The Tiz Bottle

[wayfriend]

I thought I'd share with all of you the only thing I have ever written that could be called 'entertaining'.

I wrote it a long time ago (15 years?). It was a writing project I invented for myself: I would write one small chapter a week, and e-mail it out to my friends; the encouragement and the public pressure was supposed to keep me writing. It worked for 16 weeks anyway.

I can't claim it's pure invention; the Tiz Bottle is a joke that's been around for a while. (Wave if you've heard it!) But my adaptation certainly stretches a long joke into a short story.

You can easily spot a Donaldson-mimicking style in many places. By this cheap hook, I can claim that this writing is somewhat relevant to this site. Harder to spot are where I wax Delaney or Lafferty.

If you stick through the rough initial chapters - each chapter is very short, by the way, maybe one page - it does get interesting. If you like polar bears, you're in for a treat. Several people have admitted crying in chapter 6. Don't be disappointed when the story simply aborts in a military base near the South Pole - as I said, it's an unfinished labor. I've posted it as is, although I did add one y that was missing (see if you can spot it).

Each chapter will be posted in a reply. Please do let me know what you think. I need to write more ...

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER I Which introduces the hero, Roger, does not relate his unlikely
childhood, and presents the basic plot of the story.


The story of the Tiz Bottle traditionally begins with "Once
upon a time there was a boy named Roger." This is entirely
inadequate. It doesn't relate the tragic fate of Roger's parents,
who had to abandon their son on the doorstep of a wealthy home
in the Catskills, during the biggest blizzard to hit New York
for centuries, only moments before freezing to death. It says
nothing of Walter, the aged but sharp-minded butler who found
Roger on the doorstep near two misshapen, ice-covered figures
prone on the walk. Nowhere does it mention how Vincent Van Webster,
wealthy playboy, gamester, and supermarket magnate, who, upon
spying Walter skulking around the maids quarters with a tightly
wrapped bundle that was, in fact, Roger, warmly accepted Roger
into his home and did not turn him back out into the frosty
winter. It lacks the details of Roger's unlikely childhood, raised
in that huge home in the hills, filled with hunting trophies,
works of art, secret passages, sharply-dressed servants, back-room
gambling, illustrious guests (both notable and notorious), private
tutors, closed-door financial summits, and banquets. And most
importantly, that one over-simple sentence conveys nothing of
how Roger grew inside (as he grew outside): for, with all the
servants and guests and banquets, Roger was still a very lonely
child, and this was all the harder because as important a man as
Vincent Van Webster could not allow any child of his to act lonely,
or sad, or bored.

However, such a history of Roger's youthful adventures would
be inappropriate at this time. Beginnings, of any kind, must be
undertaken with a special care, and in the end the story of the
Tiz Bottle doesn't begin until Roger has celebrated his sixteenth
birthday. What's most important is that there WAS a boy named Roger,
once upon a time.

In those times, when you're sixteen, you are a boy no longer.
So one evening Mr. Van Webster called Roger into his study. This
worried Roger, as he was never before allowed into that room. It
was for this reason that his voice was quiet and shaky when,
as he entered the study, he said "Yes, Uncle Vinnie?".

Vincent grimaced - he hated being called that, and Roger,
thinking he was in trouble, backed up to close the door.

"Roger," said the extravagant millionaire, "you're sixteen
now, and whether you know it or not you're soon going to have to
carve out a place for yourself in this world. No easy
task. Do you want to be a business man, an airplane pilot,
a doctor, a bum, or something else? -- This you must decide.

"But as your guardian, I will do something for you. I will
give you a choice to think about.

"Almost a hundred years ago, my Grandfather started a tradition
in our family that has carried on up until now. I getting very old
now, and as I was always very busy, and also very self-centered, with
the things that I like to do, I've never had the inclination to take
a wife. But with you, young Roger, I have a possible heir - to my
estate, and to the family tradition.

"I say a 'possible' heir. For, like me, my father, and my father's
father, you must accept a certain challenge - a quest - and succeed
in it in order to inherit the family fortunes. So I put to you
now: Is it in your heart to accept this (as yet unspoken of) test
of courage, strength, and integrity, and to become my heir, to
follow in my footsteps, and become the next Van Webster?"

