John's final captchalogue card was expended on his magician's hat. He wanted to get his funny glasses as well, but he didn't have a free card in his sylladex. However, he was able to merge the beagle puss with the magician's hat on one card to create a clever disguise that would be sure to fool his dad.
John? Who is this John you speak of? It was quite certain there has never been, nor ever will be…
Yeah, this was a really shitty disguise.
While he was wearing the items, they remained on the card, but it was temporarily removed from the deck, thus freeing up the cards beneath it.
John exited his bedroom and entered the hallway. On one wall hung a picture of a fella who sure knew how to have a laugh, a man after his own heart. John always thought he looked a lot like Michael Cera, but his dad swore on the many hallowed tombs of Egypt that it was not. John wasn't sure about that though.
On the other wall was one of Dad's stupid clowns. Or harlequins, as he was quick to correct anyone who would venture such brazen assumptions.
John continued on his way downstairs and into the living room where the accursed odor of fresh baking wafted into his newfound nostrils.
Something was brewing in the kitchen. It must have been the connivings of his arch nemesis, Betty Crocker, and the rich, buttery aroma of her plot stunk to high heaven.
This mission was going to be more difficult than he had imagined.
Next to the fireplace in the living room was a shelf of fanciful harlequins. Fucking garbage; John hated this stuff. Funny was funny, but Dad sure could be a real cornball.
Sometimes at night John prayed for burglars.
A bright flame flickered in the fireplace. It didn't matter that it was April and not terribly chilly outside. In a home, a fireplace needed a fire, because that's what a fireplace was for. A fire belonged in a fireplace, dammit, cata(ptcha)gorically, at all times, without exception.
As domestic myth of unaccountable origin held, a home borrows the spirit of the flame for as long as it makes a guest of it, much as the moon takes liberty with the sun's rays.
"The moon's an errant thief, and her pale fire she snatches from the sun." -Mark Twain
It was almost certain Mark Twain said that.
While he was standing in front of the fire, John took his copy of GameBro magazine and threw it into the fire. It didn't burn as quickly as he had hoped.
Each GameBro magazine was guaranteed to be printed on 40% recycled asbestos, for big ups to Mother Earth, yo.
Sitting atop of the fireplace mantle was the sacred urn containing John's departed Nanna's ashes.
Whenever his father gave her portrait a wistful glance now and then, John could tell it brought back painful memories. A tall bookshelf, a ladder, an unabridged Colonel Sassacre's.
He never wanted to talk about it.
As he was thinking about all of this, John clumsily mishandled the sacred urn, spilling ash everywhere.
In retrospect, upon mulling cinematic tropes regarding ash-filled urns, this outcome was a virtual certainty.
He knew he had better clean this up before Dad found it.
But instead thought he would first improve his clever disguise by adding one of his father's pipes to it.
Perfect.
Distracted from the ashes once again, John saw an oversized present in the middle of the room he had failed to notice earlier. On the outside of the wrapped box was a tag which read
CHAMP.
YOU CAN DO ANYTHING IF YOU PUT YOUR MIND TO IT.
I BELIEVE IN YOU.
Contemplating what could be inside this package was sort of exciting, but it made him a little nervous at the same time.
John tore off the wrappings, tossing them aside, and opened the box to reveal…
Oh hell no.
It was a giant harlequin doll, armless and smiling.
He propped it up on the couch; having it in the middle of the floor sprawled out all akimbo like that struck him as unseemly.
He then captchalogued the ashes to his one available card and merged them with the sacred urn.
Most of the ash was back in the urn, but it was a total mess. It probably would have been tidier if he had just used a broom and dustpan.
He stealthily put the urn back in its place on the mantle. No one would be the wiser; except maybe for people with eyes.
Suddenly, John thought of another brilliant idea of something to do with those pointless fake arms. He bolted back up the stairs to his room and pried the arms out of the cake on his bed, captchaloguing them.
Meanwhile, it seemed that Pesterchum was acting up again. He sat down at his computer and saw that another one of his chums was messaging him.
- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 16:13 -
TT: I understand you have recently come into possession of the beta release of "The Game of the Year", as featured in respectable periodicals such as GameBro Magazine.
EB: that's an ugly rumor.
EB: whoever told you that is a filthy liar.
EB: and you should probably stop hitting on him all the time or whatever.
TT: I can't control myself.
TT: I must have a weakness for insufferable pricks.
EB: anyway i still haven't checked the mail, my dad has it.
EB: i'm trying to go get it from him, so brb
TT: John.
EB: what?
TT: You're wearing one of your disguises now, aren't you?
TT: You are typing to me right now while wearing something ridiculous.
EB: no, why would you even think that?
EB: that's so stupid.
TT: Ok.
