Aboard My Train Of Thought - Scott C. Endsley (best ereader for pdf and epub txt) 📗

the book shut and reached for my portable reading lamp, noticing the time was 10 minutes past 12pm. I realized if I was going to get out of Studderton early the next morning, pending the ice on the roads thawing, I'd better get as much sleep as possible.

I reached up and shut the venetian blinds, hit the lights, laid down but began thinking aloud:
"Ah, those were the good old days. I remember my older brother Beauregard must have had all the Bug's albums. Of course, I don't remember much about...wait a minute! What did George say about 'The Intellectually Inept!?'"

I reached for the book from the night stand. "Now, where was that...Hmmm...Oh, here it is, 'any half-witted or Intellectually inept idiot with a good pair of headphones......' That's got to be a clue! What was that song, again? Oh yeah, 'I Am The Eggplant.'

"Now, what's the significance of that particular song, and why is 'Fried Tomatoes' capitalized? It could be that...That's right, there's a song on 'The Beige Album' called, 'Fried Tomatoes,' and if I can remember correctly, there's a verse something like...'And here's another clue for you all: The Eggplant was Paul.' But that brings me back to 'I Am The Eggplant,' again.

"Hmmmm... 'Paul is dead, Paul is dead, cause he choked on....' Hey, what about the song, 'When I'm Dead And Gone,' by Paul...from the 'DR Pepper album?' I'll bet that if I could play it backwards I'd find more clues! I DO have that song on the tape in my boombox."

I reached over the side of the bed to retrieve it....

"OK, put the batteries in the back so that the 2 positive ends meet, that should slow down the tape. Now hook the oscilloscope to the audio outputs, put that in conjuction with a spurious radio frequency inhibitor, and now a signal generator with a faze shifter in parallel alongside a subatomic woofer tweeker. Now where did I leave that Forked Gyrating Mixmaster Rectifying Slope Tuning Horizontal Inverter? Oh, I've got it in my back pocket. OK, put that in series with the variable capacitor that controls the volume...If only I had taken basic electronics in high school!"

I fast forwarded the tape to end of the song and then pressed rewind and play simultaneously to listen to the tape in reverse. The last note of the song began increasing in volume in a backward fade in. Suddenly, I hear the sound of a telephone line ringing as if someone were dialing out, thereupon a jubilant voice in a rich cockney accent asked; "hello, wha' you want me to sing?!"

"Who said that!?!? I shivered.

"This is Pete, who's this?" he asked

"Pete, the drummer!?"

"No you're not," he scolded, "I'm Pete the drummer! Who's this?...Oh no, is this that Clyde bloke that bloody lad warned me about?"

"What bloody lad?! I'm just looking for clues!"

"Uh, nevermind, nobody told me about you...Well, isn't this just jolly good for me?" Pete disgustedly asked, "I've waited at least 25 years for this bloody opportunity; John, Paul and George told me this is the only way they'd let me sing on a Bug album, or in this case...a Bug tape, and it's always you idiot clue freaks! Did you call to hear me sing or what?"

"I was reading a chapter about the Bugs in a book, and I noticed George spouted off a clue about the Intellectually Inept..."

Pete briskly butted in, "I'm so, gee golly whiz, sorry, but I'm afraid that I don't have any more, from the deep bowels of the earth, intriguingly vomited clues to give you, it was probably just like you said; he was spouting off.... And I wouldn't pay no never mind what Georgey boy said, he frequently has a wee difficult time tamin' his undomesticated, fat lip!... You, moronic clue freaks, make me sick! Why, just the other morning some chap wanted to know if it was true that John ate his own boogers, the stupid lad thought I'd confirmed his suspicions when I quipped, 'well, he didn't eat anyone else's!'" Pete hee-hawd, "but, as for you, I can't help you."

"Well, I need someone's help. See, this certain character escaped from my manuscript, and is currently reeking havoc all over the..."

"And you don't find that a bit bloody rockers!?" Pete jeered.

"Well frankly, Pete," I protested, "I find the fact that I'm speaking with you just because I'm playing a song backwards, a bit more crazy!"

"Well, I got to go," he spoke in a softer tone, "me manager is calling me...Yes Mumsey?!...............Oh goodie, goodie, goodie! Mumsey says she'll take me to 'Byron's Bloody Well Big Toy Emporium' later, to pick out me brand spankin' new Cricket Bat. She promised, for behavin' meself, and for cleanin' up me room, she'd..." Pete stopped himself and immediately regained his composure. "Now Uh, don't call back unless you want to hear me sing! I'm basically a Peacenik, but if I'm pushed...why, I might just have to bust your bleedin' knuckles with me face! You dig?...Coming Mumsey!....I gotta go! Osmosis amoebas!" (Click)

<*><*><*>

After not being able to sleep... and a quickening thaw because of the rapid rise in temperature, I ventured southwest late that afternoon but noticed the main highway was blocked off due to construction. Not knowing where to go, I spied a Studderton city policeman sitting alone in his car, sipping coffee. "Parden me, officer, but could you give me directions to the nearest detour here in Studderton that will take me westbound toward Oklahoma?"