Roger tried to appear as if seriously concentrating, and took
longer than he needed to answer (This is fantastic! he was thinking)
"Yes."

Vincent Van Webster smiled. "Very well. I am proud of you, and
proud to name you as my son. Let me tell you of the quest that you
must now undertake. Do you know of the Tiz Bottle?"

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER II In which Roger learns about his quest for the
Tiz Bottle, and receives several confusing gifts.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

Vincent Van Webster smiled. "Very well. I am proud of you, and
proud to name you as my son. Let me tell you of the quest that you
must now undertake. Do you know of the Tiz Bottle?"

Roger hadn't a clue as to what a 'Tiz' Bottle was.

"Well, the Tiz Bottles are very rare and very queer artifacts.
No one knows where they came from. No one knows who made them. But
fortunately, someone knows where they are now. Wal-TER!"

"Sir," replied Walter. (As usual, Roger could not place just
when Walter had entered the room. He did not notice Walter was there
at all until just then, as had, apparently, his future father.)

"There are four Tiz Bottles known of at this time," spoke Walter,
in his very mild mannered and deferential tone. "The first, and most
famous, can be found above the Arctic Circle at the Earth's rotational
center - the North Pole. The second most famous is at the opposite
end of the earth, at the South Pole. The third, only moderately
famous, can be found in wildest Africa, in the savannahs of Kenya.
The last, and almost unheard of, Tiz Bottle can be found locked
away in a storage room in the basement of the Museum of Natural
Science and History in Malibu, California. Sir."

"Yes, Walter. That will be all." Walter departed.

The old millionaire continued: "Your quest, Roger, will be to
acquire a Tiz Bottle to be added to the family fortune. Just one
of them, mind you. It will not be easy, or fun.

"When and how you accomplish this quest will be up to you. As to
the 'when': the only stipulation I place is that the Tiz Bottle
arrives at the estate before the day of your seventeenth birthday
expires. That will give you one year. And as for the 'how': that
is what the challenge is about. But I will give you what help
tradition and love allow me to give.

"First, you can have Walter. He's getting old now, and isn't as
useful as he once was. But he should be able to give lot's of useful
advice to a young man like you. But I tell you that Walter is
constrained to play this game by it's rules: he can advise, but only
when allowed, and can never help you directly. The search for the
Tiz Bottle rests squarely and fixedly upon your shoulders."

Mr. Van Webster, walking to a shelf and removing an ancient tome,
says, "The second gift (of four, I might add) is this book. 'Animals',
by Herbert Zimm. An eminently useful piece of literature. You'll
find it invaluable on your quest." He fanned the pages; Roger saw
lots of pictures.

Going into a trunk in the corner, unwrapping something from a
leather wrap: "This I've nicknamed 'Insidious'. As you can see,
it's an antique pistola that used to belong to an admiral in the
Spanish Armada." (Indeed Roger could - on the handle grip was
written very plainly, in Spanish, "Admiral of the Armada." )
"Don't worry, it's not loaded. I don't even have any ammunition
for it. But please take it.

"The last gift I have for you is kind of a 'mystery gift'. I
cannot say what it is, only that you've already received it. Be sure
to take it with you. But don't look for it! To know what it is too
soon would most likely make it unusable. ... Oh, what the heck. I
can't keep a secret for money! It's a coin from Attic Greece. I've
hidden it in the sole of you're sneakers.

"Well, that's all the time I have for you. I've an evening
engagement at the Kissinger's. Excused." Mr. Van Webster held out
his arms, and Walter helped him into his evening jacket. ( When
did Walter come back in? thought Roger. )

"I won't let you down, sir," said Roger. "C'mon, Walter! We've
a Tiz Bottle to find!"

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER III In which Roger begins his journey for the Tiz Bottle at the
North Pole.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

"I won't let you down, sir," said Roger. "C'mon, Walter! We've
a Tiz Bottle to find!"

For the next several weeks Roger and Walter were busily
involved in Tiz Bottle planning. Roger wanted to go after the
greatest and most famous Tiz Bottle of them all, so they began
arrangements for a North Pole expedition.

