Dedicated to my left foot, without which I should only have one foot

Once upon a sheet of paper on which was drawn a baboon in a bikini, there was a sentence which served as an introduction to this story, but it was lost when I hit my head this afternoon. Who am I?…

One day Mel Mar was watching an apple devour a pig; Footmonster was nowhere to be seen, for Mel Mar had at last succeeded in destroying her. Mel Mar soon discovered, however, after days of observing the oddities of nature, that life was rather boring without the insanity of her comrade, and so, having found that she had nothing better to do, Mel Mar borrowed Mr. Fibuli’s time-machine, which he had rebuilt with some difficulty, and somehow brought Footmonster back to life. (Mr. Fibuli then snatched his time-machine out of Mel Mar’s hands [For ‘twas only the size of Footmonster’s magic shoebox.], declared that never again would his invention be used for such evil deeds, and sat down in a corner to sulk.)

“I’m sorry, Footmonster,” said Mel Mar. “I guess that I’ll let you live.”

“Gee, thanks, Mel. I’m touched.”

“It’s good that Mr. Fibuli was able to rebuild his time-machine.”

“You know--I had never even seen it before; I’m surprised that it’s so…portable.” Footmonster peered over Mr. Fibuli’s shoulder at the time-machine in his pale hands. “It looks a bit like my magic shoebox.” She leaned more closely to the time-machine, which Mr. Fibuli was now trying in vain to conceal.

“It is my magic shoebox, you jerk! How dare you steal my magic shoebox!” screamed Footmonster in rage as she grabbed Mr. Fibuli’s neck with one hand and his toga with the other.

“Footmonster, be careful!” shouted Mel Mar. “You’ll damage my brain!”

Ignoring Mel Mar, Footmonster yanked the magic shoebox out of the hands of Mr. Fibuli, who lunged at her to try to snatch it back. A process similar to this went on for some time until suddenly and not unexpectedly the magic shoebox crumbled beneath their fingers. Time seemed to have frozen (perhaps in the tomb with the cybermen) for a moment as all three stared at the fragments of the once-mighty, magic shoebox.

“You broke my magic shoebox!” yelled Footmonster at Mr. Fibuli when time had begun its march again.

“I broke it? You’re the idiot who tried to take it from me!”

“You stole it from me!”

Mel Mar leapt between Mr. Fibuli and Footmonster and said, “Calm down! It’s not that big a deal.”

Footmonster sneered at her. “Not that big a deal?! Mel, that magic shoebox and I had been together since high school. It is that shoebox which helped me destroy the author’s notes which would not die; it is that shoebox in which I found the last pastry, which we had feared that Voldemort had taken--of course it’s a big deal!” Footmonster collapsed onto the floor and sobbed while Mr. Fibuli, disgusted and (though he would not have admitted it) slightly frightened by the display before him, crept away to a place out of danger.

Days later Footmonster was still occasionally bursting into tears at the thought of her loss and was spending much of her time listening to the most depressing songs which she could find (such as “Entry of the Gladiators” and “When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin’ Along”) and forcing herself to study the quadratic equation (extreme masochism). Her only comfort was talking to Francis.

Eventually, though, recovery began to begin its beginning, and Footmonster tossed her book of mathematics into the Closet of Fire and allowed her ears to hear a cheerful song which her brother had written about sandwiches. Finally Footmonster was back to normal (or as near to it as she could get).

Months passed, and the entire incident was nearly forgotten. It was a fine, stormy day when Footmonster and Mel Mar were once again relaxing at their castle; Mel Mar was a-countin’ the stars above (not an easy task for one who was not in view of the stars above), and Footmonster was trying to decide what to do.

“What shall I do, Francis?” asked Footmonster. “Shall I discover the cure for something previously incurable? Shall I save the world from disasters? or shall I get a Dr Pepper?”

Francis said nothing.

“Excellent choice, Francis.” She walked into the bathroom and opened the refrigerator.

