This a comedic short story that I wrote. For this story, I had a few friends write down topics, characters, etc.. and put them in a hat. I drew them out and used them for the basis of my story. I hope you enjoy it.

Bahamian Rhapsodies

            Some stories have a hero. Some have two. Some stories have a group of losers who somehow manage to accomplish something; this is one of those stories. An epic tale of power, greed, and treachery spanning the 10 years between 1864 and 1874, and having a direct impact on the events of November 22, 1963. Many scholars have argued the validity of this tale, but through rigorous anthropological study and recent advancements in DNA testing, we are now finding that the following account is almost one hundred percent, mostly, semi, true-ish. Kind of.

            Bob O’stanahan Jr. the Third was born in 1829 to a full-time serving wench, part-time pirate groupie, on the island of Hispaniola. Being the product of a broken home, he grew up lacking the ambition to get ahead in life and as he entered his thirties he was still living in his mom’s cellar. He tried his hand at piratery but he was no good with swords and when they told Bob to give them a good “arrgh,” it came out as a “meow.” At the age of thirty-two, he was exiled. His mother had had enough. She put him on a fishing trawler with four pennies and a peanut butter sandwich and told the crew to drop him at the next port, which took him to central Florida. He managed to get himself apprenticed with an Italian arms dealer named Benny the Blacksmith, who had just hustled a contract to supply half the Confederate Army with musket and cannon ammunition, as well as the shoes for their cavalry’s horses. By the time Bob was fired, three years later, his shoddy workmanship had directly led to hundreds of lame horses and thousands upon thousands of musket misfires and back blasted cannons, ultimately causing the downward spiral and eventual fall of the rebellion. It’s here upon his firing, in 1864, that our story begins.

            “Stupid! Dern it, I’s jus stupid! Born failure. I really thought I’s finally done good, but no, here I am walking a lonely trail to a lonely shack. No wife, no friends, and I’s talking to ma-self! What’s next, huh? What else ya gots for me, you mean ol’ life? Mights as well drop me in a big hole and be done with it.”

            As if on cue, the ground starts shaking. The sand and palms before him begin falling inward as if pulled from below by a giant hourglass. Bob dives backward in an attempt to dodge the massive sinkhole and begins crawling, feet already being pulled down. A hundred yards toward the beach, a tall, bearded man with swimming trunks and a top hat, who also just happens to be the 16^th President of the United States fills his cabin door, looking in Bob’s direction. The man jumps from his porch, running to help, but before he can complete a dozen long strides, Bob is sucked into the blackened maw and enveloped in darkness. He expects to be suffocating or drowning but he’s not. All senses virtually disappear and he can’t decide if he’s falling, floating, or maybe even rising. Eventually his fragile psyche breaks and, mercifully, he loses consciousness.

         100 MILES EAST

            “Wake up Tito. Hey,” he lightly kicks him again. “Wake up!”

            Tito’s head quickly pops up, exacerbating his already-pounding headache. He’s covered in white sand and immediately realizes that he’s laying about thirty feet from where he was last standing. “Did I land here? Egad! Country, must I scold you again? You mustn’t kick me so hard!”

            “I’m a mule, Tito. You made me a mule,” Country says. “Mules don’t tap. Do we really need to have this conversation again?”

            Tito looks around, finally getting his bearings. White sands surround him, interspersed with small thatch palms. Behind him, to the east, are thick areas of brush and jungle. Cerulean seas stretch off to the west. “Did it work? Is he here?” He looks toward the edge of the beach and sees a pile of sand inundated with broken shells and palm fronds. Lying prostrate atop the pile is a man, tall and scrawny, sleeping soundly. Tito fills with glee, headache immediately forgotten. “Hee hee, ha ha ha ha ha, mwah ha, mwah Ha, HA HA HA HA H-“

            “Stop it,” urges Country. “Stop it, stop it stop it, Tito. That maniacal laugh of yours drives me insane!”

