The Great Charade Escapade

The Great Charade Escapade

A historic fiction, meaning a little history and a lot of fiction, on events in which the names of the participants have been changed to protect me. Soon to be released as a new major motion picture as soon as we can get a script written, actors willing to work cheap, a producer and those other people, financial backing, location and a few other things. However, we are close to starting to think about shooting, either with a camera or guns.

Cast of Characters

Dianne Chambers – “I use to be someone else, but alas, I realize my nature to always look for the very best in people and I believe in my ability to bring them through whatever they are going to a better situation. I admit, I am a hopeless romantic and optimist (consider why Ole Mysterious is in my life) and I truly believe that everyone has some good in them and can change (ibid Ole Mysterious).”

Bubba – “My name’s Bubba. Last name? Well the last name they called me wuz Bubba. Oh, I see. Nope, don’t rightly 'member anybody ever calling me by a last name after my first name. They jest always say, “Hey, Bubba,” or “go git me ‘at wrench, Bubba.” My daddy’s name? Uh, Daddy. What about my sister? Uh, one wuz called Sister, nuther wuz Lit-lon, then thur wuz Bitzy and Tiny, and Queen Victoria. My last name’s not Victoria, is it? Well, then, I’m jest Bubba.”

Sigmund “Siggie” Smith – “I am a Ph.D. trained psychologist from the university at Vienna, Tennessee. Yes, I do know the meaning of id - a short king, a little psychological humor, as it were, hehehehe - ego, and psyche. I have been trying to help this unfortunate creature for some times, sadly to no avail thus far. It is a situation of multiple personalities, delusions with occasional hallucinations and grandiose manifestations of verbatim obnotidious deliriums. Yes, it is very serious.”

Winds (Our hero in this epic) – “I am a highly talented and erudite writer of tales to amuse those less talented who are seeking to relieve…BURN THE BOATS! Yo mamma ain’t coming home tonight cause she been working on the railroad! Yassa, yassa, ain’t it so! Don’t put off taking the opportunities before you! Go for it! Carpet the Den! WILL YOU GET OUT OF THE WAY SO I CAN SEE WHAT I’M DOING! Mork, is that you? Oh, duh Camptown ladies sing this song, do-dah do-dah…their boredom by sinking into my intriguing tales of flights of fantasy. Soaring to the very apex of creativity and the unreal.”

The Story

This tale began when Winds, reading email from Stories.Com, suddenly get an inspiration. Inspiration always holds in its very nature an inherent risk. Very few people know it, but the word itself holds the key. You see, “itself” is made up of two words…but you knew that. What you don’t know is that inspiration is made up of three words. First is “ins.” Did you realize that is the initials for the immigration service? But more importantly did you know if you change the “n” to an “r”, you have IRS, even more sinister. Then there is the next word “pirate” but they tried to hide it by omitting the “e,” but they did not fool us, did they? The final word is “tion” pronounced shun. And when we put it all together, the meaning is clear. A clear message that says, “the IRS is a pirate and we should shun them.”

Now, with that aside aside, let’s move on with our tale. Winds went to his favorite forum, and we all know which one that is. He posted an innocuous little post related to Poetic Insanity that said, ”Well, we have almost accomplished it! Yep, that's right we are just 8 shy of having 1000 views this month and only 200 until we hit 5000! It gives me pause to wonder why this small accomplishment would seem so exciting to one who has dined with a Queen and two Kings, met 5 of the last six presidents, traveled 500 miles down the Amazon in a dugout canoe with Itchnicou Indians, visited ancient cultures in over 10 countries, touched three of the seven wonders of the ancient world not to mention camped along three quarters of the Oregon Trail. Why?
Writer of the Winds”

Just some innocuous little fun. I never said I actually did those things, just gave the impression or the illusion…yeah, that’s it. I was like a magician, creating this illusion to amuse and bemuse and then it happened. Public condemnation, innuendos, accusations all of which was either deserved or undeserved and then I realized that it was time to Carpet the Den. And I seized the moment in a most gracious apology where stating, “You know, I’m not a good person. And I feel so badly about the things I do.(He schizophrenic, too, not to mention he’s compulsive, has AHDS, PMS and bad breath) Do you remember your mom saying, “Don’t hang around those kids, they’re not a good influence? Well, I am that person. I want to be good, encouraging, looked up to and admired, like you, Miss Chambers, but alas, my nature just pulls me down again and I revert to my old ways…what can I do to change the person that I am? (He’s playing on your sympathies, incorrigible, dishonest and besides that he’s lying) I must confess…I never said I did those things. I only asked the question to make it appear that I did them, cause I knew that you, (WARNING: this is a sarcasm alert. Expect flashfloods and sarcastic creeks and streams to rise in the next few phrases—in other words GET OUT THE HIP BOOTS IT’S GONNA BE A FROG STRANGLER AND A CHUNK FLOATER!) being the kind, caring, good hearted and trusting person that you are, would respond in an encouraging way. Then...then in my own heartless and cruel way…as you took the bait…I would jerk the trap closed and scream, “Got ya! Muwhahahahahahahahaha!” (Heartless, cruel and inconsiderate to a wonderful, sincere and kind person like yourself).”

