THE YETI'S GUFFAW

Dr. Hieronymous Zinn

Without, the night was cold and wet and nasty, but in the
small parlour of Laudanum Villa the occupants were blind drunk
and the fire smelled of burnt toast. Father and daughter-in-
law were playing "Twister"; the former, who possessed ideas
about the game involving radical changes, such as not wearing
any clothes, bent himself at such odd angles that it even
provoked comment from his slutty, bleached-blonde wife
knitting placidly by the fire.
"Your shoe is untied," said Mr. Whitebread, who, having seen
a particularly good opportunity, was amiably desirous of
maintaining the element of surprise.
"I'm not falling for that one again," said the latter,
grimly surveying the mat as she spun the spinner. "Yellow."
"I should hardly think that he'd come to-night," said her
father-in-law, deftly stretching his right foot behind his
left ear, trying to place it on the appropriate spot.
"That's blue," replied the girl. "You lose."
"That's the worst of living so far out in the damn
'boonies'," bawled Mr. Whitebread, with sudden and unlooked-
for violence as he untangled himself from the girl; "of all
the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way, "Bob"-forsaken shitholes
to live in, this is the worst. The nearest liquor store is a
five-minute drive, the escort-service girls are ugly, and the
only damn ISP is AOL."
"Never mind, dear," said his wife soothingly; "perhaps
you'll nail her the next time."
Mr. Whitebread looked up sharply, just in time to intercept
a knowing glance between wife and daughter-in-law. The words
died away on his lips, and he hid a lewd grin.
"There he is," said Staunchly Whitebread, as the gate banged
too loudly and heavy footsteps came towards the door; then
turned around, went back to the car, and returned the same
way, banging the gate furiously the second time.
He rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was
heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also
condoled with himself: whining about the weather is a human
trademark.
Mrs. Whitebread adjusted her push-up brassiere and hiked her
mini-skirt slightly to expose more thigh, then said, "Tut,
tut!" and coughed gently as her husband entered the room,
followed by a strange-looking man, beady of eye and pale-
rubicund of visage.
"Reverend Ivan Stang," he said, introducing himself. The
Reverend shook hands; all the while staring at Mrs.
Whitebreads' ample cleavage; despite the best efforts of the
younger Mrs. Whitebread to likewise attract his attentions.
He then took the proffered seat by the fire, watching
contentedly while his host got out whiskey and tumblers and
proceeded to roll a Cheech Marin-size 'Frop doobie.
At the third glass and the third drag his eyes got brighter,
and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with
eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he began to
slump in the comfy chair, and spoke of wild scenes and doughty
deeds; and of the box-office take at the last devival.
"I'd like to go to Dayton, or at least Youngstown," said Mr.
Whitebread, "just to look round a bit, you know."
"Better where you are," said the Reverend, shaking his head.
He put down the empty glass, sighing softly, then, when it had
been refilled with a double, he knocked it down with a sense
of revulsion at the thought of returning to Ohio.
"I should like to see those old ruins, the ancient temples
and pyramids, and the Casbah with its fakirs and tractor
salesmen," said Mr. Whitebread. "What was that you started
telling me the other day about having purchased a Yeti's hand
or something, Ivan?"
"Nothing," said the Reverend hastily. "I don't know what
you're talking about. I must have been drunk. Nobody knows
about the...; I mean, sure, I've heard rumors about it, but I
don't know why anybody would think that I...," he trailed off,
having become fixated again by Mrs. Whitebreads' breasts.
"Ooo, a Yeti's hand?" said Mrs. Whitebread seductively.
"Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps,"
said the Reverend offhandedly.
His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor
absentmindedly knocked down another shot of whiskey and then
set his glass down for a refill. It was.
"To look at," said the Reverend, apparently fumbling with
himself in his pocket, "it's just an large, clawed, ape-like,
ordinary hairy hand, dried to a mummy." He pulled something
out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. Whitebread drew back
with a grimace, but her daughter-in-law, taking it, examined
it curiously, then drew her tongue across the palm.
"And what is there special about it?" enquired a grossed-out
Mr. Whitebread as he forcefully took it from his protesting
daughter-in-law, and having examined it, placed it upon the
table.
"It had a spell put on it by an old Cornhusker fakir," said
the Reverend, "a very holy man. A priest of the 'Children of
the Corn' cult. It was one of their sacred relics, and he
said that three separate men could each have three wishes from
it. He wanted $2.50--cash--but the guy he wanted to sell it
to had a knife."
