I do not own Power Rangers: Jungle Fury
Dom and Fran are adorbs.
Places in Books
The Good, The Bad, And The Awesome
It could be Liechtenstein.
Or Bern.
Maybe Zurich.
Sometimes it's a little difficult to keep track . . .
"Uh, Dom?"
"Follow me, Frannie, I got this!"
. . . of where they currently are.
All she knows is there's lots of chocolate.
Pocket knives.
Watches.
And wooden cuckoo clocks.
There's distant mountaintops covered with snow.
Cable cars and and tiny train rails with which to visit them.
Ski resorts, though they are closed for the summer.
There's coffee shops and tea shops and tiny shops that sell macaroons of every imaginable color.
Everything is picturesque and so Olde Worldly European, just like everywhere else they've been on the this trip so far.
There's probably scientists studying god-knows-what for god-knows-whom god-knows-where around here.
And all kind of political intrigue and mystery subtly afoot.
Since it is a neutral country and all.
And she even thinks she hears . . .
I swear to all that is marinara . . .
. . . a yodeler . . .
. . . that if Dom knows how to yodel . . .
. . . off somewhere . . .
. . . I'm going to lose my mind.
. . . in the far distance.
"Hey, Fran, you hear that?"
"Yeah."
"That's cool, huh?"
"Yeah. Do you . . . do you know how to yodel?"
Self-depreciating huff.
"Me? No. No clue. I'd probably just attract cats if I tried."
Whew.
And they are allowed to continue their wandering Swiss adventure.
Thank goodness.
With Fran's mind . . .
"Hey, Fran, . . . wanna try yodeling?"
"Um, nooooo . . ."
. . . mostly in tact.
Yodeling, no.
Juggling . . .
"Well, go on. Show 'em what you got, Dom."
. . . yes.
As in many European cities, small towns, hamlets, burgs, and metropolitan areas, street performers are a common occurrence.
Bohemian musicians.
Curiously tattooed magicians.
Free style flippers and stilt-walkers and mono-cyclers.
Busking is no low art form here, not in a land still whispering of mystery and romance.
And now they have happened upon a solo performer.
A juggler.
Short and lean, vested and sneakered.
Fran is fleetingly reminded of Theo's twin brother.
Except for the fact this man has entirely too much beard to be mistaken for the Blue Jaguar Ranger even all suited up.
At any rate, . . .
"Whoa, . . ."
. . . the orange-capped man is balancing barefoot upon a blue ball . . .
". . . wicked."
. . . has drawn a small crowd of appreciative onlookers.
And produced from somewhere upon his person . . .
"Oooh, . . ."
. . . a single small, white juggling ball.
" . . . now this I like."
Which bounces and ricochets off his hands and various parts of his body.
All whilst he defies gravity with seemingly effortless ease.
Dom stops and Fran slightly to the side of him.
There's light, jaunty instrumental music playing, something that makes her think of cotton candy and summer sunburns and striped tents.
And freedom for all the rest of her days.
And Fran is very . . .
Wow. This really is the best trip ever.
. . . content and happy.
The one ball becomes two, the two becomes three.
How do they do that?
And suddenly . . .
Wow. I can barely walk and chew gum at the same time.
. . . there's a growing fascinating flurry of them.
And the crowd is smiling and clapping appreciatively.
Murmuring to each other in muddle of mixed languages Fran . . .
Was that the word for cheese-
. . . is helpless to untangle in the overwhelmed synapses of her mind.
And it doesn't matter anyway because the show is marvelous, she's definitely tossing a handful of coins into the waiting top hat near the impossibly balanced big blue ball.
Because the man's hands are blurry with practiced, controlled movement.
A hypnotizing, enchanting display in which she cannot possibly track it all if her European-traveling, pizza-loving, Dom-adoring life depended on it.
And suddenly, at the very apex of his dazzling performance, the music crescendos, there is an eruption of movement.
And the juggler, in a smooth, powerful, graceful motion, flips backward off the balancing ball, sending it rolling away from him.
Lands on firmly on his feet on the worn cobblestones.
And waves his hands, holding four of the five balls therein.
To the rising applause of a truly appreciative crowd.
Four balls, not five.
For the fifth as gotten away from him, much to the nevertheless enchanted crowd.
