Angus' Beef

Angus’ Beef
By: Captain Thaddeus Q. Blueballs


Chapter One:

Making New Friends


This jail cell was not built to hold a man like me. That’s not a testament to my physical prowess, but rather, a nod toward the predicament I’m in.
Back in the good ole U.S. of A., I’m generally considered a large man, though not usually in those terms. I’m regularly called jumbo, huge, super-sized, portly, overweight and fat, to name a few. My doctor had the audacity to call me obese, but after all those years of not listening to him, why start now? After all, the same quack once told me that in my current condition, I’d never live to see forty-five; yet here I am, forty-one and still kicking.
I prefer to think of myself as ‘stout’. You know, like a tree.
So you can see the fix I’m in, a five-foot-ten, three-hundred-pound man confined to an area roughly the size of a large doghouse. I’ve barely enough room to breathe, let alone move about.
Did I mention I have a cell-mate?
His name is Gar. Maybe that’s not his name wherever he hails from, but it’s the name I have given him. It seemed a natural choice since it so closely resembles the only noise he seems capable of producing; a throaty ‘grr’ sound which he deems expressive enough for almost any occasion. I say ‘almost’ because Gar did once tell me he’d slit my throat if I broke wind in my sleep again. He speaks quite clearly when he chooses to.
Our ‘cell’ is actually little more than a niche in the wall. At the front of our cramped compartment is a barrier of iron bars, complete with a miniature iron gate. Understand that when I say ‘miniature’, I’m using the word in a relative way, since nothing here is miniature to my captors. Needless to say, when forced to wriggle and scoot my way through the tiny opening, my pride suffered quite a blow. It didn’t help that Gar was occupying all the usable space in the claustrophobic cubicle, and I had to twist my ample body and snake against the wall in order to avoid physical contact with the gargantuan man.
As you might expect, food is a considerable concern for me, and having already consumed several meals in this veritable hell-hole, I feel duly qualified to critique the cuisine. It’s horrible; unfit for a dog. The fare consists of a lumpy gruel. That’s the only way I can describe it. Perhaps it is porridge...or curds and whey. Whatever it is, it’s insipid and pasty and I usually have no trouble securing extra portions. I have to keep my motor fueled. Gar insists that I eat his most of the time. He says it gives him diarrhea, and we certainly don’t want that. Actually, what he said was “grrr”, but I worked out the translation.
But all of that is inconsequential, as I suspect something big is about to happen. Gar agrees: “They’re coming for us fat man,” he growls.
“Yes Gar,” I say as I eye the tiny guards that have appeared at the door of our cell. Already two other prisoners are shackled and waiting silently behind them. “It would seem as though release is imminent.”
“Say it in English, fat man.”
“We’re getting out.”
“Grr,” he replies with feeling.
One of the guards produces a rod about one foot long, adorned with two small metal protrusions on one end. He pushes a button, or performs some other action I don’t see, and a bright arc of electricity leaps from one node to the other. Gar and I get the message and scoot as far from the gate as possible, allowing our keepers to open the door. The guard with the persuasion stick stands back and motions one of his subordinates forward. This flunky produces a large ring of small keys and unlocks the sliding bolt. He swings the gate wide and rejoins his vertically challenged contemporaries who have now formed a tight circle around the two scraggly men who are to be our marching mates. The guard with the buzzer looks at Gar and I scornfully. “Out!” he squeaks- with authority.
The only option is to exit the cell in the same order we arrived, so I dutifully begin wriggling my ample frame through the ludicrously small opening. Once I get to the area of my waist, however, progress comes to a halt. Perhaps I was over-enthusiastic in my pursuit of second and third helpings of the prison cookery.
Nevertheless, I must come out. So the guards order the two freed prisoners to take hold of my feet, while Gar puts his over-sized hands on my shoulders and all labor in unison to set me free. I feel rather helpless as they grow red-faced with the effort, until finally I pop loose, like a cork from a bottle. This causes no small amount of mirth among my captors, whose tiny guffaws are quickly silenced with a glance from their hard-nosed leader.
I stand and barely have time to stretch my extremities (the ceiling is taller here), when three of the guards step forward, enclose my wrists and ankles in cold steel manacles, and direct me to stand with the others. Giddy with anticipation, I wait for Gar to make the same painful crawl I just did. “He’s even bigger than me,” I whisper to the other two prisoners conspiratorially. “He’ll never make it.” It doesn’t occur to me to wonder how he got in.
