Wow! This week has been a bit of a departure from my normally-quiet life. Lots of work, query letter writing, and that ambiguous other that we all have. But finally, hopefully in time, I’ve written in my submission for T.S. Bazelli’s Author Aerobics. I love gags, and if you figure this piece out, you’ll see that it’s a big gag. Hope y’all enjoy!
Ned opened his briefcase and fished out a pair of red goggles to help him see through this dastardly darkness. He strapped them on, and snapped his case shut.
In the chirping night, he knelt down behind a rock and scanned the area. Nothing was moving. Nothing…wait, over there! A bit of adrenaline was satisfying, but a false alarm when he realized that what he had seen was just a raccoon. Erg.
Another few moments of waiting, and he finally saw it; up on the ridge, a stir of activity. Absolutely convinced that it was someone from Ickenchoy Eamtay, he got up from his hiding place and headed up to the ridge to track down his victim.
Panting, he made it up to the top, and looked down where his opponent had chosen to cross an open field, which was tinted by his rose-colored goggles. It was a bad strategy, in truth. An open field was the worst possible place to be during the Unt-hoy Anmay, and already, Ned could see his teammates from Atermelonwoy Eamtay, closing in on the poor chap. Three agents from all corners of the field started to make their way in for the capture. The helpless victim threw glances around, like a caged animal.
Don’t do it, thought Ned, predicting what was going to happen—it was a famous Ickenchoy Eamtay trick, and chances were 10 to nothing that it was going to happen. He was right. The victim, sensing no other way out, dropped down into the tall grass. He had vanished from sight completely, even in Ned’s vision-enhancing goggles. He could’ve gone in any direction, and usually the Ickenchoys were hard to track down once they decided to be tricky.
Sensing danger, Ned whirled around and saw nothing but a crop of quietly-moving trees keeping him company on the ridge. Then, a person—an Ickenchoy, probably—emerged from the trees. NO! Ned thought as his enemy moved closer. He’d been had; The field-runner, that tricky little muskrat, had been nothing but a distraction to draw Ned from the woodwork. And now, several more Ickenchoys, all appearing in red appeared (the goggles, which were supposed to help him, had painted the world a terrifying shade of vermillion), surrounding Ned, closing in…
* * *
Ned sat on a lonely wooden chair in a cabin, captured by the ruthless Ickenchoys. A faded salutation was painted on the wall: Ampcoy Outscay. He shook his head, disappointed with himself. All week long, he’d been the best player in the famous Unt-hoy Anmay. Now he’d been captured, and it was all because of a tricky Ickenchoy. He’d soon have to hand over his Aseballoy Ardscay, and he’d become the laughingstock of the Ampcoy, a shame to Atermelonwoy Eamtay.
It was over.