Fishfin, Episode 3: Morgeeli Cometh, Part I
“Oh baby baby baby BABYYYYY it’s one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve
thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty – ” Nathaniel takes a gasp of
breath. He’s in the zone. The crowd is loving his song And Now! I Count to a Hundred. “Twenty one
twenty two twenty three twenty four twenty five twenty six twenty seven twenty eight…”
And so it goes. Welcome to Fishfin’s Spring Concert, neighbor. All twenty-five residents,
including you, are gathered up in Permafrost Park to watch Nathaniel bleat his heart out and rejoice in
the coming days, where the sky will be light longer than it will be dark. You were a little late to the show
– a moose had come angling up to your winter garden and was attempting to nosh on some hoarfrost
berries that you’d been cultivating since moving to Fishfin. In desperation you’d threatened to post live
tweets of the moose’s illegal snacking (moose laws are well known and well observed, though no
method of moose regulation is as effective as threatening social media upon them). An argument
ensued with the moose, and after multiple honks and snorts and mewls later the moose stomped off,
looking cross, but your hoarfrost berries were, for now, safe. Anyways, you missed the start of the
concert, which, you know, doesn’t bother you so much considering all Nathaniel did was say the Pledge
of Allegiance to the Honorable Mayor of Fishfin and sing “Dirty Dollar Bill Dancing.”
It is a lovely night. The sky is dusky blue, fading to dark, and a streak of purple clouds wafts away
over the Brooks Range. The air within the crowd is one of rarified calm. Rufus Alfredo and Delmar
Marinara sway in the front row, singing with Nathaniel “seventy seven seventy eight seventy nine
eighty…” Carrie Almond and her kids – Dannie and Amy – stand next to Roo Flinder, who flexes his
biceps in time to the numbers rolling out from Nathaniel, sneaking glances at Alby O’Tater – who is too
busy sipping from a flask to notice such attention. A wave of vague disgust washes over you as you
observe Alby pluck a potato from his back pocket, regard it, lick off some dirt from its unwashed skin,
and then begin to eat it raw. Bing Bing, recently recovered from his time on the shaming stake with Ding
Xing, sits over in the grass to the left of the stage, shouting requests. “Play My Little Yellow Banana
Hammock! Play I Can’t … Cause it Burns Really Bad!”
The Dyers are standing next to you, mouthing along the words to the song. Booger is making
wreaths of permafrost flowers, explaining to you in-between songs that “these used to be offered as
peace gifts between us and Bear City, but that’s a kind of antique notion so I’m just making these to give
to Susie.” You smile and squeeze his shoulder and turn back to the stage, where Nathaniel is, borne by
the revenant cheers of twenty-five people, attempting and failing to do the worm across the stage.
Yes, everyone from town is there, and loving it all. Everyone except Dennis Xing, the town
badboy, and this bothers you. Last time Dennis was absent from a town event all of the mannequins
from Retired Tire Attire were buried in freshly dug plots in Dead End Graveyard. And you still haven’t
forgiven Dennis for flinging poop at you on your first day in Fishfin.
Aha, hark the heralds heard! There he is! Running on stage as Nathaniel slides into Moosey
Moosey Me Oh My.
“Moosey moosey me oh my lookey lookey why oh why? Did you did you have to say ‘Look at
moosey he can’t –”
“Fishfin!” It’s Dennis, coming in over the mic. Nathaniel tries in vain to keep control of the
microphone and the song – “Moosey moosey walk my way!” but with a whine of feedback and a brief
scuffle Dennis wrenches the mic away from Nathaniel and turns to the crowd. Everyone tenses, unsure
of how a fourteen year old boy could overpower a grown man, and chalking it up to Nathaniel just being
mortally weak. Collectively the crowd wonders what Dennis has done now. Has he released fish into the
Community Center pool? Strung up hammocks between the Shaming Stakes? Set loose Body Worms –
nasty, violent worms that grow up to the length of a human – on Main Street?
But no. Something’s off. He looks … worried? He’s panting, as if he can’t catch his breath.
“Fishfin. I was just west of town, at my Dad’s gas station, and, and I saw it.” There’s a pause, and the
crowd leans forward. “There’s going to be a raid on Fishfin from Bear City. They’re almost at Main Street
right now.”
Silence, and then … uproar! The crowd disperses in a clatter of yelling and screaming. Carrie
Almond clutches her children and runs in the direction of her house, her daughter Amy Almond – the
accomplished bear fighter, looking excited. Roo Flinder screeches and makes to hide underneath the
concert’s stage but his bulk is too immense and he gets stuck. Bing Bing slithers like a snake across the
grass, screaming “Stay low! Stay low!” The Dyers grab your elbow walk you all briskly back to your
street. Friar Dyer is in your ear. His voice is of patient calm.
“Alright now. We’ve practiced this as a family and this is going to be the kid’s third raid on the
city. Booger, you run ahead now and unroll the family weapon cache.”
Booger, brow furrowed, nods and jogs ahead. In the distance you can hear Mica and Sandra
Blumenthal engaged in heated discussion. “I told you baby that I don’t want to fight!” yells Mica. “I
mean, I can’t die yet! What about the Kosher Grocer? You crazy baby?”
“Grow a spine you feckless man! And why are you still calling me baby! Do I look like a baby to
you? Do I wear a diaper? A baby bib! Jeezum Pete Mica you really are as bad as my mother predicted!”
