The "Famous" Mr. Dennys

         Beneath the swirling gaseous atmosphere of Jupiter, confined within the glimmering J-10 hexadome, is the sprawling city of Phlur-Goneous Keptem-8. Within Phlur-Goneous Keptem-8’s gridlocked system of city blocks is where the urban legend, Mr. Dennys, is said to haunt. More to the point, Mr. Dennys is not only alive and well, but he is standing in an alleyway with his best friend, Otis MeAlkie, trying to beat the system by getting his mystical ability to work for himself....


         “Okay, Otis, can you concentrate on two triple-stack Cattlemoth-burger meals and, uh, ten thousand – in Old-Earth?”

         “Uhm, sure,” agreed the gruff-looking, bespeckled black man of fifty-six, who closed his eyes and concentrated intently. His snow-white jerri curl going *drip, drip, drip*.

          The other elderly man, with a pointed face and slicked-back greying hair, cleared his throat. After a silent count of three, Mr. Dennys whipped his arm in the magical motion he’s become famous for, and two skinny ratdogs and a few coins flew out of his tattered sleeve.

         “Aaaahh!” yelped Otis, batting away the ratdogs while the coins trinkled onto the floor and rolled under an overflowing dumpster. The ratdogs followed them under to avoid another flogging.

         Mr. Dennys shut his eyes and shook a fist in the air, and asked, “Why,” with a hint of anger and jealousy in his voice.

         “The ether knows,” offered Otis. “And the ether ain’t having it.”

         Mr. Dennys gave him a look of pained knowing, and said, “Is there anything you want or need, O?”

         Otis nodded with a toothy smile.

         A swing of the same faded velvet sleeve and a Chinese takeout box – full of General Tsao chicken – along with a pair of chopsticks, a pack of cigarettes, a snuggle-fresh towel, and a bottle of jerri curl juice slid out of the arm of Mr. Dennys’ smoking jacket, and into the hands of Otis.

         “You still got it,” commented Otis. He wrapped the towel around his shoulders, then paused, looking at the cigarettes. “I don’t need these,” he said, looking at Mr. Dennys, who shrugged. A scratch of his dripping head and Otis stashed the cigarettes and jerri curl juice inside his grey trench coat. Then he offered Mr. Dennys some Chinese takeout before tearing into it.

         “What’s with the towel,” asked Mr. Dennys, as he took a step forward then stopped.

         “I don’t know,” answered Otis, a small bit of chicken falling from his lips. “I think it has something to do with the future, though.”

         “Oh. Hmm,” commented the man who looked remarkably like a dead actor named Vincent Price. He heaved a heavy sigh and said in his aesthetically deep, falsetto voice, “If I could only do that to help myself....”

         Between bites, Otis said, “Yeah, Denny, that’ll be the day. Until then, try not to think about it. Although I know that’s easier said than done, but what can a couple of slugs like us do?”

         “I hate being a slug already, O. I’m the famous Mr. Dennys! So, how come I don’t feel famous? Or live like I am?”

         “Shesh, Den, if I knew that, we’d both be living in Venice Park mansions instead of brairboard boxes in-between the Happy Smile Tower and TransWorld Foodstuffs building.”

         “True that,” said Mr. Dennys, frowning in thought. “True that.”

         “Well, there ain’t nothing much we can do about it now,” said Otis with an underlying tone in his voice. “But, check this out: I heard through the kinevine that Primayor Overton Chestler is holding a concession to convert the Inbetween-lands into a sanctum for us natives and exos alike. That’s why they deported me here. Room to expand, supposedly....”

         Mr. Dennys shook his head in disbelief, then said, “Who’d ever think that magical mutant abilities would be considered a handicap?”

         “Only on Jupiter, brother. Only on Jupiter,” offered Otis, *drip, drip, drip*. Then he reflected, “In olden times you would’ve been a God, man! Hell, Mr. Dennys, we would’ve appreciated your powers back on Mars. Heh, I tell ya, when I was catering for the 190th Space Battalion, they received us with highest regards at Topple-Gropillous! They made us feel like terrestrial kings down there, even though we were normal humans like their ancestors were. Well, at least they treated us like that before we were dropped into Zunk terr-it-tree. Heh! That’s where we could’ve used ya help.” Otis belched, abruptly cutting his story short. Then he gave the half-eaten box of Chinese takeout to Mr. Dennys to finish off.

         After being beat by the system again, they began walking back to their brairboard houses located in the orange district.


Taking the long way home through the Down-n-Out sector of Phlur-Goneous, Mr. Dennys and Otis MeAlkie walked up on two Jamaican-looking brothers, named Lockjaw and Shagknot, who were rapping – exchanging one-liner’s – in front of the local tenant building. The two elderly men stopped to listen and both started to nod their heads to the verbalized rhythm ...


         “Yo! I come from duh slums, wit’ duh guns and duh drugs-”

         “So my platoon be as crazed as a pak of Loony Tunes-”

         “Behold my scepta, while I be drink’n honeybee necta, as a cure for death!”

