The Hourly WHY __Episode 05

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Pre-Civil Way

By Jeff Worman

Dean Wendler wasn't so sure if it was kosher to start putting together the "what-ifs" and "how-comes" so early in the game. His nephew, Don (a.k.a. Uncle Don, to some), was just going to do a little fishing.

Now look.

Now he'd be right there with everyone else. Dean Wendler, standing around the Carousel, waiting for word. Good-or-bad. The blimp armada, from Reclamation, dropped the 8:48 into the General for processing. What was left of the 8:48 to Deerwood. Sizzled, hissed and crunched.

It went first through the General's chipper. Followed by slicing, dicing and, penultimately reassembly. The copters then fired a few rockets and thundered off.

A crowd of restless passengers, loved ones and media hounds waved their hands, the ones with the ID chips implanted, so as to gain admission.

Don's leg came down the conveyor, followed by a nose, a suitcase and a cardboard box of chewing wax. A case. "We're doing all we can," the Doctor (a real one) cautioned apologetically.

Dean Wendler moved past Vending to "Take-Out," where he waited for Uncle Don to come waltzing down the ramp when Medical was through with the rebuilding. An LCD on the wall lit up:
"Final Rinse."

It must have been a sign. Earlier that day, things could not have been worse.

"What you did was unconscionable. That's all I'll say," Vince Membritch flashed an acerbic smile, shook his head. Walked away. Never has the behavior of a sales rep been so egregious. So caustic. So what. So thought Dean Wendler.

He and Don had been dispatched to an office in TowerdaleÑto check on an Eye. Unfortunately it was right in the corner where Llloyd Fresnell, the new builder on the block, was setting up shop, planning to plan, to rehab an old shopping mall brothel and arcade (the old Superb Meadows on Route LL) as a neighborhood jail and health club. His stack of PDAs, monitors, drawing boards, laptops, tabletops, poptops and files in paper sat neatly arranged, almost as an artpiece unto itself. Reminiscent of the textures conjured by Louise Nevelson, such as her "Sky Cathedral Presence."

At the Walker Arts Center. Except sideways.

One of Fresnell's men had used an old hollow door as a tabletop, so when Don decided to stand on it, rather than grab a ladder, his foot started to crack right through. This was complicated by Don attempting to regain his balance, toppling first a monitor to the floor; subsequently dragging everything else connected along with it.

After the dust settled and it was once again quiet, Llloyd Fresnell marched over to Don, sitting on his ass, in the middle of the CAD Dept. Tools, computer cables and everything awry.

"Is this your expertise?" huffed Llloyd.

Before Don was able to regain some semblance of composure, he growled, more to his own disgust, not at all really pissed with Fresnell.

"Yes."

Llloyd almost instantly marched right back in his office, still in view of the hired cads in CAD, and called Vince Membritch to voice a complaint. Occasional glances back at poor Don Wendler, as if to inventory the depth of his perceived ineptitude, left Llloyd steaming, in a stew.

Don should have packed it up right there, but instead he finished out the day, only to take the ill fated 8:48 to Deerwood.

* * *

At the edge of town, Investo's ship descended meteorically from the heavens, as it did every Wednesday. The light of the retrorockets burned a brilliant crimson and then thunked to the ground. As usual.

As everyone got out their wallets, Investo noticed the absence of the Langerthal twins, Vince Membritch and a few familiar faces known only by their familiar faces, of which the aforementioned Wendlers were but two. And The Stranger. Again.

Usually one of the Langerthal twins chattered like a squirrel, before Investo raised a parched and withered hand and she was silent. Investo, cleared its mighty throat, spoke, they all listened.

"I have another deal all worked out with the Big Boys down on Bill's Planet," the champion proclaimed.

Once again Mr. Lintler from Accounting began rubbing his hands involuntarily and quietly muttered under his larynx a garbled "Goody." Good thing he had taken his bike to the office and stayed away from the 8:48. The 8:48 to Deerwood.

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