The same keeper with the key-ring steps forward and unfastens a series of hidden latches around the perimeter of the bars. He swings the whole restraint, rabbit-size door and all, up to the ceiling, allowing Gar easy access to the hall outside. I stare, dumbfounded.
“What the hell!” I cry to no one in particular. “Why couldn’t they do that for me?”
“He’s too large for the door, you’re not,” one of the guards peeps matter-of-factly. He looks at me as if I were dull to question such an obvious thing. I feel a small knot of anger taking root in my belly.
Gar is efficiently manacled and placed in line with the rest of us. As we are marched out of the dungeon, it becomes obvious that we are merely being moved, not released as I had hoped. I demand to know where we are going.
“To see the queen,” replies the leader flatly.
“About goddam time!” I bellow. “I’ve been cooped up in there nearly an hour!”
We go to see the queen.


----------


I was apprehended in the middle of the night and bundled off to this mysterious land without the benefit of daylight. Of course, I know that my captors are not built like myself, but I know virtually nothing else about them, having been ignored every time I would demand answers to my questions. On the way to the castle, I thirstily drink in my surroundings, eager for any clues as to my whereabouts.
My first impression is that this must be a practical joke, perhaps even initiated by my cousin and traveling companion, Rodney. Until recently, I hadn’t done much (okay…any) globe-trotting and was basically confined to my comfortable city in the States. I did, however, attend school (sporadically) in my youth and am quite certain I’ve never heard of a nation of little people; though it is possible I was absent that day.
Yes, I know all about pygmies; I’ve got the National Geographic channel too, for cripes sake. But these are not pygmies, and this certainly isn’t the jungle. Rather, it’s a well-oiled-machine of a city, with neatly formed streets teeming with little people going about their daily business. As to the residents themselves, no complex explanations are required to describe them. They are human; exactly like me and my fellow detainees, but scaled down to approximately one-third of our size, making their average height close to two feet tall, give or take a few inches.
Their features are as varied as ours, down to the color of their skin. Also, like ours, their body types differ as much as any cross-section of a populace will; from extremely short and round to short and skinny. I even notice a few on the muscular side, like myself. Most of the woman are very pretty, and my imagination begins to conjure new fantasies to replace the old, tired ones in my brain’s filing cabinet. It has been a while since I have enjoyed the fruit of a woman, and building naughty fantasies about them is something I do without conscious thought…like speaking. It’s a gift that has gotten me through many an arid spell.
The sounds of mass transportation are nonexistent, as the inhabitants of this city (state? country? world?) utilize their feet for travel. There are a few horses at work pulling wagons or carrying bouncing riders; but they, too, are small. Not Shetland ponies, but real, miniature mounts. I make a mental note that if I ever attempt escape, I won’t be galloping away on horseback.
The buildings of this municipality are of wood frame or stone construction; none standing more than three stories tall. They are decorated with intricate trim and painted in bright, gaudy colors. Once one is used to the feeling of being a giant interloper in a dainty land, the aesthetics are really quite pleasing.
As we’re channeled down the street to the palace, the citizens make way for us, though they do continually point and stare. Apparently, my fellow captives and I are creating quite a stir. My companions march forward stoically, but I cannot resist a bit of fun. Passing closely to an oogling group of children, I suddenly lurch towards them, poised as if to attack. They scream in utter horror and I roar with laughter and turn to the other side in search of more victims. If they’re going to treat me like a dancing bear, I reason, I may as well act the part.
My recreation, however, is soon interrupted by a paralyzing jolt of electricity, which locks my muscles into a rock-hard state and causes me to slowly topple over. The little bastard is quick with his cattle prod, I have time to think before the seizure cramps my brain. The sensation is not new to me; I have been involved in situations before that have led to misunderstandings with the police and I have been tazed by the best of them. The audience goes so far as to applaud. After painfully struggling back to my feet, Gar surprises me with an observation. “I don’t want to be judged by your stupidity, fat man. You’ll behave or deal with me,” he threatens menacingly. He offers, “Grr” as an afterthought.