“Now don’t you bring your mother into this!”
They fade away. You walk, and the commotion of Fishfin becomes a background drop of noise.
You’re on your street now, and you see Booger dragging a rolled up tarp onto the driveway. Alby O’Tater
runs from his house up towards Main St, an automatic potato gun slung over his shoulder.
“Over here!” yells Booger. He’s holding a cow bell over his head, clattering it madly. On the tarp
you find another two cow bells, three cans of bear mace, a packet of poprocks, and three wooden sticks.
You look at Friar Dyer, confused. These are weapons?
He shrugs. “Us Dyers don’t especially believe in violent communication. A good old whap on the
bear rump and a few ring-a-lings on the cowbell usually do the trick. And the bears really hate those old
poprocks. You know, the candy that pops in your mouth? Boy does that give them the spooks! I guess
you could say we don’t quite carry the same raid fever as rest of Fishfin enjoys …” in explanation he nods
to Susie Bing, who is dragging a heavy maul behind her through your front lawn, ripping up the sod with
the general disregard with which seems singular to her countenance.
Belinda hands you a stick and a cowbell. “This is truly all you need. Trust us.” You do. In this
whole ridiculous town the Dyers have proved the sole touchstones of rational humanity. So you trust
them. You take your weapons and head to Main Street with the Dyers. There is an electric feel to the air,
as if a snap of the fingers could spark a violent chain. You see everyone gathering around the City
Square. There’s Farty Arty Argon, holding a reaper’s scythe. And Rufus and Delmar, who appear to be
holding a cooking grease flamethrower between the two of them. Jans Kalbfleish, the massive German,
holds no weapon but has both hands wrapped in athletic tape. Over the town’s speakers the Mayor’s
voice crackles in.
“Stay calm, stay calm good people of Fishfin. Stay calm but kill them! Kill them! Kill them! Kill
them for me! Kill them for me, your honorable and good Mayor! Onwards! Fight! Fight! Fight!”
The crowd is whipped up into a frothing frenzy. You form a line across Main Street and begin to
march towards the west end of town, past Retired Tire Attire and Snotty Potty Hottie, all the way to the
bridge over the Mystic River. There you stop, and stand, and wait. Dennis Xing, who alerted the town to
the bear raid, stands in the back nervously with the Caribbean brothers.
“Der he is, mon.” Breathes Delmar Marinara.
“Yah bruddah. De bear baby. You hear da squeakin’?” asks Rufus Alfredo.
“I don’t remember there being a squeak,” says Dennis. “There was no squeak. There were three
bears and no squeak.”
“Der always a squeak mon,” says Delmar, and he’s right. You can hear it now. Squeak … squeak
… squeak … a wheel turns over slowly in the dark.
You squint, and through the deepening gloom past the light’s edge of town a figure shuffles in
the dark. You hold your breath, and let it out slowly as the figure emerges from the shadow and into the
light of Spuds & Suds Potato Bar, the red neon sign painting a sad figure the tragic shade of blood.
It’s an old man. He tall, and thin, and wearing all black. He has a weathered suit and old cowboy
boots, the leather long since cracked and split. His face is lean, lined, with all the history of a life long
lived alone carved into the crevices of his wrinkles. A battered top hat sits atop his head, tilted forward
in a small salute. He pulls a beaten red wagon behind him, and this is the source of the squeaking.
“Oy!” Shouts Roo Flinder, turning on Dennis. “What the dingbat dinkum Dennis! You make us
get all riled up over this?” He’s holding a spiked baseball bat, looking menacing in a tight Billabong tank
top. Dennis, who normally looks so full of himself when caught in mischief, holds no smugness now.
“No! No! This isn’t right! The bears must be behind him, or something!”
“Crikey, you sorry little wombat dingdally.” Roo beats his bat on the ground, bending many of
his nails.
At the commotion the leathery man looks up. He stops, surprised. “Ah. Hello.” His voice, dark
and husky, hangs over the crowd.
“And who do you think you are, mate?” asks Roo. He’s still very upset, and not especially polite.
At Roo’s accusatory questioning the man stands up tall. He sweeps off his top hat and holds it to
his chest, his free hand pointing a long and spidery finger at the crowd. “I? I am Morgeeli, the Magician!”
And with a flourish he pulls the hat from his chest, sticks a hand into the deep hole of his top hat, and
pulls out an old rabbit. He looks around, apparently hoping for an appreciative audience, but the crowd
seems unimpressed. Booger alone claps, and claps even louder when Morgeeli places the rabbit on the
road, where it drops a sizeable series of poop pellets, hops once, and goes to sleep.
There is a vast silence. Then Alby O’Tater speaks up. “Well then. I’ll be opening me bar up then.
Free round of potato shots for Fishfin. Come on now.”
And, in silence, the crowd follows Alby into his bar, Dennis Xing at the back with his head hung,
muttering about the bears, but with all the fight seeming to have gone out of him. Morgeeli blinks, looks
around, scoops up his rabbit, places both the rabbit and the top hat back onto his head, grabs his little
wagon, and follows everyone into Spuds & Suds, squeaking all the way into the bar.
This concludes Fishfin, Episode 3: Morgeeli Cometh, Part I. Tune in every two weeks for your next Fishfin
adventure!
By Reese Wells.
(Nathaniel Singing)