            “Pack it in your pa-tootie, Country! Go! Take a long walk that way.” He points west, into the Atlantic Ocean, as he rises and begins walking towards the sleeping man. “It is! It’s him! I have done it! Using wonderous sorcery, soon to be feared the world over, I have abducted the most beloved and powerful leader the world has ever known! Welcome to my island, Mr. Abraham Lincoln. Mwah ha. Mwah Ha Ha Ha Haaaa….”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

            Tito, the obese warlock, and Country, the talking mule, stand over the twisted pile, topped with Bob. (He’s waking, look) (No, he’s not)(Yes, he is stupid. His finger moved) (Don’t call me stupid, stupid) (Ok, moron) (Keep it up. I will turn you into a slug and throw you into the saltwater) (Ha. Go ahead. Slugs can’t kick, dummy. What’ll you do then) (Hmph. Oooh look, his finger just moved) (Told you, stupid) (Oooh, that’s it)

            Blinding brightness assaults Bob as he opens his eyes. He looks around and sees that he’s on a beach, but not one he recognizes. He could’ve sworn he’d heard two people talking, but all he sees, standing over him, is one extremely, morbidly obese man of very short staturedraped in burlap and twine, who seems to have a mule in a headlock. The mule, in turn, has ahold of the man’s burlap trousers by his teeth and is lifting him off the ground.

            “Uh, ‘scuse ma, sir, whas goin on here?” Bob cries. “Where am I? Was it you’s that saved me from that big hole-n-the-ground?”

            Both man and mule drop what they’re doing; literally. The man hits the ground with a thud and immediately stands, dusting himself and acting as if nothing had happened. He is no taller that 4’8” but seems even shorter due to the more that 300 pounds of fat encircling him, making him almost as wide as he is tall. Both mule and man face Bob and a sneer takes over the fat man’s face.

            “President Lincoln! I welcome you to Titostan.” Tito says, straightening. “You are now my priso-“

            “Country Country,” says the mule.

            Bob’s jaw drops as he realizes that the mule just spoke. The wide man is glaring at the mule.

            “Ahem! ‘Country Country’ does not even make sense, you dolt. Besides, I am the all-powerful wizard here and this is MY island nation.” He looks back at Bob. “Which is about to expand dramatically once you sign over the United States to me! Hee hee. Ha ha ha ha ha. Mwah HA H-“

            “Stupid,” the mule interrupts.

            “Ahem! As I was saying Mr. Lincoln. With just an inkling of my powers, I have brought you here to be my guest. Your country is in tatters. A nation divided. You will concede leadership to me or I will show you devastation as the world has never seen! Mwah Ha, ahem ahem. Yes, big trouble. What say you to that?”

            “Uhm. My name’s Bob.”

            A moment of silence passes as the gargantuan runt ponders this. “Ha ha!! Nice try, ‘Bob.’ As in A-bob-ham Lincoln, perhaps? Ha! You cannot match wits with the likes of me. I will flabber your gast, found your dumb, and completely whelm you over! I will leave you as naught but a blubbering fool!”

            Country laughs. “Well, that’s certainly true.”

            “Country! Shut! Up! You ignorant mule! Go start dinner. Do something, for Pete’s sake, just be useful elsewhere. Aargh, I’m terrifying the dear president here, can’t you see, and you’re ruining it! You always do this!” He stomps his feet, tantrum-like for a second before realizing he’s doing it. “Ahem. What say thee then, Mr. Lincoln, errhh, Bob?”

            Bob stands up and looks around. The environment is similar to all he’s grown up with, but some kind of internal compass is telling him he’s far from home. Plus, before him is a very large, little man blabbering about magic and a talking mule that is, at this very moment, somewhere doing chores. The man is still standing there, now tapping his foot and looking at him with what appears to be a very practiced sneer. “I’m sorra, Mr….” Still tapping and staring. “Mr. Uhm, what’s your name, sir?”

            “Soooo, opening some dialogue? Trying to woo me with friendly banter? Meaningless small talk? All right Abe. Bob. I’ll play your game. I am the most glorious, most diabolical, most sorcestrial warlock, Tito.”

