I finally found him in a corner of the attic at the farmhouse in the guise of a renaissance scholar or something like that. He had fashioned a desk from an old dresser and illuminated his writing space with a small candle. It was stifling hot there, and sweat covered me but, as he looked up from his writing, he paid no notice.
I wiped the sweat away. “Cut the crap,” I said. “People are asking me about it,” I paused. “What the hell is ‘The Book of Ludicrous’?”
“We are urged,” he said. “Urged by the Falloonian Elders to leave something of value with your species when we depart.” He pointed at his manuscript. “This shall be my gift.”
I glanced over at it.
“So you are leaving?” I tried to change the topic.
“Not anytime soon,” he said. “It will be a long manuscript.”
”But why a gospel couched in satirical nonsense?”
He looked at me as if I had just asked how demons could inhabit pigs.
“Can you think of a more fitting paradigm for your species than a book of the ludicrous?”
I began to ponder this.
“I mean, think about your species’ habit of starting unfunded wars.”
That stopped me.
“Or,” he continued. “Pantyhose. Neckties. Designer pets. Or automobiles designed to travel a hundred miles an hour faster than any posted speed limit.”
“What …?” I began.
“I haven’t even approached the more fantastic tendencies,” he said. “Such as the belief that criminal proclivities may be assuaged by locking the miscreant in tight quarters for long periods with more advanced criminals.”
“Well, uh …,” I stammered.
“Who thought that one up?”
|I still maintain that a|
Falloonian female would find
pantyhose baffling at best. - C.W.