Gar doesn’t know it, but I don’t take well to being bullied. I silently vow revenge; to be taken behind Gars back when he’s not looking; preferably from a safe distance. For now though, I shelve my thoughts of payback and traipse bravely forward, earning a nod of approval from my former cell-mate.
We trudge towards the castle.


----------


The castle itself sits on slight rise in the middle of town. It is easily the most sizeable building in sight; comparable in dimensions to a large Victorian house. Four turrets, complete with arrow slits and observation decks, buttress the castle corners; each rising an impressive thirty or thirty-five feet into the sky. Suspended from flagpoles mounted atop an encompassing stone wall, multi-colored banners snap smartly in a brisk morning breeze. For the first time, I notice my backside feels cold and clammy. Who knows what primordial fungus lurks on the floor of that cell? I reflect with a shudder.
The wall is obviously the work of craftsmen; tall (all things considered), straight and imposing, with guard shacks placed next to well-picketed gates.
Once inside the enclosure, I notice other lesser buildings; storehouses, a blacksmith, a livery, and what I take to be an armory, to name a few. There are others whose functions are not as readily apparent. The castle courtyard is vast, I assume it has to be in order to house and protect all the citizens of this fanciful city in the event of conflict. As my senses are trying to absorb and catalogue all this new input, we are ushered into the keep and down a wide hall to the throne room without ceremony.
The throne room is spacious and lavishly decorated with vibrantly colorful tapestries that bring warmth to the cold granite walls. A rich red carpet feels alien under our feet as we walk half-way across the chamber; our escort stopping us until we are summoned forward. The pace of the hall is hectic, filled with citizens carrying out their duties like worker drones buzzing about a beehive. I suspect that more than a few of them are here specifically for this event. There is a respectfully low hum in the air.
All eyes seem to be glued on us, and for the first time the reality of my situation hits home. I am a stranger in a foreign court, I think. I am totally vulnerable to whatever heathen whims they are prone to inflict upon me. At this point I am torn from my deliberations by a sharp jab in the rear end, as one of the guards desires me to focus my attention towards the front for the queen’s regal entrance.
At the head of the stately room the floor is elevated, creating a dais upon which sits Her Majesty’s throne; little more than a wooden chair tastefully bedecked with glimmering jewels and inlays of gold and silver. It’s small, but you already knew that. The throne is prominent to two lesser thrones which sit on either side of and slightly behind the main seat of power. I am anxious to see the woman who rules this strange land.
My brain is reeling from the influx of new data when the hollow reverberation of a gong instantly quiets the milling crowd and draws all eyes towards the front. I realize I am unconsciously holding my breath in anticipation. The racket of the gong has yet to completely subside when a detachment of royal bodyguards clomps out from behind a plush velvet curtain that creates a screen between the great hall and whatever lies beyond.
The men; there are twenty in all; fan out and form a line along the front of the dais. Their faces bear the determined look of professional soldiers; steel in the eyes, mouths set in straight, grim lines. Much to my relief, I take note of the buzzer sticks they brandish; as I said before, I can withstand a tazing, but blades and bullets are an entirely different matter.
Silence dominates the space as the queen steps out from behind the partition. Draped over her shoulders, a luxurious purple robe flows elegantly behind her as she strides confidently across the stage to her appointed station. She moves with the casual grace of a feline. Her long auburn hair sits loosely piled upon her head, held by an ornate clasp and topped with a dainty crown. Though still half-way across the room from her, I can tell she is lovely. Not until she is seated does a young man; royally clad as well, but to a lesser degree, emerge from behind the curtain and follow in her footsteps. He pauses in front of the monarch and bows deeply before taking the lesser throne to her left. The other throne remains empty.
At some unseen signal, my comrades and I are prodded forward, but not very far; a safety buffer is required between the diminutive ruler and us four giants. Briefly, I toy with the idea of rushing the guards and snatching their ward as a hostage, but to what end? Better to wait, I tell myself, and see what develops. I am confident, however, that I can accomplish this if I chose to; I will not allow myself to be deposited back in the hole.
Still, no one has spoken. The queen sits tall and straight and studies us with appraising eyes during the uncomfortable stillness. Finally, she breaks the silence. “I am Queen Zella Belle. I rule here, in Tycune,” she states in a strong, clear voice. “I know you have many questions, and I will try to answer them all, but first I must know your names. You, on the left, please step forward, state your name, and tell the court how you came to be here.” This isn’t going so bad, I think. Maybe I’ll finally get some answers.