”Can I be the den mother when you’re gone? (insincerely trying to use shock value and humor to win you over and wipe out the terrible things he has done in the first paragraph. As Hans Solo said, “Pull out your blaster and let him have it!).”

However, the evil Dr. Siggie, who seemed to be a friend, had gone in and scribbled cryptic psychotic notes throughout the text of my apology, included here as proof of the conspiracy to cast aspersions and dispersions and to besmirch my character.

Dianne, the lovely, vivacious and talented young woman who used to work in a bar but now has gotten past it. Though she, still her lovely forgiving self, was the object of this little innocuous prank, she was very gracious and forgiving. She was even willing to permit me to watch her cabin when she next absented herself from the shack.

Dianne, as you might remember from her bar days, was always flitting from one relationship to another. There was Sam, then Frazier, back to Sam, then the short guy and after that a regular kind of guy, the artist and I lost count, but by now she has settled down. We do not know much about this guy as he is kind of a mysterious fellow, however there was this trip to the hospital, well, I guess we shouldn’t go into that since it is not germane to the story. However, her response was very humane, although there were, again, those cryptic notes. How does Siggie do that to everyone?

Anyway, I felt we needed to permit everyone to say what he or she wished about the situation and this is the forum to do that. We just didn’t want to take up too much space on that wonderful forum where so many erudite, learned and talented folks reside. They have such wonderful advice and I am so happy that I can name them among my dearest and closest friends (He’s lying… Siggie, I’ll break your computer…) So Dianne, you have the floor.

“Well, I don’t quite know what to say,” she began. ( never stopped you bef…I’m sorry, it just slipped out.) “Well, as you so eloquently put it when you addressed Dr. Sigmund’s interruption, if you intervene in my dialogue one more time I will follow the advice of Hans Solo, so sit down and hush!”

“Winds,” she continued, “I know these juvenile pranks of yours are just a cry for attention. As far back in recorded history as we can go, we see little people doing childish and immature pranks for the purpose of getting attention from those who represent authority and to whom they look up. Napoleon was a little man who thought if he could whip everyone it would somehow compensate for his diminutive stature. How like men to be like a little boy trying to whip everyone on the playground. And you are no different. Five feet one inch is not a disgrace, though it is short...very short. Just know that people will respect you, no matter what your height and that you can be a giant in your own creativity and other areas if you will just work at it. So give up these pranks, you can do better…and…and if you pull one more prank like the last one, Ole Mysterious is going to kick your butt.”

“And with that said, I will add that I forgive you, but don’t let it happen again because while I do not have a blaster, Old Mysterious does.”

“Thank you, Dianne, that has helped me so much. However, can I ask a couple of questions?”

“Well, I don't know if you can, but, you may see if you can.”

“Uh, yes. Does Old Mysterious have any bullets for his blaster?”

“Yes, I believe he does.”

“Does he know how to load it?” I continued.

“Yes, I believe he does.”

“Can he hit a moving target?”

“In his most recent competition, 398 out of a possible 400."

“OOOOKAAAY. You wouldn’t pull my leg on something like this, would you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Winds?” she said with a trace of a smile.

“Well, when I leave the cabin, I think I’ll be heading back south.”

“Back to your beloved Red House to sip mint juleps under the magnolia trees?”

“Nooooo, I was thinking more like south of Mexico City to guzzle tequila under a mesquite.”

“Well, I don’t think that would be necessary to go that far,” suggested Dianne. “Ole Mysterious probably doesn’t know where Red House is.”

“Miss Chambers,” I started in my best southern accent. “I do declare that you are the freshest breath of air on this heah planet. Jest slap me down and call me Jimmy Carter iffin I ain’t speaking the gospel truth. And may I say I am deeply saddened by what Bubba done typed on my little ole computer. Hit were a bad thang for him to be a doing.”

“Well, Winds, you do know it is important that you take responsibility for your own actions,” lectured Dianne. “You know, I’ve never actually met this Bubba. Well, that’s not entirely true. Actually, I’ve never seen this Bubba with you, even though you claim to be close friends.”