And rolled to a soft bounce at the sneakered foot.
Of one Dominic Marcus Hargan.
And Fran . . .
Oh . . .
. . . can only imagine what her bold and brave companion . . .
. . . boy.
. . . will do next.
Dominic, of course, slowly bends to pick it up.
Here we go.
Rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers.
Small, lopsided smile upon his handsome face.
"Go for it, Dom."
As he cuts his eyes toward hers.
"Show 'em what you got."
And he . . .
I wish I was an iota that cool.
. . . steps slowly forward.
But I just couldn't. There are people watching.
They might see me.
And I can't juggle.
He makes his way through the slowly dispersing crowd, toward the performer.
Who notices him.
Smiles congenially.
As Dom, corner of his mouth upturned mischievously, raises the small wayward orb.
And a challenging eyebrow.
To his fellow aerosaltant.
The juggler who, with a subtle twinkle in his own eye, slowly bends.
Taps a button on his sound system.
And the lonely, twangy, only-man-standing music sends its first few floating strands wafting into the unassuming . . .
"Whaawhaawa wha wha wha . . ."
. . . afternoon air.
Fran is perplexed for a moment.
It's so . . . it's so . . . unEuropean.
And the men, having never crossed paths before, now by sheer happenstance, . . .
At least i think.
With Dom, you can never quite tell.
. . . begin to slowly circle each other.
Oh my gosh.
With shrewd, squinty-eyed gazes.
Manfully measured footsteps.
Hands held open wide at hips, arms bent, fingers sneakily flexing and twitching.
And it hits her.
And Old Western showdown.
And she doesn't even realize she is grinning widely as she watches the play begin.
One ball is tossed and caught.
Returned.
And another.
And another.
There's one, there's two, then another.
And then, as the tempo shifts, intensifies, so does their challenge.
The two lone gunmen of jugglers toss faster, catch and release faster.
Moving their bodies almost as boxers, light on their feet, lightening quick with their hands.
And the air between them is full of small, flying, snow white orbs.
And the end to the story is fast arriving, the conclusion to this epic tale.
One lone juggler must stand.
And one . . .
Oh-
. . . must fall.
Fission has been reached, the juggle overreached.
One ball missed, it hits the chest.
Another.
And another.
The lone ball in the hand, dropped, as that man pauses, staggers dramatically.
Drops the remaining sphere, his only remaining munition.
And then, soaring chorus rising up on zephyrs of exhortation, he . . .
Wow.
. . . goes down to his knees on the ground.
Vanquished.
Defeated.
Conquered.
Out-juggled.
And the Master Juggler . . .
"Whaawhaawa wha wha wha . . ."
. . . stands . . .
I mean, wow.
. . . alone.
Head bowed, single white ball . . .
That was good.
. . . clutched loosely . . .
That was insanely good.
. . . in one hand.
And the final lonely note fades away, the crowd bursts into cheers and applause.
Dominic Hargan, the man whom Frannie Fugleman has followed all across the looping journeys of Europe, bounds suddenly back up to his feet.
Arms spread, hands out wide.
Blue eyes bright, charming smile now wide upon his mouth.
The crowd is clapping for them, cheering for both them.
And Dominic . . .
Oh,-
. . . is clapping selflessly for the crowd.
And the Master Juggler . . .
-How sweet-
. . . who drew them all here.
The Master Juggler who approaches, clapping now for Dom, with a joyful smile upon his own face.
And gestures to him.
No one is ever going to believe this.
And they lightly clasp hands.
Turn with an easy flourish to the crowd.
Well, . . .
And take . . .
. . . it is Dom.
. . . a good-natured . . .
So they probably will.
. . . bow.
This is received by renewed clapping.
And as they rise, Fran sees Dom search her out in the crowd.
Oh my gosh-
And cast out to her . . .
Dominic-
. . . a carelessly charming . . .
You stop that now, you.
. . . wink.
Well, okay, . . .
That she cannot help . . .
. . . go ahead if you must.
. . . but blush to.
Whew! That was fun!
Well, it was fun for me.
Hope it was for you too!
Thanks for reading!
And thanks also to Seth A. Mincberg for the continued discussion and collaboration of this story and thank you to James Birdsong (very cool name) for reviewing the previous chapter. :)
