Tales of the Parodyverse

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CrazySugarFreakBoy!
Wed Jul 13, 2005 at 01:14:12 am EDT
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Untold Tales of the Junior Lair Legion: Modern-Day Dream-Stuff
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Untold Tales of the Junior Lair Legion: Modern-Day Dream-Stuff

“So, I guess this is our first official day of class, then,” decided Dreamcatcher Kokopelli Foxglove, a.k.a. CrazySugarFreakBoy!, as he took a pull off the bottle of Rocket Fuel Soda Pop by his side and sat cross-legged in front of the campfire. “And since Vizh seems to have kept whatever curriculum he might have had for this course fairly well-hidden, I foresee quite a few more field trips in our future, at least until I can figure out what in the heck I’m supposed to be teaching you kids. So, with that ill-advised admission out of the way, did anybody, I don’t know, learn anything today?”

“Native American women can be really beautiful,” conceded Samantha Bonnington, a.k.a. Fashion Accessory, as she wiped the bold, bright, finger-width streaks of ceremonial facepaint from her flawless cheekbones with the aid of a compact mirror, “and tribal fashions are definitely due for a comeback, but all of this living-in-the-wilderness and sleeping-under-the-stars stuff is a bit lacking in civilized refinement for my tastes.”

“Right, because when we’re out in the field someplace, in a foreign country or on another world, taking the fight to our foes, I’m sure we’ll always be able to count on having our choice of luxury suites at a nearby Wooster Hotel, yeah?” Dream smirked between swigs.

“Was that really Vision Quest from the Evolutionary Revolutionaries at the Pow Wow?” checked Fred Harris, a.k.a. Ham-Boy. He and the rest of the Junior Lair Legion roster, minus missing member Kerry Shepherdson, had been escorted by their new instructor to the day’s gathering of Native American tribes on the Spokane Indian Reservation in Wellpinit, Wash., which was still going on around them, even as the summer sun set from the big sky.

“Casey Lee Lone Crow,” Dream confirmed, nodding at the mention of the Native American mutant, whose uncontrollable power to project powerful blasts from her eyes required her to wear specially designed protective wraparound sunglasses at all times. “Between her, me and maybe a few others, there’s only ever been about half a dozen Indian superheroes.”

“This has been a pleasant and enlightening experience,” Glory remarked, through the Al B. Harper-provided prototype “voice-box” on her dog collar that translated her thoughts into electronically generated English-language speech. “I have begun to research ethnic and religious culture groups such as the Native American tribes via the Internet, but news articles and encyclopedia entries cannot convey the emotional impact of watching them conduct their rituals in real life. Their reactions to my presence have been likewise unexpected. Most humans are understandably nonplussed by the prospect of carrying on a conversation with a canine, but I have met with almost unequivocal acceptance here.”

“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed from our legends, the concept of talking dogs and other anthropomorphic animals ain’t exactly new ground for us non-white indigent folk,” Dream shrugged. “Like my dad always told me, we’re all of us the children of Old Man Coyote.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense!” protested Zack Zelnitz, a.k.a. Hacker Nine, who was still clutching his knees to his chest and rocking on his heels in withdrawal, since the chosen location of the Pow Wow was well within one of the many “dead zones” for wireless signals that existed in the more rural regions of the Pacific Northwest. “None of this does. None of these ancestrally based clans’ so-called ‘creation stories’ could possibly correspond even to the simplest or most fundamental scientific rules of reality. Most of them aren’t even internally consistent with one another, because the explanations offered by each account will contradict at least half of the other corresponding narratives. I mean, you people seem to be intelligent, so how can you believe in something so stupid?”

“Thou art an ignorant fool!” bellowed Harlagaz Donarson. “For all thine learning, thou hast a shamefully narrow mind. The scion of Ausgard hath precious little patience for books, study or thinking, but mine eyes art yet open enough to see the true faces of mine own family, even as they doth don disguises of unfamiliar names and colors of skin. This mischievous Coyote art clearly kin to mine equally bloody-minded aunt, the goddess Hoki.”

“More than that,” Dream grinned, pleased that his students were starting to learn their lessons on their own, barely a day into his teaching career. “The races and places may change, but the archetypes almost always stay the same. We’re all kind of kin, in that sense, because each new generation, whether they realize it or not, winds up carrying on the legacy of all the pantheons that came before them, choosing which traditions they want to keep and which ones are best left behind in the past. Look, Zack, even if you don’t buy off on the spirituality of it - which is absolutely your right, by the way - what matters is that you get the mythology of it, because it’s the metaphor of the thing that tells the truth, about us and about everything else, more than any sequentially organized set of hard-and-fast facts ever could. The Australian Aborigines call it the Dreamtime, because even the events that supposedly happened long ago and far away never really ended or went away. It’s the origin of everything, but it’s all still happening, here and now, if you know how to access it. It’s why gods never die and comic book characters never age. We can every one of us choose to be modern-day dream-stuff, man.”

“My boy boring you all yet?” Louis Laughing Fox inquired, the proximity of his voice startling Glory, whose super-senses somehow hadn’t detected his approach. The Spokane Tribal Police Sheriff flicked an Air Force-issued Zippo lighter to ignite his handcrafted and ornately decorated pipe, before regarding his son with a squinting stare for a silent moment. “Hey, there. Got fried bread and ceremonial dancing over by the main bonfire. Heh. Should bring your tribe over, to share your legends with the rest of the circle.”

“I do not think he is human,” Glory confided in Ham-Boy. “He moves like a predator.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dream agreed, fetching another bottle of Rocket Fuel Soda Pop from the portable plastic cooler behind him as he rose to his feet. “What do you say, gang?”


K-Box: Box in the Box



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