TT: Why don't you go get the game from your father?
EB: alright, wish me luck.
EB: oh, btw...
EB: jk I was wearing a funny disguise this whole time.
EB: gotcha! hehehehe
TT: I know, John.
After getting off of his computer, John returned downstairs. He could now execute that brilliant idea he had.
There should be just enough frosting on the fake arms to serve as an adequate adhesive.
He attached the arms to the harlequin doll on the couch and snickered. He didn't care what Colonel Sassacre said, that made it at least a million percent funnier.
Meanwhile, a stray page from the burning GameBro had floated out onto the floor by the discarded present wrap. John picked them both up and threw them into the fire.
He then pulled out Sassacre's text to consult in order to determine exactly how hilarious the doll was now. He opened up to one of the first pages.
THE CREEPY-CRAWLIES!
Hell's bells, we are having a mighty sporting time of it!
Hold fast, my intrepid fellow prank-smiths! We've merely nicked the mahogany of our japing chests.
If I may direct the incisive ogle of your beagle puss to the wriggling regency of rubber bugs, plastic parasites, squirming serpents, pliable pests, and every such order and phyla of creepy-crawlies!
Land sakes alive, we are cooking with petrol now!
In further exhibits we shall dwell on artifice useful to your exploits. Is your pappy's rod and reel handy? What about a bit of iron cord; it shouldn't prove elusive. Bring those writing rascals to life, and set the nerves of some old maid to the wreck of Hesperus!
Do you have a bothersome aunt who never seems troubled to find ways with your sunny afternoons? A broad, splintery fence – a bucket of whitewash, perhaps?
By gum you'll fix her wagon!
And what of that tawny gent who puts his lackadaisical lean near the sarsaparilla font? You'll have that listless octoroon find the spring in his step just yet!
But this text was way too big to navigate in a timely fashion. He decided to forget it. What John needed to do was find his dad and retrieve the mail.
The door to his left lead to the kitchen, from which the smell of baking wafted – a powerful aroma which could have lifted an especially portly hobo off his feet. The door to his right lead to the study, where Dad spent a lot of his time. He could be in either room.
John entered the study, but it didn't look like Dad was in there right now.
He approached the desk where he saw his dad's stuff lying out – a deck of playing cards, a pipe, the April issue of The Serious Jester magazine and a stray captchalogue card.
There was also a can of peanuts on the desk. Oh Dad. John wouldn't be falling for that one again anytime soon. A severe peanut allergy was a terrible affliction to cope with.
Next to the desk was a hat rack. John swapped his magician's hat with a bowler hat that was hanging there to upgrade his costume.
This disguise was somewhat less funny, but a lot more distinguished looking.
He contemplated combining the second pipe with his clever disguise. Dad maintained numerous pipes around the household. A father without a pipe was like a strapping roughneck without a toothpick. That is to say, he was a rather piss-poor excuse for a roughneck if you ask me.
John decided not to take the pipe, though. The first one tasted bad enough as it was.
How he suffered for his comedy.
He turned his attention to the captchalogue card sitting on the desk. Yes! This would be perfect for expanding the space in his sylla-
Oh. He had captchalogued the card onto another card in his sylladex by mistake. So much for that.
Sighing, John went to the piano and played a short haunting refrain.
Then he played 52 pick-up, the prankster's favorite card game, even though he was alone in the room, thus rendering it an especially foolish version of Solitaire. It was a stupid idea. The cards just made a mess all over the floor.
John then went back into the living room and contemplated checking the mailbox outside. He thought perhaps he should exhaust all possibilities before plunging headlong into a Dad encounter.
The television was currently airing a commercial for Hi-C's Ecto Cooler juice.
He walked past it and out the front door to go check the mailbox.
Predictably, the mailbox was empty. He had already been scooped by his father.
Removing his disguise for just a moment, John looked around at his surroundings.
The streets were empty. Wind skimmed the voids keeping neighbors apart, as if grazing the hollow of a cut reed, or say, a plundered mailbox. A familiar note was produced. It was the one Desolation played to keep its instrument in tune.
It was his thirteenth birthday, and as with all twelve preceding it, something felt missing from his life. The game presently eluding him was only the latest sleight of hand in the repertoire of an unseen riddler, one to engender a sense not of mirth, but of lack. His coarse schemes were those less of a prankster than a common pickpocket. His riddle was Absence itself. It was a mystery dispersing altogether, like the moon's faint reflection, with even one pebble of inquiry dropped in its black well. It was the most diabolical riddle of all.
"Absence diminishes little passions and increases great ones, as wind extinguishes candles and fans a fire." -Walt Whitman
Yes, it was certain Walt Whitman said that. One hundred percent positive.
He had a feeling it was going to be a long day.