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We
had met with failure on our first excursion into the world of midgetry.
Under fierce and brutal questioning, Tenderheart revealed that he
didn’t really know crap about midgets.
I felt humiliation, embarrassment and anger.
Here I was willingly going along with the plans that had
formulated based on his “knowledge” of these tiny creatures.
He tried to explain away his actions that night by saying that he
had had too much beer and whiskey and wanted to look as if he knew it
all. He took a
foot in the balls for that.
”No one lies to Warmheart and lives to tell about it!”, I screamed
in his half-conscious face. From
here on in, it was going to be me who
was going to be in charge of this project.
The first thing I did was to telephone the local university and
asked them to put me in contact with someone who had actual knowledge
about midgets. After
several disconnects that I am certain were accidental on their part, I
was finally put through to a man who claimed intimate knowledge of the
elusive buggers. To my
great joy, he agreed to a meeting.
He warned that it had to be somewhere where he would not be
recognized or overheard. Of
course. We agreed to
rendezvous at the local Pizza Hut the following night.
Just the two of us, he made it clear.
When I saw the shriveled apparition walk through the door, looking
around, I knew it must have been him and wished I had not just crammed a
gigantic slice of pizza into my cakehole.
When his gaze came my way, I waved but my sudden movement caused
half of my mouthful to start to spew out onto the table in front of me.
My vain attempts to stop the food flow caused me to start choking
and my head jerked back and forth spasmodically.
During one particularly violent thrust, the remaining pizza shot
out and hit the black woman at the next table in the back of the head.
The food stuck to her tremendous wig and she never felt a thing.
The old man shook his head knowingly and approached my table.
His name was Hubert Jass, but told me that he preferred to be
called Hugh. He was an
ancient man and very nervous looking, looking side to side.
”Damn, Hugh, you are old!”
I exclaimed.
He
spoke with an air of wisdom, sort of like a white version of the wise
man from the Kung Fu tv show. “I
truly am not that old. I
have experienced but fifty years on this planet.”
”What the hell happened to you then?”
”I’ve been a Grateful Dead fan for years”, he said.
”Say no more. What can you
tell me about midgets?”
He
knitted his brow.
“You
dropped a stitch”, I told him.
“Oh
thanks. It would
perhaps be easier if you told me what you know about the little
fellows.” |
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“My
son and I think that there are two kinds of midgets.
City and country midgets.
We suspect, based on a documentary he saw, one called
The Gnomemobile, that the country midgets wear suspenders and drive
around in a car. Well,
Hugh, I have to tell you that we know next to nothing about city
midgets. I know that
people like to kick them.”
”And laugh at them”, he added, chuckling softly.
“Warmheart, you have shown that you know very little about the
midgets who live in the country.
The Gnomemobile has thrown many off of their true scent.”
I
nodded, but remained awake. He
went on.
“I
suspect that the documentary was made by country born midgets who
wanted people to never be able to find them.”
He looked suddenly proud and defiant.
“My cousin, who lived out in the country, once needed help on
his farm. I personally
captured fully ten midgets and brought them to him.
They labored heartily, but alas, they were they were too short to
reach the plow handles and consequently dangled along behind the mule.
My dear Warmheart. You
look like a sensible man. When
I tell you that I know as much about the various aspects of the social
lives of midgets as any man alive today, I expect you to believe me
without question.”
I was caught thinking about the boobs on the young hottie that was
working behind the counter at the time.
I had to think fast or lose this man’s trust. ”What was that?
Sorry, I was just trying to pick a piece of anchovy out of my
teeth.”
Hugh looked side to side again and then reached into his overcoat.
Out of an inner pocket he withdrew an envelope.
“I don’t have much time to talk, Warmheart”, he said.
He held the envelope up with one hand and pointed at it with the
other, trying his best to ensure that he had at least some of my
attention. “This envelope
contains documentation that will be vital to your quest.
That is all. Good
luck Warmheart. Someone
needs to do what you are trying to do.
They need to be captured.
They need us to be their masters.”
In a flash, Hugh Jass was gone never to be seen again.
Until he stepped out of the restroom.
Then he was gone, a
string of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe trailing him out
of the door.
It was as if he had never been there.
I got up to leave, walking the long way around, making sure that
I avoided the black woman.
Once
home, I poured over the documentation Jass had given me.
It was amazing, full of anecdotes, stories of sightings, and a
rather lengthy essay someone had written on the subject of tiny people.
Jass had underlined certain passages and, in the margin, had
written stuff like “this is so true” and “wow!”.
I burned it immediately and felt good about doing it.
But the other stuff gave me enough information to formulate the
beginnings of a new and even more brilliant plan
Go
to Part 3 Back to Warmheart's
Tales |