            Bob is trying very hard not to chuckle, and with the remembrance of his circumstances, that chuckle does indeed die. “Tito? Am I dead,” Bob exclaims, words rapidly spewing from his mouth as if he is unable to get them out quickly enough. “I mean, none of this can be real, right? Can’t be. I mean, really, if I’m dead, I guess that’s okay cuz ma life kinda sucks, really. I mean, I’s stupid and aint got no good and aint got no wife and aint got no friends and aint got no job. Tell me, Mr. Tito, is I dead? ‘S this hell? I mean, it looks real nice and all with all the nice water and stuff and beach and stuff but I dun did all that smith’n and made all them weapons o’ war and shoot, my own momma don’t even seem to like me much and whoever my daddy was didn’t even hang around even though my momma named me after all four of them, yes sir, cuz she done said it mighta been ol’ Mr. Robert, his friends called him Bob, or it mighta been Mr. O’Stanahan who had his self a wooden eye and smelt like dead fish, and there’s the other two from that week. She says she didn’t know thems names so she called me the third, on account a that third man and junior cuz she says that other man had a tiny little wayner. I don’t know what she meant by that, but that’s my name. Bob O’Stanahan Jr. the Third, not that it matters none anyways cuz they done took off and I’m dead anyways.”

            “Stop it! No more!” Tito cries. “Oh, dear, I’ve met my match! Mr. Lincoln, you truly are a psychological subjugator, a warrior of words, a denizen of dialogue, and a true, true colloquial conqueror. Alas, this dubious diabolist cannot currently conversate, for I have recently been kicked in the head! Come. Do not loaf. Do not stand agape, man, for you have bested me, this round. Follow me, Mr. Lincoln.”

            Tito waddles toward a trail leading into the brush. Bob considers running away but he doesn’t believe hell has any kind of exit he’ll be able to find. So, he follows until he reaches some straw huts in a small clearing. Over supper, slowly but surely, it’s established that Bob is indeed not Abraham Lincoln and that the president is, at that very moment, spending his fifty-fifth birthday at a Florida beach cabin, not one hundred yards from where Bob fell into the sinkhole. It takes even longer to convince Bob that he isn’t dead, especially after hearing the whole story about Tito and Country, the talking mule.

YEARS AGO, ON THE ISLAND OF PUERTO RICO

            Tito, originally named Ricardo Benito Espinoza de Jesus, grew up in a small village on the Caribbean Island that the locals called Rich Port. As a child, everyone called him tonto, which little Ricardo, doing the best he could, pronounced Tito. So he became. When Tito was five years old, in 1803, his momma came home with a newly “adopted” baby. She told him that the baby was her brother’s, sister’s, neighbor’s, landlord’s granddaughter’s child. Daddy just said he was a cousin. Daddy would also say that they should drop him in the country somewhere and leave him, so that’s what they named him. Country. Tito’s uncle would sometimes call him “poco equivocarse de incest” but Tito didn’t understand what that meant, and when he’d ask his daddy why momma wasn’t fat anymore, he’d usually get hit, so he stopped asking.

            Over the next couple of years, his daddy began drinking more and more and also became more and more violent. Finally, one Spring day, Tito, only seven years old, walked all the way up into the hills to find the scary old witch-lady. He asked her to help with his daddy; to do a spell and make him nice again. Instead, she told him that he’d have to fix his own problems. She then said a lot of funny words, spit in Tito’s hair, and then quickly picked a large booger out of her nose and shoved it into Tito’s mouth. He went to spit it out and she stuck a reed in his mouth and filled it with a warm viscous fluid. She held his nose, massaged his neck, and before he knew it he’d swallowed it all down. He didn’t know what to say. She mumbled something about some guy named Kennedy, and how he would die someday in Dallas, and quickly ushered him out the door. Tito was so upset. He just wanted some help and, instead, he got a booger. It had taken him all day to get there so he probably wouldn’t get home until morning, which would get him in a lot of trouble.

            When he was finally nearing his family’s hut at around sun-up, he noticed his daddy watching him from the front entryway. His father stormed toward him; fists clinched. As Daddy reached for his neck, Tito’s only thought was that his poppa was a big, giant butthead. The second they made contact, his dad reared back, hands flying to his face as his body grew twice the size. When he took his hands away, Tito saw that his father’s face had become a giant rear-end with eyes. Poppa tried to scream but all that came out was a huge bout of flatulence; enough to vibrate his cheeks. He ran away into the forest, never to return. To this day, when a child is behaving badly, parents will threaten them with the arrival of Fanny Face.