“Mel,” called she, “why is the laundry-detergent in the icebox?”

“Well, it wouldn’t fit in the fireplace,” replied Mel Mar.

“Oh. Well, next time just leave it in the toilet; the fridge is too full as it is. We hardly need detergent anyway: I’ve decided to become a nudist--you know--spice up life a little bit.”

“Good lord, no! If you become a nudist, I’ll hit you over the head with that bottle of cognac that Doctor Travis keeps prescribing.”

“That sounds like fun, but, if my becoming a nudist bothers you that much, then I”ll forget it.”

“Good.”

Footmonster pulled out a Dr Pepper and a bowl of leftover dead-body-stew and let the refrigerator’s door fall closed; she turned to the bookshelf on her right.

“Mel, have you seen my copy of Only Idiots Read This Book by U. R. Ridiculouslystupid? It ought to be here on the shelf between his How Not to Read and I’m Glad That I’m Not You by P. Woddle, but it’s not.”

“Oh, I’m sorry; was that an important book? I think that I used it for poisoning those accursed birds which sing their stupid songs all day outside the window near which I never go.”

“How can you poison birds with a book?”

“Very easily.”

“But how?”

“The world shall never know!” Mel Mar cackled maniacally.

Footmonster cleared her throat awkwardly. “Well, that’s nice. Do you know where the book is now?”

“It’s dead.”

“Oh.” Footmonster sighed and picked up Only an Idiot Would Write This Book by I. M. Ridiculouslystupid (U. R. Ridiculouslystupid’s brother) and sat back down in the sitting-room with Mel Mar.

“Ah, there’s nothing like a good Dr Pepper,” said Footmonster as she spilt half of the drink on herself. “What a fine day. Don’t you think that this is a fine day, Francis?”

Francis said nothing.

“Francis? I asked you a question.”

Still Francis said nothing. Footmonster examined the incision which was Francis’s home on her stomach. There was nothing there but the incision.

“Francis…? Francis isn’t there, Mel! He has gone!” Footmonster began to panic and to foam at the mouth.

“I know why he’s not there, Footmonster,” said Mel Mar quietly, having remembered something important to the plot. “I got a letter this morning.”

“I didn’t know that the post had come.”

“The letter didn’t come in the post; I found it under my pillow.”

“Is it from the Tooth Fairy? I got one from her: ‘Don’t send me any more teeth; they’re disgusting!’ Is it anything like that?”

“No, I think that it’s from Ichabod. Read it.” Mel Mar handed the letter to Footmonster.

“Mel Mar,” said the letter, “if u wunt 2 c yur brane agin, well, 2 bad cuz it’s mine now. Well, i gess that u kan hav it bak if u pay me lots uv munny--u no, like, 10 dollerz wud b nice. Sinseerlee (with or withowt wax--it duzint matter), ikubod fosko.

“Pee es: ive taken Francis, 2, but u kant (not immanuel) hav him bak, so ther.

“Pee pee es: in addishun 2 the $10, i wunt the short ladee 2 sing agin.”

“Just as I thought,” said Footmonster, “the Tooth Fairy is behind all this.”

Mel Mar took the letter back from Footmonster and looked it over. “But it’s signed by Ichabod.”

“Nah, that’s just a clever ruse. It’s the Tooth Fairy all right--psh, can’t even spell her own name. Ichabod Fosco--everyone knows that it’s spelled with four ms and a silent q.”

“Footmonster, have you ever heard the saying, ‘Silence is golden’?”

“Yeah, but I don’t fall for that nonsense; everyone knows that it’s really silver. So, wow,” she continued, abruptly changing the subject, “now Mr. Fibuli has been kidnapped, and that explains why Francis has gone, too. How I miss him…, but you got this letter this morning, and he didn‘t disappear till a few minutes ago.”

“Well, it’s only a story anyway. So how are we going to get Mr. Fibuli back?”