His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious
that their light laughter jarred somewhat.
Well, how come you aren't incredibly wealthy then, sir?"
said Staunchly Whitebread cleverly.
The Reverend regarded him in the way that middle age is wont
to regard presumptuous youth. "And who says I'm not?" he said
quietly, and his whiskey-blotched face whitened. "And did you
really have the three wishes granted?" asked Mrs. Whitebread.
"I'll let you know next year," said the Reverend, as his glass
tapped against the table to signal it's emptiness. "And has
anybody else wished?" persisted the buxom lady.
"The first man had his three wishes. He now owns Microsoft
Corporation and can stand up straight and bend forward fifty
degrees without falling over--no hands. His third wish was
for eternal salvation. That's how I got the hand."
His tones were so slurred that a hush fell upon the group.
"If you've had your three wishes, it's no good to you now
then, Stang," said Mr. Whitebread at last. "What do you keep
it for?"
The Reverend shook his head. "Trying to get more wishes out
of it, I suppose," he said slowly. "I did have some idea of
selling it--I even advertised the damn thing in the Scatalog
for three months--but nobody ever hits on that page.
Besides, even if they did, they would want to try it first
and pay me afterward. Cheap bastards."
"If you could have another three wishes," said Mr.
Whitebread, eyeing him keenly, "would you have them?"
"Bechure ass I would!", said the other.
He took the hand, and dangling it between his forefinger and
thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. Whitebread, with a
slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.
"What the hell didja do that for?" he cried.
"Oops! Sorry," said the Reverend, then added, "guess I've
had enough whiskey for now."
"If you don't want it, Stang," said the other, "give it to
me."
"Okay. Five dollars" said the Reverend.
The other laid down a fin, shook his head and examined his
new possession closely. "Where's the 'on' switch?" he
enquired. "Hold it in your right hand and wish aloud," said
the Reverend, "then click your heels together three times and
say, "gimmee", "gimmee", "gimmee".
It makes no difference what you are. Just be sure of one
thing: that nobody around you thinks of a perfectly white
clone sheep while you're doing it, or nothing will happen."
"Sounds like a scam to me, alright" said Mrs. Whitebread, as
she rose and began to roll the nth 'Frop smoke of the evening,
mostly carpet lint and dust bunnies. "Don't you think you
might wish for a tighter you-know-what for me, honey?"
Her husband hefted up the talisman, and then all three burst
into laughter as the Reverend, with a look of alarm on his
face, caught him by the arm.
"If you must wish," he said gruffly, "you could at least be
a little more gratuitous or greedy."
Mr. Whitebread dropped it back on the table and in the
business of becoming drooling and comatose the talisman was
partly forgotten, and some hours later the three sat listening
in an enthralled fashion to a second instalment of the
Reverend's adventures in Ohio.
"If the tale about the Yeti's hand is not more truthful than
those others he has been telling us," said Staunchly, as the
door closed, their guest having been deposited in his car to
sleep it off, "I just blew half a sawbuck."
"Didn't you take your five dollars back when he passed out?"
enquired Mrs. Whitebread, regarding her husband closely.
"Nah, he was so drunk that he didn't even realize that it
was a coupon for "Huggies" with four number 5's written on the
corners."
"Far out," said Mrs. Whitebread the younger, "we're going to
be rich, and famous, and powerful. Wish to be in charge of
the conspiracy, to begin with; then you'll have an army of
mindless drones to do your bidding.
He darted round the table, pursued by Mrs. Whitebread, Sr.
armed with a gravy boat. "I want a smaller you-know-what!"
she said.
Mr. Whitebread picked up the hand and eyed it dubiously. "I
don't know what to wish for, and that's a fact," he said
slowly. "It seems to me I've got virtually nothing that I
want."
"Maybe you just need a little slack" said his daughter-in-
law, thoughtfully.
Her father-in-law, smiling shamefacedly at his own
stupidity, held up the talisman, as his daughter-in-law, with
a solemn face, picked up an accordion and played a few
impressive and ominous chords.
"I wish for slack," said Mr. Whitebread distinctly, "gimmee!
gimmee! gimmee!"
A fine blast from the accordian greeted the words,
interrupted by a shuddering cry from Mr. Whitebread. His wife
and daughter-in-law ran toward him.
"It moved," he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object
as it lay on the floor. "As I wished, it curled three of its
fingers and its thumb up. Look! It's flipping us a bird!"
