Whitley and the King

by Cathy Buburuz

(with accompanying illustration by Marge B. Simon)

Although the two frequently conversed and collaborated via DataLynx, they'd reached an agreement at the turn of the century whereby each would travel to the other's home state for biannual discussions on current projects.

This night they sat on high back chairs in an obscure little bar in Corpus Christi where the jukebox played Country and the waitress played havoc with service and good old common courtesy. To King, it was one of those you get what you pay for situations - a pitcher of beer cost less than ten bucks and the three P's (peanuts, popcorn and pretzels) were free - so what the hey. But to Whitley, forty-five minutes between beers was not just unacceptable, it was downright absurd.

Four times in the last three minutes alone he had waved his arm above his head like a flag in heat, to no avail. The young lady was far more interested in prancing in and out of a long row of cowboys, flashing a succession of cheap smiles as she passed. Her simulated cowskin mini-skirt was hiked to the max and she gave new meaning to the term plunging neckline.

"Flash a bill," King mumbled between pretzels. The pretzels were salty.

"Bullshit. It's customary to tip after you've received the service." Whitley stood up, sauntered past the dudes and cowpokes, and headed toward the wench. Her back was to him so her tapped her bare shoulder, pointed to King, whispered something into her ear, then returned to the table looking smug, self-satisfied.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, what did you say to her?" For emphasis he leaned over, looked Whitley square in the eye and wiggled his eyebrows up and down like a mad scientist.

Wearing a face void of expression, Whitley replied, "I told her Isaac Asimov wanted a beer."

King laughed so hard it was catching. Everyone in a 5-table radius chuckled and raised glasses and bottles in a drunken tribute to the big guy with the silvery beard.

King nodded his approval at the good patrons of The Longhorn as he crossed the hardwood floor to the Gent's Room. Halfway there, he felt a pair of eyes burning two neat little holes in his back. He was being watched, he could feel it. He glanced over his shoulder, caught sight of the lady in cowhide. She was doing three things all at the same time: wiggling, winking, blowing him kisses.

"Of course, he chuckled to himself, "she thinks I'm Asimov."

When he returned to the table he seriously wondered why there were three fresh pitchers and three frosted mugs on the table. But before he could ask, Whitley leaned over, looking lost and forlorn, and whispered, "We've got company." King was about to ask an impressive line-up of appropriate questions but a slight movement to the left of him snagged his attention. He saw it and the questions committed suicide in his throat.

It was less than four inches high, sparkling and trembling. No arms, no legs, no torso. Just a floating pale mass of matter unknown. A jellylike bobber with glossy, penetrating eyes that gazed through flesh clear to the soul. The eyes locked with King's and there was no release. Until it blinked.

King was terrified and it showed. For Whitley's sake, he made a concerted effort to converse, but all he could muster were three little words:

"Who are you?"

"I am the Word and Window of Kysa," Its voice was feminine and soothing, yet masculine in its authority. In it was an incomprehensible horror that chilled to the marrow. The creature continued in mystical, hypnotic tones that caressed or bruised at will. It spoke of visits past, of ancient cultures and traditions, of things that could melt a mind. It told of its need to know more.

In an eerie gesture of comradeship, it hovered over a frosty beer and through bizarre osmosis it emptied the mug. On cue, the two men guzzled their drinks, both taking great comfort in their loss of sobriety. They shared round after round and the conversation flowed as freely as the booze.

When the creature announced it was time to leave, there were no arguments. Their departure was uneventful, the crowd oblivious.

Smooth and silent, the floater led the way through winding streets and littered alleyways. A bag lady in a trench coat and Adidas stepped out from behind a filthy dumpster, shoved her grubby fingers into King's belly. "Buddy, can you spare a fiver?'

Mumbling something about a dime, King reached down into the pocket of his jeans, then passed his wallet over to hungry hands. A helluva lot of good charge cards and cash would do in The Twilight Zone.

****

Aboard the ship, the Word and Window of Kysa introduced them to a creature taller than a man. It had incredibly large eyes that glistened with the luster of a thousand midnight stars. Her movements were smooth and elegant. Swan-like. With translucent fingers she reached down, parted the pink down on her swollen belly to reveal a throbbing hole of tangled mauve muscle. Like a vacuum from Hades, she inhaled and The Word and Window of Kysa was sucked into the pulsating hole of its master. Whitley froze; King cleared his throat.

"You're, um, body part told us you came here to study humanity." King's face flushed at his choice of words. "But before we get started I'd like to know if you plan to pick, prod and poke. Because if you do, I'm outta here. Know what I mean? As a member of the human race, I figure I'm entitled to a dash of dignity, an ounce of respect." He made a silent wish that the creature before him would not inhale.

"Your bodies are safe here. As Whitley knows, I no longer crave knowledge of man's physical being. It is the essence of man I seek."

"Fire away, Kysa," King said with an elfish grin. He reached over and gave Whitley's shoulder a squeeze. "It's gonna be all right, old buddy. Hell, this little rendezvous could very well work itself into a shit-kickin' storyline.

"It's been done, my friend, and you more than anyone know that story." Like a lonesome cowboy, Whitley's thoughts trailed off into parts unknown.

Whitley's right, King concluded. I'd be hard put to find another living soul who believed so much as a paragraph in this story.

Kysa's questions were grueling. She demanded intricate detailed responses that left both men feeling insecure and inadequate in their roles as spokespersons for humanity. It was difficult to determine the time span of the interrogation but later they would estimate it at three days. They did not eat or sleep or even urinate aboard the ship and attributed this to the Power of Kysa.

They explored hundreds, perhaps thousands, of topics. Everything from Why do humans maintain the inhumane practice of burying their dead underground? to Why do increasing numbers of childbearers abort the unborn?

They discussed politics and economics, addictions and medical procedures, fluoridation and radiation, flora and fauna, The Seven Wonders of the World and architecture, billboards and television advertising, crime and violence, The Holy Bible and paganism, poverty and prosperity, gay rights and legal procedures, astonomy and astrology, anything and everything under earth's sun.

They shared viewpoints and philosophies, ideas and conclusions, stories and anecdotes.

Sometimes they laughed and sometimes they cried. And more often than not, they simply babbled.

When it was over - though they were mentally, physically and emotionally drained - Whitley and King took the Hilton penthouse where they disected the details of their session with Kysa, chatting endlessly over pepperoni pizzas and gallons of beer.

They agreed the experience was not a thing to be shared with family, friends, associates or publishers. They exchanged vows never to reveal even one iota of information to anyone including their wives. They shook hands. Exchanged grizzly bear hugs. Parted ways.

Whitley tucked the details of the event into the deepest pocket of his mind where they would fester and burn in the cinders of infinite silence.

King, despite his promise, pieced together an outline, made a mental note to call Max-the-Axe at Viking.

(First published in the Roswell Literary Review in Roswell, New Mexico in 1990)