“Get him back? He broke my magic shoebox!”

“Haven’t you gotten over that yet? You’re impossible. You must help me rescue Mr. Fibuli.”

“I’ll think about it.” Footmonster turned to drag her son away from the fireplace and took a bite out of the linoleum on the kitchen’s floor. “Tasty.”

“So will you help me?”

Footmonster ran her finger over her fake mustache in thought. “Okee dokee.”

“Huzzah!”

“So what are we doing?”

“Rescuing my brain.”

“Oh, right, so…um…to the…um…er…”

“Goatmobile?”

“Yeah.”

To the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, went they and so on, and they drove off into the sunset as happy as a rhinoceros in a pumpkin-patch. (I ought to give that rhinoceros a name.)

They came to a stoplight which had turned red; an unsuspecting, old woman with a zimmer frame and a Samurai sword was joyfully creeping across the street, humming a hymn to herself.

The Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, was speeding along at a million miles an hour.

The old woman paused to catch her breath.

Suddenly the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, zoomed through the red light and across the intersection; catching sight of the woman, Footmonster slammed her foot onto the brake and sent the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, crashing into a building, and the world exploded--KABOOM!

“Wow, that was cool!” said Footmonster as they drove away from the wreckage.

“How could you have not seen that red light?” asked Mel Mar incredulously.

“Red light? Where?”

“Hasn’t your eyesight improved since the ventriculoperitoneal shunt was put into your brain?”

“What, my eyesight? Nah, it’s still so bad that I could hardly see that stopsign through which we just drove.”

“So do you really think that it’s a good idea for you to be driving?”

“Are you questioning my right to--whoa!” Footmonster cursed and tapped the brakes slightly--only slightly--as the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, slammed into a cow.

“You hit a cow!” shrieked Mel Mar. “Didn’t you see the bloody thing?!”

“It’s certainly bloody now. Well, we don’t have time to clean it up now; we’ll come back for it later and have some good beef for the rest of the winter. It’s a good thing that the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, is so sturdy.” She slowed the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, down to 999,999 miles an hour and took her hands from the steering-wheel, holding them above her head. “Look, Mel: no hands!”

“Maybe I ought to drive.”

“Too late--we’re here already--at the secret castle of Ichabod Fosco the purple gorilla.” She parked the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, in a ditch and looked up at the building in front of them.

“Hey, it looks just like our castle,” said Mel Mar, “but what is it built out of?”

Footmonster crossed the drawbridge and ran her hand along the wall of the castle. “Legos--the entire thing is an exact replica of our castle, but it’s made out of Legos…. That is cool.”

“Well, it’s not exact; our castle doesn’t have a doorbell. Shall I ring it?”

“Yeah, let’s see what Ichabod has to say for himself.”

Mel Mar rang the doorbell, and the sound of sheep singing “Für Elise” drifted to their ears.

“My son has a toy which has those singing sheep on it,” said Footmonster. “It’s really annoying. If only they sang Rachmaninoff--that would be entertaining.” She fell silent as the door was slowly opened by the butler, a rather tall and plump penguin wearing a bowtie.

“Yee-es?” said he.

“Howdy doodly-do! I'm Talkie--Talkie Toaster, your--oh, sorry, I mean--I’m Footmonster, and this is Mel Mar, and we’re here to see Ichabod Fosco because he has kidnapped her brain.”

“Very good then--right this way.” The butler turned and waddled down the hall to “Funeral March of a Marionette,” Footmonster and Mel Mar following. He led them to the secret sitting-room of Ichabod Fosco the purple gorilla and bade them to wait for “Mr. Fosco.”

“So I guess that the main difference between this place and ours (besides the Legos),” said Footmonster when she and Mel Mar were alone, “is that this place is cleaner than ours.” She plopped herself down onto a chair, raising a cloud of dust. “Much cleaner.”

Mel Mar sat down in another chair, raising another cloud of dust. “You know--you could have worn matching socks for the occasion.”

