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Tuesday, July 3, 2012

15: Billy And Simon Probably Don't Present The Revelations Of Mr. Nasta

Six more chapters of the story I wrote 21 years ago and have no record of except for a single solitary print out, and six more days of painful retyping. My wife is helping me with the typing, but still hasn't read a chapter. Life's funny like that.

Chapter 1             Chapter 6              Chapter 11
Chapter 2             Chapter 7              Chapter 12
Chapter 3             Chapter 8              Chapter 13
Chapter 4             Chapter 9              Chapter 14
Chapter 5             Chapter 10

Billy And Simon Probably Don't Present The Revelations Of Mr. Nasta
chapter xv

Okay, this is the Writer yet again, I've rewritten the Nasta story so it won't give away too much of the threadbare plot.
What's the difference? It's almost over. Oh, well. Is the story still witty, progressive and full of name-dropping tidbits?
Uh...yeah! Of course it is. And, there's character development.
Hey, let's not get too full of ourselves, okay? Still, let's stop wasting time and get on with it.

"Ha! Got 'em!" thought Mr. Nasta as he stepped out of his car. He walked down to the front where the bodies of an English Cocker spaniel and a common-looking cat lay as dented as his car now was.

He shook his head in shock for the small crowd of people who had quickly gathered to see the dead animals and the awesome car driven by him. He shrugged his shoulders and tried to explain to a housewife in curlers that the animals came out of nowhere, and he couldn't stop in time. He didn't add that he wouldn't have stopped even if he could - but he wanted to. It was the only fun he had in life right now. Well, that and something else.

The woman whom he had talked to, France England, once had her brain eaten by a Neanderthal man on a hunting trip; and had been assassinated as Archduke Ferdinand by a militant Serbian to fuel the fires that began World War I, looked at Mr. Nasta with a queer puzzlement of recognition.

Mr. Nasta sighed as he recognized her look of recognition. "These creatures bestowed with the 'curse' of reincarnation are always coming up to me in a daze and saying how I look familiar", he thought to himself. "If they only had the ability to remember where they had gone and who they had been - then we could dispense with the guessing games."

"Hey," began France, "Don't I know you?"

Mr. Nasta shrugged his shoulders inconsequentially and thought, "I was once a Serbian. I rode in your ranks when you ruled France and virtually every other country. I was a small negro boy that you used to like sodomizing when you were an egomaniac naming 100 cities after yourself. There were other less consequential instances, too. So what are you going to say? That we met in Islington at a party last month? That you know my wife? That you've seen me in the movies?"

"I know," said France after Mr. Nasta shrugged his broad shoulders, "You're that guy who teaches the Mambo dance! I've seen you in Woman's Weekly! Look girls, it's Damien Nasta, the Mambo King of Yorkshire!"

The crowd of curlered women pressed closer.

"Well," grinned Mr. Nasta, "I guess I'm guilty as charged. I must admit that you flatter me. People often recognize me as someone they've seen before, but...ah... I digress. Who are you lovely ladies?"

"I'm France England," said France England as she looped a bony left arm through Nasta's.

"And I'm Betty Whitby," said Betty Whitby who, although being bedecked in curlers and a dressing gown that did nothing to flatter her unimpressive roundness, was once the most feared bounty hunter in Texas and New Mexico about one hundred years ago. Before that she used to be a wild horse in Wyoming. She put her flabby right arm around Mr. Nasta's left.

Betty and France began to move Mr. Nasta to the side of the road. The crowd of ladies followed - expecting a little bit of amusement in a few more minutes.

"Oh, those horrid creatures! I do hope you are okay," said Betty stifling an outburst of disgust while stepping over the seeping cat.

"Yes, are you okay? You look a little flushed. Why don't you come and lie down in my house," smiled France as she revealed a silvery smile to hide the fact that she had not quite avoided stepping on Billy-boy's crushed ribcage.

"No. Come and lie in mine," said Betty.

"No, mine!"


The other ladies tittered amongst themselves as the excitement had arrived faster than they had expected.

"I saw him first, Betty Whitby, so he's coming with me!"

"Well, he looked at me first!"

"No, me!"


Mr. Nasta just stood there, being jostled about by the two ugly housewives and remembered how back in 993-859 BC he had ruled the Assyrian Empire as Ashurnasirpal II. His cruel hand had broken the spirit of neighboring villages by using annual cavalry campaigns to dominate the people by subjugation and fear. He loved the whipping, impalement and mass exterminations that he had made common-place. He ran the empire until he became bored, feigned his death and left to start more trouble elsewhere.

He siged and mumbled something about the "good old days" and then spoke up in a loud, clear voice, "Ladies, ladies, ladies. I'm feeling fine, thank-you, but I am most famished. If perhaps one of you could get me a bite to eat, I'd be eternally grateful."

No sooner had the words left his lips than the curler crew vanished in a cloud of dust and hairpins, leaving Mr. Nasta alone by the side of the road.

He walked back over to his Jaguar and rubbed a dark hand over it, saying, "There, there, old girl. Daddy will take care of you."