            Over the next 15 years, Tito worked to perfect his craft while also keeping it a secret. He would escape into the forest where he’d make things disappear, not knowing where they went. He’d turn cats into dogs, dogs into frogs, and many times in his early teens, he turned frogs into brainless young females before changing them back five to ten minutes later. He argued with Country a lot, as young brothers or cousins are bound to do. At the age of 22 he was courting a young woman from the next village over. He went, one day, to visit her and as he approached her hut he heard some lascivious sounds from a nearby bush. He poked his head in and, once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw his sweetheart nude on the ground, and Country, who was also nude, dashing out the other side. He gave chase. They made it all the way to the well in the plaza of their own village before Country, still buck-naked, was tackled by Tito. Both lying on the ground, Country started punching Tito, until his fists transformed into giant cotton balls. He kicked toward Tito’s head, but his brother instantly shrunk by a foot-and-a-half, causing him to miss. Country jumped to his feet and quickly kicked at Tito but his foot was somehow suddenly absorbed by rolls of fat. Tito rolled to his feet. Both men now noticed that a crowd, eyes staring unbelievingly, had gathered around them. Country dropped his head, muttered an apology, and turned to leave but was suddenly transformed into a large jackass. Out of pure mulish instinct, and at the exact moment that Tito was wishing that he could be anywhere else, Country kicked straight back, connecting squarely with Tito’s head. When they awakened, they were on a small, deserted island about a hundred miles off the east coast of Florida. His magic had left him. He was stuck on an island with a talking mule. It was many years before they realized that the magic was still within him but would now only work when he was kicked in the head; by a mule. It was then that Tito began plotting the world’s demise.

100 MILES EAST OF FLORIDA, AGAIN

            Bob, as usual, was confused. “Well, why din’cha change Country back to a human bean?”

            “Because then there’s the chance that it may no longer work, my dear boy,” Tito explains. “My wondrous powers may just cease to be. We can’t have that.”

            The mule snorted. “Sweet guy, huh?”

            Confusion is painted on Bob’s face. “Well. Well, why din’cha change ya self back? Ya know, to skinny ‘n stuff?”

            “Hmm. I never thought of it, really. But I am here with a pea-brained mule and myself for company. Who’s to impress? Additionally, come twilight, whilst my girth keeps me heated, young lad, thou shalt shiver. Hah! Did not consider all angles, did you?”

            “Uh, yeah. Ne’er thoughta that. But why’s y’all still here? Can’cha magic ya selfs back somewhere’s else?”

            “No! Dammit! I am weakened, you see. My powers of transference will only work on one. I believe it was a fluke that brought us both here. I have thought to leave alone, but alas, the lengths needed to train another mule to kick me in the head would leave me vulnerable for a time, my feeble-minded chum. So I stay, and seethe. Fury rising and rising! Astronomical acumen; planning, plotting the demise of this gluttonous globe; this cosmos of conformists! Ha! Mwah ha ha hahhh!”

            “Oh. Uhm, ok,” Bob replies. Tito is still laughing maniacally as Bob is approached by Country.

            “Might as well get some sleep,” Country explains. “He’s worked himself up and he’ll probably be doing his evil laugh thing for a while. I’ve built you a hammock in my hut for now. I have a feeling you may be here for some time, Tito being afraid that you reveal his evil plans and all.”

            “Aah, that’s ok. Shoot, I gots nothin really to go back to an’ways. Maybe we kin be friends, me ‘n you?”

            “Maybe, Bob. Maybe.”

                                                                  THE NEXT DAY

            When Bob wakes, Country is still sleeping. He carefully sneaks out of the hut and follows his nose to the smell of breakfast being cooked atop a stone oven. Tito turns from the fire and hands to Bob a wooden platter, overflowing with steak, eggs, and large chunks of ham.

            “Ahh, my apprentice. Projected prodigy of mine. How fare thee? I trust you slumbered well.”

            “Uh, yep. Sho did Mr. Tito. Say, how’d you get all this food?”