“What--they don’t match?” asked Footmonster, examining her socks.

“No, not at all.”

“Huh, well, that’s color-blindness for you.”

“…You can’t blame this one on color-blindness; one sock has turtles on it and the other a Union Jack.”

“...Well, matching socks are boring anyway.”

They ceased their insane babbling when the butler returned.

“Mr. Fosco wishes to see you in his laboratory,” said he.

Footmonster shrugged, and she and Mel Mar rose from their chairs and followed the butler to the secret laboratory of Ichabod Fosco the purple gorilla. The butler knocked twice on the door, entered, and held it for the two superheroines. Footmonster walked into the wall next to the doorway.

“Whoops,” she said, “Wrong door--I guess that that one is locked.”

The butler gave her an odd look and said, “That is not a door; it is a wall.”

“Really? Why can you see through it then?”

“Come on, Footmonster,” urged Mel Mar. “Forget about the door. Let’s get my brain back.”

“Are you sure? Don’t you think that this door is worth investigating?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Footmonster blinked back her tears of rejection (because bursting into tears would be too predictable) and followed Mel Mar into the secret laboratory of Ichabod Fosco the purple gorilla.

“Fosco!” Footmonster growled, pointing at the purple gorilla, who was eating a baked potato, occasionally kicking Mr. Fibuli, who was awkwardly tied to a chair--the comfy chair?!

Ichabod looked up from his meal at the superheroines but said nothing.

“Fosco!” repeated Footmonster.

“Glyde?” he finally replied.

Mel Mar stepped forward and seized Ichabod by the neck. “I want my brain back, you jerk.”

“Ah, Mel Mar, so nice to see you.”

“Now hang on a second, Mel,” said Footmonster. “I’m a bit confused about something: where is the Tooth Fairy?”

Ichabod Fosco laughed. “Ah, Footmonster, nice to see you, too. You always were as stupid as this half-eaten baked potato. I knew that, having read my note, you would come to the wrong conclusion, and now you have delayed your deaths one minute too long.” He snapped his hairy fingers, and Footmonster and Mel Mar were suddenly bound to chairs as Mr. Fibuli was.

Ichabod gave short bursts of maniacal laughter between mouthfuls of potato. “Now there is no one to save you!”

“Wait a minute,” said Footmonster. “You said that you were holding Mr. Fibuli for a ransom. Mel, do you have the note? Show it to him. See--ten dollars and the short lady to sing--if we pay the ransom, Fosco, you’ll let Mr. Fibuli go, won’t you?”

“Yeah, sure, why not?”

“Great! There y’are, Mel. Hey, Fosco, loosen these ropes so that I can check my pockets for cash.”

Ichabod wiped his mouth with his toga and waved his bloody hands at the ropes binding Footmonster and Mel Mar, who began searching their pockets. Footmonster pulled from her left pocket two dollars and thirty-eight cents, a Cheerio, a few balls of fluff, a hand-grenade, and a harpsichord.

“Wow,” said Mel Mar, “how did you get a harpsichord into your pants?”

“Hey, stranger things have happened. Actually, I don’t remember how, but it’s not even mine--it’s my parents’. I’d better return it to them; they’re probably wondering where it is.” Footmonster shoved the harpsichord back into her pocket and pulled out of her right pocket three more dollars, a dead fish, a bazooka, a live rabbit, and the keys to the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile.

“Well,” said she, “what’s two dollars and thirty-eight cents plus three dollars? It’s ten dollars even, isn’t it?”

Mel Mar shrugged.

“No, you fool,” said Ichabod Fosco, “it’s only five dollars and thirty-eight cents.”

“Wow, so it’s more than ten dollars.”

“No! You still need another four dollars and sixty-two cents!”

“Smeg, he actually knows math,” Footmonster muttered to Mel Mar. “He’s definitely evil.”

“Well, I have four dollars and sixty-one cents,” Mel Mar said. “Is that good enough?”