The car began to silently mend itself. While this was going on, his right foot repeatedly shot out to repeatedly kick the forms of Billy-boy and Simone. He was, of course, too late to do any more damage and he knew it, but it was still a lot of fun.
If anybody had bothered to look closely at Mr. Nasta (which many people did but failed to see anyways), they would have noticed the odd appearance of his hands. Although highly tanned and grotesquely handsome, all of the digits and his hand were exactly the same length. Except for his thumbs which came three-quarters of the way up to his index finger. His long and bony fingers also lacked the white half-moons that appear under the fingernails of humans. He had full moons under his.
After about 10 minutes, the gaggle of pale white women came back out bearing gifts of food to the inscrutable Mr. Nasta. The car had also finished repairing itself, though flecks of paint were now missing from its frame. It wondered where on Earth he was ever going to find this particular shade of damnation again.

Mr. Nasta smiled a wicked smile and duly ate all thirteen plates of food offered to him by the ladies of Walker Lane. Nobody thought his voracious appetite strange. When he finished, he licked his lips in mock satisfaction and winced as his tongue caught itself on one of his sharp canine teeth. In truth Mr. Nasta was never satisfied with anything. It didn't anger him, but he wondered what he would have to do to be finally happy.

The ladies huddled closer and started to accidentally prove that all had at one time French-kissed the Blarney Stone.

"Oh, please, Mr. Nasta, teach us to dance."

"Yes, please."

"Oh yes, please stay awhile."

"Please teach us to Mambo."


"Oh, please."

"Oh yes, you must teach us. Please."

Mr. Nasta looked past the over-the-hill chubby bodies and past the paleness of the skin and looked deep into the pineal glands of their brains. "Ah-ha. I think I will teach you all how to Mambo."

Scores of cheers rose up from chunky throats.
In case you are wondering, the Mambo is a fast-paced ballroom dance of Cuban origin. Just so you know, the Mambo was actually developed in the Haitian quarter of Cuba. In fact, there is no Mambo dance in Haiti, although in Haiti... a Mambo is a voodoo priestess. Can she dance? She can dance if she wants to.

Mr. Nasta went to Haiti after becoming weary with Napoleon's constant whining about his own height. In Haiti he relearned some of the voodoo techniques he created. He also learned a native dance that was able to evoke great power amongst its users if they knew how to do it properly. Mr. Mambo was a fast learner and soon began to use it to evoke his commandments. He loved to Mambo almost as much as he loved killing "Simon" and "Billy". Mr. Nasta did not know how to do the Cuban Mambo.
A new and fancy Hi-Fi was brought out by Marge Simpson (no relation to the mother of the animated demon, Bart) who was once a woman who had helped burn witches in Salem, Massachusetts in the 17th century. By a strange coincidence, all of the people she helped burn were not witches, though she herself was one even though she was never aware of it.

Mr. Nasta leaned through the left window of his car and pulled out a "mambo" record.

Nobody noticed that the passenger-side window he had leaned through was not open.

He placed the record gingerly onto the Hi-Fi with his long gnarled fingers and hit the switch to make it play.

He began teaching the women the seductive rhythmic moves of the "Mambo". Soon, with everybody's hips swaying to the beat, Mr. Nasta glanced over to the Hi-Fi and caused it to play the record backwards.

The women were so caught up in watching Mr. Nasta's cute bottom moving majestically to and fro that they didn't think anything of the sudden shift in music. None had, in fact, ever heard Haitian music before and they thought it all to be quite natural.

With the women now under his control, they began to "listen" to what the music told them.

The music said they should pepper their husbands about their work and then send all relevant information to Mr. Nasta in care of the Soviet Embassy. The music then said they would not remember any of what had just transpired.

Suddenly the music stopped. The women stopped dancing and stood looking about in shock. A few collapsed in surprise.

"Bloody Hell! What am I doing out here?! asked Wendy Argyle who was unknowingly married to the missing Lindbergh baby. She had never had a past life before.

"I don't know," said Maureen Isley, a former Pict leader that had fallen under William the Conqueror, but now had three bratty children and an alcoholic husband to take care of. If she had known of her past life, she would have said this one was worse. She would have been correct. "The last thing I remember was hearing a car slam on its brakes."

"Yeah, me too," said Betty.

"Uh-oh! And here's why! Look! It's the Goody's, I mean dog and the Adams' cat, Simone. It looks like they've been hit by a car," added France.

"So, why don't we remember coming out here? asked Ruth Hawthorne, who was once a 16th century Protestant holy man who liked to dress up as a woman and pick-up men. He frequently went by the name Ruth Hawthorne. She was also once Doc Holiday. "And what are all these dishes doing out here?"

"And what's my new Hi-Fi doing out here?" exclaimed Marge. "Homer is going to be really ticked if he finds out. (Again, no relation to the cartoon.)

Nobody said anything. Slowly, they began the process of picking up their dishes and cutlery and bringing them back into their houses.

Mr. and Mrs. Nede peered over their fence and clucked their tongues disapprovingly at everyone.

Later that night, all of the women (except for Mrs. Nede) picked their husbands brains for details of their work. None were very co-operative, until their wives began to teach them the Mambo with a record that had always been in their homes.

The men began to tell all.
While driving back to his studio in Yorkshire, Mr. Nasta, as he had taken to calling himself these days, smiled at his own cunning. He knew that all of the husbands on Walker Lane (except for one cursed man) were members of the British Secret Service. He knew they would be easy pickings for his zombie Mambo servants who had been transformed into Hi-Fi records. The knowledge that they would divulge would be of great aid to the Soviets and would probably help push everybody a little closer to a hot war. That would be fun. There hadn't been a real exciting war in over five years.

Loose hips sink ships.
Not shrouded by a white mist, the Grinning 2-Footer began to chuckle at the impunity of it all.
Life's funny like that.

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