The fellow on the opposite end of the line from myself, a ‘large’ man of small stature, cautiously inches ahead. He has bright red hair cut close to his skull and a trim red beard that lends color to an otherwise sallow face. He turns towards us for a moment and I see the drawn-out features of a hawk; a long narrow nose that droops from its base and dark beady eyes flitting anxiously from side to side. But the most shocking thing by far (I can only offer my wonder at my surroundings as an excuse for not noticing this until now) is that he wears an orange one-piece suit cleverly decorated with bold black letters on the chest and back…D.O.C..
My familiarity with the tazer gun (for those special occasions when a cop really desires to shoot you, but there are just too many pesky witnesses) has, coincidentally, close ties to a similar acquaintance of mine; the Department of Corrections zoot-suit.
Unmistakable to anyone with a pulse, his clothing identifies him as prisoner in one of the many glorious correctional facilities scattered throughout the States, like a plague of tics on a hound, slowly bleeding the taxpayers dry. If ‘rehabilitation’ has anything to do with a healthy fear of being ass-raped with a mop handle in the shower by a gang of Aryan thugs, then the system is working nicely. This man is obviously a jailbird (or was until very recently), and I am curious to hear his story.
Doc (as I have already come to think of him) continues to gape for a moment longer, then draws himself together and collects his thoughts, opens his mouth to speak: “my name is Marvin Shuster.” The man looks as though he wants to continue; his mouth moves silently like a fish trying to gulp the air. Finally he blusters, “I have no idea how I got here, wherever here is,” then he retreats back into silence.
“What’s the last thing you recall from your world?” Zella gently coaxes.
“I’d finished a gig with my band. It was an all-nighter and I was beat.” Doc speaks carefully, his voice a high-pitched whisper. The hall is completely silent as all ears strain to hear him continue his tale. “The rest of the guys went straight to the dressing room, but I stopped to sign a couple of autographs. When I finished, I went to the dressing room, opened the door to enter, and walked right into your jail over there!” He falters, unable to believe the words that have just come out of his mouth, an unsteady hand raised and pointing in the direction from which we had just arrived. “I was so dumbfounded that your guards had no trouble at all herding me into one of your jail cells. Even now I’m not sure that this is really happening.” These last word are spoken mainly to himself.
“I can assure you that what you are experiencing is real, Mister Shuster,” the Queen soothes. “And as for your imprisonment, I can only say that some thought it prudent to detain you until you’d had time to come to grips with your situation,” she fires an accusing glare at the young man seated to her left, who meets her gaze with the indifference of a petulant child; a scene played out in America millions of times a day. Nice to see some things are universal, I muse to myself.
At this point I must admit that Doc has me stumped. His story made no mention of the pink elephant; his interesting choice of attire. He is either a very good liar or a very stupid one to overlook such a glaring detail, for when it comes to finding answers I am like a wild boar rooting in the dirt for truffles (an activity, incidentally, that I would not recommend for a first date as it can get rather competitive). Some call me nosy, I prefer to think of myself as well-informed.
I’m milling these facts over as Shuster retreats and Gar takes a step forward. But he doesn’t stop with one. Instead he pauses briefly, then takes another deliberate stride toward the dias. The crowd lets out a collective gasp as the Queens personal guards assume an offensive stance and prepare to fight for their ward. I cannot help but admire such a stunning display of…balls.
If it comes to a scrap, I decide I will back the mountainous man staring them down, his muscles twitching under his t-shirt in eager anticipation. Unless it looks like Gar is losing; then I will side with the Guard. And if he is losing badly, I may even take retribution for his earlier bullying in the form of a few well-placed kicks about the head. Nobody warns me they don’t want to have to pay for my stupidity and goes unpunished; especially if they’re unconscious and I have a small army on my side.
Seconds stretch on forever as the two opposing forces gaze menacingly at one another; Goliath, disguised as a biker, ready to battle a buzzer-wielding David (and nineteen of David’s relatives). I’m wondering who will make the first move when my deliberations are interrupted by the surprisingly robust bark of the prision guard captain behind me. I’d forgotten about him. “Step back mister, or this one gets a jolt of the juice!” I feel the twin bumps on the end of his weapon press against the back of my leg. This has gone far enough! I will not be a pawn in this surreal battle of wills. I summon the correct amount of righteous indignation and whirl to confront my tormentor: “Just what the hell do you think you’re do--”
Electricity leaps from the device and courses through my body. Possibly I should have seen this coming.