It was a lot of work, but Roger had a lot of fun. There was
transportation to arrange, supplies to acquire, experts to
consult, animals to train, weather information to gather, and
money to manage.

After about a month of hard work, Roger felt almost completely
prepared. There was one lack: Roger, and Walter, knew of no
one qualified to guide them to the North Pole itself. People
who spent a lot of time in the Arctic just didn't hang around in
Poughkeepsie.

"Where Knowledge leaves off," explained Walter, "Intelligence
begins. I suggest we head up to Canada, into the Yukon. There, by
making inquiries and providing the correct incentive, we should
be able to find a local talent with the expertise to get you to
the North Pole."

"Both of us," insisted Roger. "I can't go without you."

"You must. I am much to old and delicate for that kind of
trip. You will have a lot of fun, and won't miss me."

Then Roger remembered what his father said: Walter could give
advice, but not help directly.

A week later, Walter and Roger found themselves in the
North Canadian Rockies, in a prosperous mining town called
Bear's Tooth. They weren't there long when they found out that
anyone who was anyone in Bear's Tooth could be found at the
Hard Luck Cafe, a saloon frequented by the upper class in
that town - that is, prospectors, mountain men, claim jumpers,
trappers, and explorers. And they also found out very quickly that
the man they needed for the `Tiz Bottle Expedition to the North
Pole' (which is what Roger called it, and he made Walter wear
a T-shirt with this printed across the back) was a large, mean
man known as Yukon Jacques.

They found the Hard Luck Cafe at the end of town, away from
the other buildings. The name fit the place, it seemed. The
saloon looked like it was about to fall in on itself. It was
large and low, and judging by the noise and the light, it was
very crowded.

A bouncer at the door stopped Roger from entering. He
grumbled something in thick French, and when Roger didn't
answer, he said in English, "You can' go'n, runt!"

Roger explained. "I don't want anything to drink. I'm looking
for someone."

But that was not what the rogue was after. "I don car if you
dring or no'. You er not de right kind for dis place."

Walter stepped forward. "He'll only be a minute," he said,
as he handed the large man a paper bag from which a bottle neck
protruded. It was accepted, and the bouncer tilted his head back
for a swill, purposefully not watching if Roger went in. Which is
what Roger, followed by Walter, did.

Inside, it was really busy. After Roger's eyes grew accustomed
to the dim and the smoky haze, he saw a huge room filled with
about a hundred people. All of them were giant Canadian Northmen.
They were standing around the open fireplace, leaning along the long
bar, sitting at dirty, littered tables, and wandering everywhere in
between. They were drinking and smoking, talking loudly, gnawing
the thighs of various animals, dicing and card playing, arm
wrestling, and sharpening knives. They wore flannel shirts, boots,
suspenders, heavy fur coats, and bizarre dead-animal hats. All of
them had long, curly beards, and all of them looked big, mean, and
ugly. None of them paid Roger or Walter the slightest attention.

Until Roger said, "Excuse me. I'm looking for Yukon Jacques?"

And then, all at once, every noise died. Every voice stopped.
The roar of the fire died down to a sputter. Things were dropped,
and furniture slid across the wooden floor. One hundred men stood up,
and two hundred eyes turned toward Roger. The ones with the knives
held them up, flashing, in front of their toothy grins.

The biggest, meanest, and ugliest man of all stepped up to Roger,
grabbed Roger by the collar, and lifted him off the floor. His breath
reeked in Roger's face as he said, "Wha' you wan' with Yukon Jacques?"


. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER IV In which Roger learns to handle the lifestyle of Bear's Tooth.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

The biggest, meanest, and ugliest man of all stepped up to Roger,
grabbed Roger by the collar, and lifted him off the floor. His breath
reeked in Roger's face as he said, "Wha' you wan' with Yukon Jacques?"

Roger was very edgy, and so his reply was a little flippant for
someone dangling a foot above the floor. "I want to find him."

"Is that so?" said the brute. He shook Roger a little, so that his
arms and legs swung about. The crowd laughed.