"Well, you don't look like you have any more slack," said
his daughter-in-law, as she picked up the hand, licked its
fingers open, and placed it on the table, "and I bet you never
will."
"You must be hallucinating," said his wife, looking at him
funny.
He shook his head. "Never mind, though; there's no harm
done, but it gave me a shock all the same."
They sat down by the fire again while everyone finished one
last pipeful of 'Frop. Outside, the wind was higher than
ever, and Mr. Whitebread started nervously at the sound of a
toilet flushing upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing
settled upon all three, despite the ear-shattering noise
coming from the stereo, which lasted until the two women were
going upstairs for their nightly group-thing warm-up.
"I expect you'll find a dozen naked cheerleaders all tied up
and sprawled on your bed," said his daughter-in-law, "and
something horrible, like Oprah, squatting up on top of the
wardrobe and shouting out annoying questions."
He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and
seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so
simian that he gazed at it in amazement. It got so vivid
that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a
glass containing a little water to throw over it. His hand
grasped the Yeti's hand, and with a little shiver he wiped his
hand on his coat and went up to bed. "Imagine that," he
thought, "now why would a Yeti be smoking a pipe?"
In the dimness of the phlegm-coloured sun next morning as it
streamed over the breakfast table he laughed at his fears.
There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room
which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty,
shrivelled Yeti hand was pitched on the side-board with a
carelessness which betokened no great belief in its vices.
"I suppose all Reverends are the same," said Mrs.
Whitebread, "the idea of our listening to such nonsense! How
could wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how
could having slack hurt, dear?"
"Might mean that's all he'll be able to have in bed," said
the frivolous daughter-in-law.
"The Reverend said the things happened so unnaturally," said
Mr. Whitebread, "that you might if you so wished attribute it
to unbelievably good luck."
"Well, don't revel in your new-found slack before I come
back," said his daughter-in-law as she got off of the table
and adjusted her nightie. "I'm afraid it'll turn you into an
greedy, lewd overman, and we shall have to give you a thorough
paddling."
She went up to change, then came down again.
Mrs. Whitebread laughed, and followed her to the door,
watching her down the path to her sports car; then returning
to the breakfast table, for her turn, was very happy at the
expense of her husband's credulity. All of which did not
prevent her from scurrying to the door at the postman's knock,
nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to a certain
Reverend of Epicurean and bibulous habits when she found that
the post had brought a 'Final Warning' notice from the I.R.S.
The rest of the morning was uneventful, until Mrs.
Whitebread spotted the mysterious movements of a man outside,
who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to
be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection
with the idea of having some slack, she noticed that the
stranger was well dressed, and wore a silk hat of glossy
newness. Three times he paused at the gate, and then walked
on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and
then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the
path. He then walked back to the gate and slammed it a second
time, inexplicably, before returning to the front door. Mrs.
Whitebread at the same moment placed her hands behind her, and
hurriedly unfastening her brassiere, pulled it from her blouse
and put the useless article of apparel beneath the cushion of
her chair.
She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the
room. He gazed at her breasts furiously. She then waited as
patiently as her sexual appetites would permit, for him to
give her the business, but he was at first strangely silent.
"I--was asked to call," he said at last, and stooped to
adjust his courting tackle, which was protruding uncomfortably
at the front of his trousers. "I come from the Caterpillar
Corporation."
Mrs. Whitebread started. "Is anything the matter?" she
asked breathlessly. "Has anything happened to my daughter-in-
law? What is it? What is it?"
Her husband interposed. "There, there, honey," he said
hastily. "Sit down, and don't jump to conclusions. You've
not brought bad news, I'm sure, sir"; and he eyed the other
wistfully.
"I don't know how to tell you this--" began the visitor.
"Is she hurt?" demanded the mother-in-law wildly.
"Well, she's not in any pain--exactly."
"Oh, thank "Bob"," said the woman, before sensing that there
was something far more ominous and sinister in the stranger's
assurance.
"She was working on her machinery," said the visitor at
length in a low voice, "when one of the foreman came up from
behind and started to vigorously hunch her rear end. Soon,
the other workers, both men and women, began to join in the
assault, and by now I imagine that half the plant is trying
to, uh, have sex with her."
"My "Bob", man, what are you saying?," said Mr. Whitebread.
"Well, there's now an enormous pile of naked bodies, even
clerical and management-types, all trying to penetrate your
daughter, who is trapped somewhere in the middle. We're
trying to pry them off, but they're all rigid and tense. We
just can't get them loose. If we could only just get some
slack in there!"