“Well, we are not only just friends, we are in fact related,” I explained. “You see, his momma and daddy were both first cousins of my momma. His family had a very small gene pool. But you say you’ve never seen us together. My, my, ain’t that interesting. Well are you saying that has some meaning or significance?”

“Well, I guess what I’m saying or maybe questioning is whether Bubba actually exists or not.”

“Are you saying that you think he’s my imaginary friend/cousin?”

“Well, I don’t like those terms imaginary friend,” she said softening her words, “because we so often associate it with children and…

“Dianne, you may have something! That would explain it all. That means all them things I been accused of doing were done by my imaginary friend, Bubba, and he’s gone so I’m not guilty of any of them. Oh, Miss Chambers, you are a breath of fresh air cause you have just freed me from all that guilt. Thank you so much…however, how are we going to explain all them yard youngans his wife has? Oh well, don’t worry about that, you’ll think of something to help with that situation. Wouldn’t want to adopt a few would you?”

“Siggie, I guess it’s your turn,” I announced.

“Now, Jimbo, or Bubba, or Winds, or Writer, or whatever your current pseudonym, nom de plume, alias, home name is at this present time,” he began, “you are indeed spreading it on, as they say in your neck of the woods, with a shovel. You see, Miss Chambers, I, too, have long suspected this Bubba character is just a figment of a very fertile hotbed of multiple personalities. Now, Winds, let’s you and I analyze this some more. Probe as it were into your psyche and past events for some answers to this conundrum that you have woven about your persona. For example, the time you shot off the Roman candle in your parent’s bedroom at 3 in the morning shouting, “The British are coming! The British are coming!” An obvious cry for attention of which I am sure you achieved. Then there was the time you set your bed on fire, oh, I know, you claimed it was on fire when you lay down, but really! Was that, a cry for attention, self-destruction, penance, what? And the time in church when you…well, I really don’t think we need to go further. It’s as plain as the nose on your face, albeit yours is a little crooked, and long. But your problem is plain…it’s…well…you’re…you’re just despicable!”

“So there you have it. Even Siggie has turned against me, though I see Bubba’s hand in that, too. Let’s face it, he’s just a big-bellied, dumb redneck galoot that always causes me trouble. He may be my friend, my cousin and whether he’s imaginary, real or virtual, he’s history! Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Bubba? Come on and tell these folks who you are and what you do.”

Shuffling up, he began, “Wahl, I doan ritely know whut to say. I ain’t got much larning, jest a third grade education. I guess I grageated thu third cause Miz Fannie Mae, at thu end o’ that school year, said I dun got too old for that grade and I best jest git a job.”

“Now all them thangs Winds dun say bout me ain’t all true,” he defended. “I know I dun dun sum o’ ‘em, but not all. I didn’t type them thangs cause I doan know how to read and rite and lack I said, I jest went tuh thu third grade and they said iffin I wud’a made it faster thur, then thu nex year they wuz gonna show me or larn me how tu read. Now iffin I stay tu I git to thu, wait a minute I gotta figure this out. Now, I wuz in the third grade and so thu nex is the fourth grade and after that would be the…the…the fifth grade and I would learn how to write, so I couldn’t have written all that stuff Winds said I did cause I just don’t read and write that well. I’ve learned quite a lot since I left school, but it’s ridiculous to think that someone who is a third grade dropout could do all those thing Winds said I did. So, don’t put much stock in whut ‘at dum red neck dun been sayin’ bout me and my skills.”

“Need I say more,” responded Winds.

“Multiple personalities! Multiple personalities! I told you!” shouted Dr. Sigmund.

Dianne rolled her eyes and said, “Winds, you need help. Will you get some help with this madness?”

“Yes, Dianne,” I assured her. “Siggie, Bubba and myself will all go together and see some one competent. Maybe a British psychotherapist, I’ve always wanted to go to England.”

“Basil! Basil!”
“Sybil will you shut your pursy, purulent mouth! I’m trying to run a hotel or haven’t you noticed and you’re frightening the guests with your pulsatile, pucilaneous shouting! Polly! Polly, where is that little Hispanic rat who calls himself a bellman?
“Manuel is right here, Mr. Fawlty.”
“Don’t they have people who work in Spain or did you come over here to escape the draft?”
“Que?”
“Take those bags up number 6.”
“Que”
“Those bags. Pick them up, go up the stairs and look on the doors for number 6! Then knock on the door and put them inside.”
“Que”
“Numbero six-o.”
“Que”
“Can’t you speak English?”
“Oh, si, I espeak gud Englash.”
“You don’t even speak good Spanish. Get me my umbrella.”
“Why you want umbrella, it no rain today. Sunny weather.”
“I’m not going out, I’m going to insert it…”
“Basil! Basil! Basil……”

Dianne just rolled her eyes.