         “Suckas call me Imhotep-”

         “Ibis, Thoth head-”

         “Yo! We be some mystic healers-”

         “Who will break you in two-”

         “Then repair you-”

         “With instructions first read upon chiseled rock-”

         “Papyrus, illustrative, hieroglyphic manuscript-”

         “Decode the split-snake, DNA molecule Caduceus-”

         “Ha, ha! Mad intoxicant, intelligent mental mind-state, for you to replicate-”

         “Yo! Shagknot dun ben indoctrinated to spit dem red hot bullets from duh grill, kid-”

         “No doubt, represent’n dat Eff-Kay slip-”

         “Yo, fo’ real! Gotta keep et unexpected; check et-”

         “Like our ancestors born upon a spaceship-”

         “A flat stone skip’n across duh black abyss-”

         “Here and there, throughout Greatah Outtah Space-”

         “Then, oop, whoop, whud’s dat word shed?”

         “Bloop-poop! Welcome ta Jupiter, kid!”

         “Downtown, Phlur-Goneous, Keptem-Eight-”

         “My third-eye naw shine light, like a bright spotlight, ta illuminate all dark space-”

         “Yo! We be Shagknot and Lockjaw, duh chiropractors in dis place-”

         “Decide, did do, duh Gods fa you, ta be our disciple-”

         “Watch out, naw, as da Afro-centric light be blinding the shadows....”

         “Holla!”


         “Ah, dom, naw,”said Shagnot, exchanged a hand-slap, foot-tapping gesture with Lockjaw. “Dat won’s da tuffness, naw mon!”

         Lockjaw agreed, a sparkle in his voice, before acknowledged their audience. “Whud up, Otis? Nice towel, mon. Whud up, Denny? How’s duh science fiction novel you ben write’n?”

         Shagknot snickered at the reference. Then he plucked the smoke stick from behind his ear, pulled a pocket fire out of his shorts, ignited  the smoke stick, and puffed a massive green cloud before passing it to Lockjaw—all whilst saying to Mr. Dennys, “Dood, mon, yah ben work’n on dat novel-ting fa, like, eva, mon!”

         “Eh-, err, yeah, I know,” answered Mr. Dennys, looking dejected. “The plot is still kinda here and there. My ideas come from all-over place, you know? Plus, all of my characters sigh all the time....” He took the smoke stick from Lockjaw, hit it twice, and passed it to Otis. After exhaling a sizable plume, he continued to explain, “All I wanna do is to write a string of words that are incredibly fun to read. You know? But the more I read the more I realize that the master science fiction writers of yesteryear took the best ideas already and wrote monumental stories about them all! It seems that the only science I can find here in the D-n-O is chemistry, and I refuse to write a cook book!” He looked thoughtfully at the smoke stick Otis was puffing on now. “Well, maybe I can write a botany book....”

         “Nonsense,” interposed Otis amidst a green cloud. Passing the smoke stick to Shagknot, he continue to say, “You’ll finish your sci-fi novel, Den. Those monumental stories you’re talk’n ‘bout, took their writers ten years to write. No, wait,” Otis said, tripping over his own logic. *drip, drip, drip* “It took those writers ten years to develop those stories, not write ‘em.... Look, Den, as far as I know, things have always been down for you. They certainly have been since I first met you after getting declassified and sent out here to Phlur-Goneous. But, your problem is, like I tell you all the time, is that you need to start believing in yourself!”

         “Lis’en ta jerry drep, ova dere,” advised Shagknot, puffing away like a freight train. “Tru wizdum es da owny ting da’s eva phree, mon.”

         Lockjaw laughed a hardy laugh, looked at Mr. Dennys, and said, “Yo, mon, et be like dis: sometimes duh best answer is to forget everyting! Forget duh past. And don’t even tink `bout duh future. Get in tune wit’ right naw. Get in tune wit’ duh moment. All dat matters, mon, is right naw. Dis very instant. Like inhaling dis smoking stick!” Lockjaw took the smoke stick from Shagknot and inhaled in ecstacy.

         “Yeah, I got that down already,” said Mr. Dennys, sharpening his pencil-thin moustache between thumb and forefinger. He flicked out the faded velvet cuff dramatically, as if preparing to materialize something, and said, “That’s why, at the moment, I feel so ... dimensional. And that’s what makes me famous.... Right?”

         Shagknot only heard of Mr. Dennys performing the unexplainable materialization that he is indeed famous for. But Shagknot has never seen the street miracle performed live and didn’t believe it was actually possible. So, as a challenge, he said, “Relly, naw, mon? Den majek meh up anotha woone ov tese smoke sticks, will yah den, der, Mr. Denntys?”

         Stretching his arms out and clapping his hands together, Mr. Dennys turned out his palms and cracked his knuckles, then inhaled three times and curled his arms inward as he did so before taking another pull of the smoke stick. Mr. Dennys passed the smoldering smoke stick to Otis, tuned-out the world and cocked his arm across his chest.

         “Oh, shyke,” commented Lockjaw, nudging Shagknot in the ribs. “He’s gonna do et, mon!”

         Unconsciously, Shagknot’s eyes widened and his mouth opened.

         Mr. Dennys looked at Shagknot, blew out a plume of green smoke, and said, “Catch.” A smoke stick, a fat sack of smoking plant, and a receipt – good for twenty million shares of TransWorld Foodstuffs – unexpectedly flew out of Mr. Dennys faded sleeve.

         “Whaut da tryke,” spat Shagknot, shuffling about, trying to catch all the items.