There was no reply, the couples' mouths both open in awe,
when he spoke again.
"I was to say that Caterpillar Corporation disclaims all
responsibility for their management and supervisory
personnels' actions," continued the other. "They admit no
liability at all, but in consideration of the effectiveness of
sexual harassment suits these days, they wish to present you
with a certain sum in the form of a settlement."
Mr. Whiteheads eyes opened wide. His lips were dry, and he
moistened them with the end of his tongue. "How much of a
settlement?"
"Considering the gravity of the offenses, and that they are
still ongoing, I think that one million dollars is more than
fair," was the answer.
Unconscious of his wife's shriek of joy, the old man grinned
widely, put out his hand to receive the check, and dropped, a
senseless heap, to the floor.
It was about a day and a half later that Mr. Whitebread
found his wife staring out the window.
"Why does she have all the fun?," she said, well aware that
neither the local fire or police departments had been able to
end the world-class orgy at the plant, and in fact, had torn
off their own uniforms and joined in the melee.
"The Yeti's hand!" she cried wildly. "The Yeti's hand!"
"Huh?" he said.
She came stumbling across the room toward him. "I want it,"
she said quietly. "You've not destroyed it?"
"No," he said, "it's sitting on top of the toilet."
"I only just thought of it," she said hysterically. "Why
didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it?"
"Think of what?" he said.
"The other two wishes," she replied rapidly. "We've only
had one. The people are all attracted to her, so if we use
another one to bring her home, we'll have a constant supply of
sex toys at the house!"
"Good "Bob"!," he said, "you are mad!"
"Get it," she panted; "get it quickly, and wish. Oh boy!, oh
boy! Gonna be fun tonight!"
He went into the darkness that was the bathroom, and then to
the toilet. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible
fear that the unspoken wish might bring more babes than he
could possibly handle, as he looked down at his only slightly
better-than-average equipment, made him shudder.
Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room.
She had been putting on makeup, and was wearing a very
utilitarian sex outfit. He was afraid of her.
"Wish!" she cried, in a strong voice.
"We had better figure out what to wish, first," he faltered.
"Wish!" repeated his wife.
He raised the Yeti's hand. "I wish my daughter-in-law would
come home, so she could attract people here, but only good-
looking adult men and women over the age of eighteen, but
under the age of forty-five, and both of us shall be sexually
capable of dealing with them, and dismissing them when we
needed a break. Gimmee! Gimmee! Gimmee! Phew!" he said.
Mr. Whitebread then went to bed, leaving his wife to stare
out of the window. Eventually, she joined him.
The next morning, when the two had gone down for an early
breakfast, suddenly Mrs. Whitebread started.
"What's that sound?" she said.
"Just an eighteen-wheeler on the freeway" said her husband.
"It's her!" she cried.
"Nah, it couldn't be. But I've never heard a sound like it.
Let's go downstairs and take a look" said Mr. Whitebread.
But as they reached their downstairs living room, all of a
sudden through the picture window they say a sight beyond
belief. For, coming from the direction of the Caterpillar
Plant, was an enormous, pulsating, amoeba-like Leviathan of
hundreds of naked people, rolling in a mass of human flesh
toward their house. Squeezing, humping, licking their way,
the great mass of humanity was fucking its way to their very
doorstep!
She ran to their front door. Mrs. Whitebread began to try
to open it, fumbling with the chain, but could not reach the
bolt.
"Help me!" she cried to her husband, who was racing around
in abject terror, "I can't get this door open to let them in!"
But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on
the floor in search of the Yeti's hand. If he could only find
it before the orgy outside got in.
A perfect fusillade of sounds as the people-thing reached
the front yard, rolling through the front fence, reverberated
through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his
wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard
the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the
same moment he found the Yeti's hand, jumped up and
frantically breathed his third and last wish.
The sound quickly started to dissipate, and finally, when
his wife got the bolt open, and flung open the door, she was
greeted by the sight of an unbelievable huge flying saucer--
with the giant orgy slowly being drawn up its immense gang
plank.
Mr. Whitebread casually tossed the Yeti's hand into the
fireplace, grabbed a half-gallon of his best scotch in one
hand, and started toward the door. On the way, he glanced at
the wall calendar and clock, then said to himself, "July 5th,
7:00 am. Yep, right on time!"
"Thank "Bob" for small favors!"

--
"There is no nu-monet. There is only Zuul."

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Original file name: numonet- The Yeti'sGufaw - converted on Thursday, 20 December 2001, 03:28