            “Why, sows, cows, and fowls of course. Originally rocks and trees. I received four concussions before we had enough livestock to begin breeding. Ahh, those terrible, sorcerless years of grass, bugs, and rodents. Murderous malnutrition, a most unfriendly fasting famishment. Yet I endure, lest my mission go unfinished, which, my dear Bob, I wish to speak to you about. You have mentioned your previous ill-fated career choice. I wish to-“

            “Hey!”, screams Country, approaching at a gallop from the trail. “Why didn’t you wake me up, Tito? I thought I was the ass. I just don’t get to eat? Is there any left? Jerk! I would’ve woken you up!”

            “Silence, dastardly donkey! Ignorant interrupter! Who has heard of a carnivorous mule anyway? Arrgh! Eat mine! I’ve been awake for 10,000 heartbeats, formulating my future triumphs while you slept. I’ve already eaten. Twice.” He places his tray before the mule and continues. “Bob. I wish to make concessions. I, dear boy, need only your forging know-how, err forging fortitude, for as long as it takes for me to complete what I ingeniously call ‘plan two.’ In return for your vastly limited smithy skillfulness, I, Ricardo Benito Espinoza de Jesus aka Tito, will bless you with bona fide brilliance! I will be your tutor, your teacher, your mentor, your maestro. I will-“

            Country, trying not to choke, spits out a mouthful of ham. “Bob! Look man, you don’t know what kind of sentence he’s offering in this plea. It’ll be hell! He’s righteously rigid. Peculiarly pedantic. Ineffably inflexible and uncompromisingly uncompromising. He’s-“

            Tito angrily interrupts. “Country! What in god’s name are you talking about?! No one talks that way! You sound stupid! Have I taught you nothing?” He turns back to Bob. “Well, what do you say, boy?”

            “Uhm. I mean, that sounds real good ‘n all but can’tcha jus use dem magicable powers an make me smart?”

            Tito’s face twists. “No son. Even sorcery cannot fix stupidity of this caliber. Only an immense assemblance of knowledge and know-how such as mine, yielded in painfully repetitious conflagrations as needed to deflate, construct, and harden will do in this case. But we shall seize the day and persevere, young Bob!”

            “Hmm. That sounds great ‘n all but if’n I has to be real honest Mr. Tito sir, I’m not much a good blacksmith. Really, I’m kinda bad at it.”

            “Perfect! Mwahh ha ha ha haaa! Don’t you see? In order for this perfectly perverse plan to work; We. Need. Imperfection! We will build a portal, which I will magically activate and through which I shall proceed to another day in time! Ah, yes, and the world will rue that day, whatever day that ends up being. Ahem. Yes! I need you, Bob, for in my magnanimously superior brain I have already constructed said portal and it is A: one hundred percent metal. and 2: faultlessly flawed! No straight lines to be found! No right angles, and for something that imperfect, Bobby boy, I need you!”

            Country has stopped eating entirely and is just staring, dumbfounded. He’s about to speak up in Bob’s defense when Bob speaks instead.

            “Well. Hmm. Hells bells, Mr. Tito, I kin do that. You gotchas a deal!”

            “Excellent! We shall get started immediately. Greatness is not patient. Come! I have a clearing in mind where this portal of power shall be placed!”

            As they arrive in the field, Tito stops and spreads his arms wide. “This, young Robert, for that shall be your new intellectual moniker, will be thou home! Thou morning, noon, and night. Thou meal, thou tutelage, thou fiery foundry!”

            “Uh, Mr. Tito, though, where’s we gun get the ore?”

            “Stupendous question, Robert, my man! Ten minutes post striking of deal and brain activity already aggrandized, thanks in total to my own superior intellect. In answer, sir, while thou smelt away and dear Country billows; lord knows he has the hot air to manage; I will invoke mass quantities of raw ore with my great powers! But enough of this colloquy! We shall begin. You, Robert, will gather rock for your foundry! I will bring ore! Ready your hoof mighty steed!”

            Country whispers to Bob. “This is my favorite part.”

            “I need silence, my servitors! It begins!” Tito raises his hands and looks to the sky, all three-hundred-plus pounds trembling as the incantation proceeds. “Ore of the mountains and seas! Ore of the land beneath! I beckon theeee-“

Thump!!