“No! I want ten dollars--not nine dollars and ninety-nine cents!” screamed Fosco, infuriated with the pair of them.

“Maybe I have some change in the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile,” said Footmonster. “If you’ll let me go, I can--”

“No, you’ve had your chance. Even if you did find another penny, you still haven’t gotten the short lady to sing.”

“Yeah, I forgot about that.”

“I’m never gonna get my brain back!” sbobded--sbobded?--sobbed Mel Mar. “We’ll never get ouf of this place alive!”

Footmonster handed Mel Mar a used handkerchief. “Calm down, Mel. There’s always hope. You never know--Jerb may save us.”

Suddenly Jerb flew in and saved Footmonster, Mel Mar, and Mr. Fibuli from the evil clutches of Ichabod Fosco. (Jerb was the sheet of paper on which that baboon in a bikini was drawn.)

Back home in their lovely castle, Mel Mar was encouraging Footmonster and Mr. Fibuli to make peace with each other. The process was not going well.

“Look--what do you want me to do? Make you another magic shoebox?” Mr. Fibuli was saying.

“You can’t just make another magic shoebox, you dolt; you have to find it,” argued Footmonster.

“Oh, and how did you find it anyway? I bet that you stole it.”

“I did not!”

“Footmonster, Mr. Fibuli, please,” begged Mel Mar, “just let it go. I can’t stand your bickering anymore, and, if y’all keep arguing, I’ll have to light a cinnamon candle.”

“Good heavens, Mel, that’s cruel!” said Footmonster. “Couldn’t you light some incense instead?”

“No, lighting the candle is a threat. Incense wouldn’t do me any good because you like incense.”

“I haven’t burnt any incense in a long time. I wonder what I did with my supply.”

“It’s in your sock-drawer.”

“Really? Wow, Mel, you must be psychic. How did you know where it is?”

“You also hide your money in your sock-drawer.”

“Wow, so you are psychic. Wicked.”

Footmonster rummaged through her drawer of socks (of which none matched) and took out a handful of incense. She then lit a stick and stuck the others down her shirt. “Fpr emergencies,” she explained to Mel Mar.

“Well, I guess that that has gotten you and Mr. Fibuli to quit arguing,” said Mel Mar.

“Me and whom?”

“Mr. Fibuli, my brain.”

“Who’s that then?”

“Your memory must not be working properly. Do you have it on the right setting?”

“No, I lost my memory when I lent you Bregans.”

“Oh yes. Well, describe your memory to me, and I’ll help you look for it.”

“I can’t remember.”

“Right, of course--you would have trouble remembering your memory if it had disappeared.”

“What are we talking about?”

“Your memory.”

“Oh yeah, good old Obuns Obadiah--he’s always good for a laugh.”

“So that’s your memory--Obuns Obadiah?”

“Um…pardon?”

“Well, maybe Philolaches the Philosopher would remember.”

“I’ll ask him. Wait--what am I supposed to ask him?”

“Forget it; we’ll worry about your memory in the next adventure.”

“Forget what?”

This conversation continued in this way for several more years until finally Mr. Fibuli asked an irrelevant question: “What time is it?”

Footmonster and Mel Mar were silent and stared at Mr. Fibuli.

“What did you say?” asked Footmonster.

“I asked what time it is,” he replied.

“Did you hear that, Mel? Your brain wants to know what time it is. The influence of Ichabod Fosco must have corrupted Mr. Fibuli.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mel Mar.

“Your brain wants to know what time it is--time--math.”

Mel Mar gasped. “It can’t be! My brain can’t be corrupted! Oh lemontable day!”

“Mel, I may not know math, but I do know a bit about English, and I think that the word is lamentable (You‘ve been hanging around Dumbledore too much.); but never fear, my friend. I have the solution: abolish math.”

“Oh, okay.”

So they abolished math, and Mr. Fibuli was fine again.

The End