I hit the ground like a hastily dropped sack of feed and struggle to maintain my dignity while simultaneously frothing at the mouth and emitting a shriek akin to that of a school girl deprived of her text-messaging privileges. It turns out the current I earned earlier was a low-voltage reminder to behave; a genteel lesson in etiquette administered by a firm but loving mentor. The shock I am experiencing now is a mind-bending, muscle-searing, spasm-inducing flash of agony; like the shock my grandmother received when I broke to her the news that Clay Aiken is gay.
But I possess something that Grandma does not (besides mouthwash and the ability to center myself on the toilet seat); intestinal fortitude. And my intestines are so fortified at this moment that the instant the feeling returns to my extremeties I leap (figuratively) to my feet and endeavor to question my trigger-happy friend: “My god, man! Who the hell do you think you are? See that gorilla over there?” I point a static-popping hand in the direction of a now-smiling Gar. “He’s the one giving you trouble, numbskull! He’s the one you should be roasting, not me!” I am at the spittle stage and rapidly accelerating.
“I told you not to move,” he says definitively.
“You did not!”
“I did. I warned you not to move or you’d get the stick.”
“You lying little bastard! You said no such thing!”
“Well I’m telling you now. Don’t move…”
“Why you rotten little motherfu-”
“…or you’ll get the stick.”
He holds the gadget in front of my face and and gives the button a good long push to emphasize his point. I am sorely tempted to let this lying, pint-sized sadomasochist hit me with everything he’s got, just to show him his weapon holds no sway for me, but the fact is it hurts like hell and though my anger meter is red-lining, my pain meter is off the charts. Self preservation rules the day. One more second of exposure to this evil little man’s gloating face, however, will push me well and truly off the deep end and I will certainly break his spindly neck. Luckily for all involved, Queen Zella Belle intervenes with her commanding monarchs voice. “Captain Humphrey! Stand down and lower your weapon!”
Now my tormentor has a name. Humphrey’s eyes remain glued to mine as he gradually lowers his stick while intermittingly engaging the switch in an attempt to keep me cowed. This man is dangerously close to creating an oompa-loompa sundering cyclone. My mood has gone from homicidally enraged to meek and complacent in the space of a heartbeat; a sure sign of impending violence and disaster. He makes his stick crackle and buzz yet again. I treat him to a toothy smile and direct my next comment to the Queen. “Your Majesty,” I project loudly, eyeing my nemisis and smiling all the while. “Things have not gone so far as to be without remedy. As is the custom in my land, I believe that if Humphrey, here, will bow and apologize, all may be forgiven.”
Zella Belle takes the bait. “Yes. Humphrey, do so immediately,” she orders the captain of the prision guard.
Humphrey, recognizing the wisdom in pleasing his angry queen, bows deeply and mutters an apology that he caps off with one final flick of the buzzer.
“Hold your bow a moment, Humphrey,” I tell him. “There is one final step to the, eh…‘total-forgiveness-and-end-up-like-blood-brothers’ procedure.” I leave him fully engaged in his obeisance, bent at the waist and staring at the floor. I back up a few steps, turn, and happen to lock eyes with Gar, who gives me a barely perceptible nod. My back is now to Humphrey, but I remedy that by sweeping around, planting my left foot and bringing up my right for a kick aimed directly at Humphry’s prostrating face. Sweet Jesus…a field-goal try from seventy yards out!
Few people acknowledge this fact, but that doesn’t detract from its truthfulness: fat people have extremely powerful legs. We have to, otherwise we’d never get anywhere. But I needn’t worry about convincing anyone here of that bit of trivia, as my proof is currently turning somersaults while sailing through the air. I count six. The circus stunt gone wrong crescendos when a not-quite-so-smug (or conscious, for that matter) Captain Humphry meets the other end of his arc, landing flat on his back a good twenty feet from where he previously assaulted me.
Time seems to slow as all in the hall come to grips with my cleverly-hatched display of self-defense. “Humphrey,” I intone solemnly to the inert lump on the carpet, “that concludes the ritual. Consider yourself forgiven.”
(w.c.- 4550)