His face instantly turned pallid as an immediate sweat poured down his forehead. "Uh, yyyou..you go w..w..we...west down thhhhhhhhhhhhat road...over..over..over there. Th..th..then turn as soon assssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss....you.."

"Uh, thanks anyway!" I smiled and waved.

A quarter of an hour later after finally getting on the Interstate, I snickered to myself as I observed a dense, brownish orange-like smog, hovering over the not too distant horizon--- just as I noticed a sign that read: Welcome To Gasville!
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(Episode 9)
At sunrise, the sun's glare on the windows of the buildings seem to be the only welcoming, once retuning to Mountain Oyster. Going down Sheridan Road, I noticed a large, at least, two blocks long, line into the county health department. "Everybody must be getting their chip inserted on their shoulder," I mumbled, "Where's everyone's fervor for personal freedom? I've never seen such apathy..."

I pulled into my driveway with a sigh after a long drive. I noticed the yard had grown up a bit. "Oh wow! I forgot to tell someone to get the mail!...Matilda?! " I called out, but there was no response, so I waited awhile then unlocked the front door.

Immediately once inside I flipped on C-Spam, but there didn't seem to be any late breaking news, everything seemed to be normal. "Well I'll check out Good Morning America." As I turned the channels, I heard a scratching at the back door. "Maggie!" I rushed to let her inside.

"Clyde, Sir, since you've been gone, something a bit dreadful has happened!" Maggie, standing outside the door, announced seriously distressed.

"Maggie, you're talking again!" I responded.

"Of course, me lad, as I've always done, but..."

"Have you heard what Homer's been doing?!" I asked.

"No, me lad, but..."

"We've got to go to New York to see Flush Limbo, Maggie! Where's Matilda?" I questioned.

"Well, Clyde sir, she's...sh...she's gone, sir!"

"She's what?!!... The one-eyed midget?!"

"No sir, I just caught a glimps of what happened through the back fence... She was approached by two bloomin' thugs that were harrasing her with a weird question. They kept asking if she had a chip on her shoulder, and she muttered something back to the effect of, 'you know where to put it!' One of them then grabbed her by the tail and threw her in the back of their truck, saying he was going to take her to the rendering plant, and have soap made from her cat-fat. I didn't get a good look, sir, but as they drove off, I think I noticed the letters, 'UTC,' freshly painted on the side of the truck... We've got to save her, sir!!!" Maggie whined.

"The United Thought CO-operative Party... I'm afraid it's too late, Mag, she's probably already been done in... They'll only get us too, if we try to save her." I tearfully explained.

I took Maggie inside and tried to calm her down, noticing the TV was still on, as a gentleman was explaining: "We've got the means to find out who's not going along with us. By tonight, if you haven't got ur chip, or not making preparations to do so- we'll be coming to see you!"

"Maggie, we've got to get outta here today!"

We immediately started throwing everything into the car. I grabbed a rather small short-wave transceiver radio-- a Kenwood TS450S-- thinking it would be a good idea, in case there were others out there that I could get a hold of, who were resisting Homer's cause. Being a licensed ham radio operator, I'd been trained for such national emergencies.

Maggie and I set sail that afternoon for New York. We took as many back roads as possible so as to not get caught.

"Well me lad, it looks as though we might well make it!"

"Don't speak too soon, Maggie, we've got days ahead of us," I responded.

"Food! Good sir! What are we going to do about food?!" Maggie exclaimed.

"The best we can..."

"Oh look, sir!" Maggie shouted. There in front of us was an old man flagging us down. Instead of slowing I swerved around him and sped up.

"Probably works for the Unified Thought Co-Operative Party....Don't trust anyone!"

"It wasn't so much that-- I thought you were going to run over the old fool!" Mag bellowed.

"Don't worry about my driving, Mag. I've only had 3 wrecks within 6 months, 3 years ago... and all of them were only 2 blocks from home, but I've got a handle on it now!"

"Oh, you're a much more cautious driver now, sir? "

I shrugged, "Naw, I just moved, that's all."

"...Old joke sir, I guess I deserved it."

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(Episode 10)
The sun had long descended over the Missouri hills, my eyes were beginning to feel heavy as Mag and I were looking for an area deep with woods. I veered off the road and gunned it through some barbed wire

"Ah... this looks secluded enough... Now to set up the radio."

I was hoping to contact other resistors, and keep a frequency open for emergency traffic; or help others find a safe haven to take refuge while hiding from the UTC police. I connected the short-wave transceiver's DC power cable directly to the car battery. Getting back in, I reached inside the glove compartment and pulled out a pocket calculator, then began dividing the frequency of 7.200mhz into the designated numerical denominator of 468, which gave me an answer of 65 feet... the exact length I needed for a halfwave dipole antenna, for that particular band spectrum.

I cut the wire to the proper length, center-fed the coax, wound a medium sized stone on both ends to put weight on them, and tossed my