            Tito is kicked about ten yards away and, in his place, appears a chunk of ore about the size of a thumbnail. Bob stares, in awe, “That was amazin!”

            Country sighs. “This is going to take a while.”

TEN YEARS LATER

            “It’s alive!! Great Scott, it’s alive!! One point twenty-one gigawatts of pure, unadulterated sorcerous power all focused into this one glorious contraption and it lives! My twisted machination achieved! Hee hee, ha ha ha, MWAH HA HA HA HAAAA!!”

            “I’m just gonna let him roll with it this time,” Country says.

            “That’s awfully sweet of you, Country,” Robert says. “This is the culmination of his life work. Honestly, though, I’m saddened. Believe it or not, this last decade has been the best of my life. Incredibly, Tito has taught me much, and you, Country, mule or not, have been the best friend I could have wished for. And now, time moves on.”

            “You could come with us, you know,” whispers Country.

            Robert sighs. “I’ve always been awkward around people. Ten years on an island will make re-entry into society a difficult venture as it is. If you tack on whatever years you and Tito add on in the space of time, readjustment would be impossible for me. Where are you going anyways?”

            “New Yo-“

“Dallas, my dear boy!” Tito yells as he approaches. “Dallas! City of the future. Seventy years in the future, to be exact. From there, in Dallas, my dreams of world domination will come to fruition. I don’t know how, but I feel it. But! Dear boy, I have decided that I will see this realization without the aid of warlockery, for it will not be needed with such superior intellect as mine. Thus, once we’ve stepped through this preeminent portal, my dear servant will be a mule no more and I will cease to be a pudgy munchkin!”

            “Whoa, there Tito,” Country says. “I appreciate that, but I am not your servant motherf-“

            “So thankful as to be beyond speech, he is! Great day! Great day! Now come, Sir Robert. I shall cast forth a sinkhole to devour you forth into a new life.”

            Heart quickening, Robert steps forward until told to stop. He turns, with tears in his eyes, to say goodbye to the only friends he’s ever known. “I will miss you both dearly. You’ve changed my life and I will never forget you.”

            Country is close to braying. “What will you do?”

            Robert smiles. “Remember those designs I drew up?”

            “The gigantic circle thing with all those seats?” Tito snaps. “Ludicrous!”

            “Yes, Tito,” he responds. “The giant circle with seats.”

            “What will you call it?” asks the mule.

            “I haven’t decided yet. I’ve also elected to adopt an alias. New life, new name. Maybe it will give me some confidence.”

            “Bah! You’ve never had it, you’ll never find it. Failed with you, I have. Enough! I don’t know wherest thee shall sink to exactly but it will be mainland. Goodbye, Robert.”

            “Wait,” Country yells. “What is your new name?”

            “Ferris. G.W. Ferris,” Robert winks. “To the future, Country.”

            “Goodbye Ferris,” Country brays.

            Tito sighs. “Yes, yes. Oh, by the way, to contribute to your fresh start, you’ll be waking up as a fifteen-year-old boy. Goodbye, and good riddan-“

Thump!!

SEVENTY YEARS LATER,

IN A FOREST NEAR DALLAS

            “Oh my god Tito, you did it.” Country looks around. There are no palm trees. The terrain is filled with stunted trees and there is an eerie feeling to the flat, windswept terrain. He can see a city in the distance.

            “Hah! You shall never again doubt me imbecile! And don’t call me Tito. We have new names. We shall use them, Jack!”

            “Fine, Jack fumes looking down at himself. “You certainly improved on yourself, here,” Country says, looking Tito up and down. “Young, athletic, attractive. So why, looking down at myself, do I appear to be a bit old and overweight? What did you do to me, Lee? Arrgh! You will get it one day and when you do, it will be me serving it to you.”

            “Silence cretin! Hah! My last mystical act of sadism! I’ve made you an old fat man. Ha! Be happy to stand on two legs, ingrate! And you will get my name right! Three names! Three! Lee! Harvey! Oswald! You will use all three when addressing me, Jack Garnet!”

            “Ruby, you moron. Jack Ruby.”

            And the two walk, toward Dallas and into history. But you already know that tale.

THE END