "Could this tray get any butter?".
Edward Malone. Neddy-boy. Dear sweet Ned. The years have been kind to him although he looks faded now, as if he had been hung out in the sun too long. His boyish face is still smooth, his sweet smile just as sweet, his soft blue eyes still watery and vacant. But Time's cruel humor has not left him completely untouched. The wavy, blond hair that had captured many a lady's eye was now to be seen only on his old, useless hairbrush. Baldy, chrome-dome, cannibal head-the taunts of the Zanga boys don't bother him. His mind is often far away, so far that the others often forget he's there at all and ask one another if they have seen the old boy lately. It's usually Veronica who answers, "He's sitting right here."
He and Veronica have been married for over thirty years, but it's as if it were yesterday to Ned. Still shy and tongue-tied around the beautiful jungle woman, they have yet to consummate their marriage. Veronica tried everything she could think of to get her handsome hunk between the sheets, but Ned's Victorian upbringing is like a rubber ball---no sooner do you think you've gotten rid of it, when, surprise, it comes bounding back again. He didn't want to rush her, he said. He respected her womanly modestly, he said. They would know when the time was right, he said. What in God's name have I done to Gladys, he said, but only to himself. Actually for the last two years, Ned really hasn't been in the treehouse. Veronica, frustrated beyond control, gave her husband to the Amazons. Let's see what they can do for him, she said, but only to herself.
The others still occasionally ask if anyone has seen old Neddy-boy and nod their heads, perfectly satisfied when Veronica, with a secret smile, answers, "He's sitting right here."
The Jungle Beauty. The Protector of the Plateau. Veronica Layton Malone. Obsession can turn into habit and habits can last a lifetime. Veronica is still looking for her mother and, much to the confusion of her friends, she's also looking for her "little sis" Finn. No one remembers Veronica having a little sister, and, to tell the truth, Veronica is a little hazy about it herself. Missing is missing though, so she doesn't mind the haze. Last year her excitement was high when she saw someone in the jungle who looked very familiar to her. The others felt a memory of familiarity, too. Poor Tribune spent a week in black leather shorts before he found a way to escape from the treehouse and from big sister V.
Veronica's still wearing her jungle girl outfit. She thought it might get Ned all hot and bothered. The person it bothered was Marguerite. As the years passed, and Veronica's breasts inched every nearer her waist, there came a day when Marguerite could stand it no longer. As nicely as she could, she pulled her friend aside and told her that her sagging breasts were getting so long that they were beginning to look prehensile. Veronica, for some reason, took this observation the wrong way and pulled away from her so fast that her two assets swung into Marguerite's side breaking two of her ribs. The girl-talk was not a wasted effort, however. Marguerite learned not give Veronica advice, and Veronica was happy to learn that she had two more weapons in her arsenal.
Oops, let's not forget the sixth adventurer. Professor Arthur Summerlee. Shot with an arrow and vanished over a waterfall in 1920. Arthur Summerlee had always been a lucky son of a b. He fell over the waterfall, floated down the river and bobbed up right beside a ship that was setting sail for New York. A world famous physician renowned for his skill in healing tummy wounds was aboard, and soon had our old friend as right as rain. Summerlee was a big hit in New York. He became quite a raconteur and, when television came in, became a regular on The Ed Sullivan Show. Billed as the world's oldest goofy guy, he made a fortune and retired to Tahiti when he turned 100. He made news again a few years later when his first book became a world-wide best seller. Perhaps you've heard of it. The title? I See Dinosaurs.
Yes, forty years is a long time. It's good to know they're all doing well. Let's check in again in say, oh, about forty years from now.