the Remembered Saints: My Life and Subsequent Death
Execution of the Sun"
Among the Jellyfish"
of the Manfestation"
Cake and Double Talk"
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.
sort of thing you freaks love
Blip News, May I help you?
—Dick Armando, please.
—May I ask who's calling?
—Charlie Onion of (here I cough
She pauses for an instant but recovers
—Just a moment, sir.
A patch of dialogue from a soap opera
is piped in and then the Great Armando picks up on his
—What the hell's WAG?
—An alternative monthly, I say.
They have a column dedicated to you.
—Oh hell, he says. Dick Watch.
I know what you're talking about now. An intern brings
that crap in sometimes.
—So what do you want?
—I'm going to be writing the column
for a while and I just wanted to introduce myself and—
—Yeah yeah, grunts Armando. Look,
we've got an unearthly abduction story making this place
go wild, so if you want to come down and watch, that's
fine. But I'm just too busy right now to talk.
—Yeah. The sort of thing you freaks
love. Get here no later than four and I'll have the receptionist
buzz you back to the newsroom.
—Of course, I say. Four o'clock.
set down the phone and check my watch: two-thirty. Enough
time to work in the garden a bit, if it weren't surrounded
by a yellow-taped don't cross moat. I call Homicide
and ask for Duty, but he's out and I leave no message.
Best to wait, I decide. Who knows who else I'll find once
I resume digging.
Instead, I unlock the front room, give
Eddie's dad a moment to clear out and then settle into
the desk chair with a stack of WAGs on my lap. It's a
strange mix, I discover: routine film reviews, a vegetarian
column, rather intellectual book reviews, an advice column
written by a homicidal clown named Stinky and a back-page
column called Reports from the Edge.
As for the Dick Watch, it shouldn't
be too difficult: write it like an adoring queer and leave
the damn thing unsigned.
I sigh and wonder what the other Charlie
is doing—the one who decided to stay with Cindy
and put up with the ovulation thermometers and the thrice-weekly
lectures to smart-assed freshmen. Who's to say: maybe
he's better off than I am.
At three-thirty, I lock up Eddie's dad
and drive across town to the satellite-dish-festooned
receptionist is a garishly colored apparition who, after
batting her purple-tinted eyelids at the sound of the
opening door, notices it is only me—a nobody—and
returns to her pectorals-baring romance.
—I'm here to see Dick Armando,
I say, over the counter.
She looks up, scowls, asks for my name.
I give it to her and wait. Momentarily, the door behind
her buzzes and Armando emerges with a prosecutorial grimace.
—Onion? he says, hand extended.
I nod, return the grimace. Shake the
hand. He is wearing an off-blue shirt and a stunning canary-yellow
tie. It's the tie I notice first. Then the hair. Waves
of lush, light-brown hair that alone could get you a shot
on TV. Then come the wrinkles. In the flesh, his flesh
shows more years than I suspect the camera does. Still,
the hair's impressive.
—Follow me, he says.
The door snaps shut behind us.
walk down a narrow corridor lined with illuminated photos
of broadcast-news Illuminati and emerge in the low-ceilinged
newsroom. Rows of desks, monitors, the squawk of police
scanners. A few interns glance at us and return to work.
Passing a blonde's desk, Armando snags a chip from a bag
she is clutching and clucks.
—High fat, he mutters, without
I follow him to his office, where he
suddenly turns on me and advances.
—This isn't a body-slam piece,
I step back.
—No, I manage. Fawning. Absolute
adoration, I say. Really. The word...fawning. Precisely.
He nods, eyes me skeptically.
—Might as well give you the tour,
a half an hour, I tail him through various narrow hallways.
Through the newsroom, down the hall to the promotional
room (full of computers and lonely albino males) past
the door leading up the transmitters (we're not interested
in that, though, says Armando) down the hall to the
studio (air-conditioned and absolutely silent) and finally
out into the parking lot behind the building, where a
short man with an atrocious wig joins us.
—Hey Dick, the man says, smiling.
Armando grunts. We've come out to look
at the transmitting tower, and he doesn't bother himself
with the wig man.
—Talked to the UFO chick yet?
Armando glances down at wig man and
—Pretty cute, wig man says.
He lights a cigarette and glances up
at the tower.
—I didn't see her on the tour,
I say. Where is she, incidentally?
—They're hooking her up right
now, wig man says.
—We have her in the Remote Booth,
Armando says. Come on.
Armando pulls the door open and I step
—I was wondering, Dick, wig man
says. If tonight you'd let me—
The door slaps shut on wig man, and
I follow Armando down a series of corridors that end on
a single closed door which reveals, on the other side,
a miniature control room and, through a sheet of glass,
a small room containing a chair, a camera and a young,
frightened girl. Armando motions for me to sit down behind
the man leaning over the control board. On a monitor overhead,
I see the girl's face is being obscured. Inside the booth,
the girl squirms, impatient and frightened.
I look up at the face on the screen,
trying to see a figure inside its blur; to no effect.
When the girl speaks, the mouth flutters like a sea of
tiny squares: computer-pointillism. When her eyes close,
it is like a pair of crazy-quilted window shades being
raised and lowered. And when she turns her head, it is
like a great dust storm is sweeping across an alien planet.
HARD CUT TO:
Voice from Afire
EXTERIOR PARK AFTERNOON
LONG SHOT PANS to show a grove
of sun-dappled trees and beyond them a river rushing
sprint-melt-brown. End on DARK ONE sitting on
park bench; DOLLY to CLOSE-UP. On his
face can be read one thought: suicide in the rushing
river. Absolute despair. PULL BACK to show a
pair of ducks swirling crazy-circles down a tributary
and spinning to a stop at DARK ONE's feet. As
we watch, the ducks enter a strange mating ritual that
catches, we notice in an INSERT CLOSE-UP, the
DARK ONE's attention. Then, cutting back to MID-SHOT
of the ducks, we see that the male has mounted the
female, who now struggles to break free. To stop her,
the male bites her neck and plunges her head under water.
She flaps her wings desperately and a few duck-sized
bubbles blurp to the surface of the water, but the male's
grip is strong and the female remains submerged. In
a CLOSE-UP, we see the DARK ONE is mesmerized
by the violent drowning. He has even, for a moment,
forgotten the reason he has come to the river. Then
we see his face fall, his interest wane. In a MID-SHOT,
we see the male duck kick back into the main flow and
shoot down the river, sated, while in the foreground
the female floats limp and finished. We hear the DARK
ONE sigh heavily as he stands up, his shoes creaking.
Then, of a sudden, the sky turns dark and the swirling
sounds of a rushing wind are heard.
Enter BLISTER, in a whirlwind.
The DARK ONE, stunned by the whirlwind's brilliance,
falls to the ground and cowers as a voice from the whirlwind
All in a whirlwind I come, hither
and anon, nothing but a cloud of dust swirling and
me rushing Dark-Onewards and then: puff. Cease the
whirlwind, dispel the dust and
holy gamoly—but—I can't—
Yes, you spurned Miltonian, it is I, dear old Blister,
an evil, an only evil, turned suddenlike into this
pillar of fire before you. Rather impressive, what?
No no, stay where you are, old chap. Have a seat,
in fact. Just wanted a word with you and—I say:
what's with the duck? Rather dangerous to sleep in
the water, what? Neither here nor there, I suppose,
But I digress. Where was I now? Ah yes. Look here,
old chap, I want to take over your country. And I'll
need your help doing it. Watchman unto the house of
Blister, give them warning from me, and so on. What's
The DARK ONE, finished with
his gaping, sets a finger to his chin and considers.
Impatiently, BLISTER hovers.
Well, come on, man. We don't have
all day. Do you want to destroy the world or not?
Sure. What the hell.
BLISTER smiles beatifically
and draws a bundle from under his cloak.
Right. Well then. Welcome aboard,
as they say. Death and Destruction shall lead us all,
etc. etc. By the by, I'll need you to put this on,
if you don't mind.
1 | Part
2 | Part 3
| Part 4
5 | Part
6 | Part 7
| Part 8 |
9 | Part
late Reginald Blisterkunst was a college professor whose
areas of expertise were Milton and the Metaphysical Poets.
Among the Remembered Saints, his first novel,
was also serialized on the WAG Web site.
Onion is a frequent WAG contributor.