Roger had an idea. As the bully was explaining, "Jacques, he is a
very terrible man, wanted by every Mounty from Whitehorse to Fort
McPherson", Roger slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his
stylish fur parka and removed Insidious, the ancient pistol. He deftly
placed the end of his antagonist's nose inside the roomy muzzle, and
dramatically (he thought) pulled back the hammer with his thumb.
In a reasonable tone he continued, "I want to hire him."

The crowd laughed again, this time at the man. Roger took this
opportunity to glance over at Walter, who cast him an encouraging
glance. This, then, was how deals were made in the Wild North.

The man holding Roger, eyeing the trigger finger on the pistol
in his face, asked very politely "And what is the reason for this
hiring?"

"I'm going to the North Pole. I need a guide, and want the very
best. I pay well. Yukon Jacques is the man I wish to have."

Roger was lowered to the ground, and he stepped back from the
tall man. Who said: "Jacques is wanted by very many men. Some want
to kill him. Some want to arrest him. Some want to collect money.
Very few want to hire him. How can I trust you to tell you where to
find him?"

A good question, thought Roger, and thought a moment more. But
he was playing this game well, and came up with the answer that would
work.

Pointing the gun at the man's chest, he squeezed the trigger.
*Click* Lamely, he added, "I don't have any bullets."

The man stared in shock for about 2 seconds. And then ... and then
he tossed back his head and howled in laughter. Everyone joined in
(even Walter), a clean, good-humored laugh that cleared everyone's
heads.

"I am Yukon Jacques," said Yukon Jacques. "Forgive me, I must be
very careful." He bought a round for the house (Roger had a Coke -
from a can with about an inch of dust on it). Roger and Jacques talked
for the rest of the night, with Walter negotiating the finer points
of the contract, and in the end Jacques agreed to take Roger to the
North Pole and back. He would take a few of his trusted fellows, and
Roger would pay them all handsomely. Of the Tiz Bottle, Jacques knew
nothing, and cared less.

There plans were to leave the next morning for Arctic Red River,
which was free of ice and navigable at this time of year. Raft down the
river to the larger McKenzie River, and buy transportation at
Tuktoyaktuk across the Beaufort Sea to Sachs Harbour on Banks Island.
From there, they could provision and pick up the polar pack a few
kilometers to the north. They would be at the North Pole in three
weeks.

The next morning, Roger met the three men that would accompany
them for the next two months. Two of them were blonde-haired brothers
named Jon (spoken "Yahn") and Gerry ("Zherry") LeCombe. "Big muscles,
small heads" said Jacques when he introduced them. The last was an
Eskimo named Umingnikmak "who you could call Mak". Jacques explained
why he was needed: "Eskimos have forty different words for what we
call 'ice'. For example, one word means 'ice hidden under snow';
another 'ice you can chip a hole in and fish through'; another 'ice
that looks safe but is not'. Such a knowing of ice we will need when
we cross a thousand miles of it."

They left Bear's Tooth before noon, and by dusk that evening they
were floating downstream towards the top of the world.

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER V In which Roger has an exciting time on his way to the North
Pole.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

They left Bear's Tooth before noon, and by dusk that evening they
were floating downstream towards the top of the world.

It did not take long for the excitement to wear off, and when
it did Roger found that he did not like adventures.

The traveling was not easy. As they sledded across the frozen
Northern Wastes, an incredible snowstorm moved across their path.
It came down from the north, and stopped right on top of the
team. Blinding gales made vision impossible, and the ice covered
everything. Periodically, they had to scrape ice off of the dogs
to keep them moving. In the mornings, they found their pup-tents
covered by three feet of snow. Dangerous chasms in the ice were
covered with thin snow, and more than once one or another of the
party fell into these undetectable pits.

It snowed, and it snowed, and it snowed some more. Just when
that seemed too much to bear, the earth moved in the throws of a
volcanic eruption.

Just a few miles off of their course to the North Pole, molten
stone pushed it's way up from below the ice. Globs of ashes and
jagged stone flew through the air. The ice buckled and cracked
with the force of the shifting earth, and the snow turned grey
from the amount of airborne soot. Once, Jacques' fur cap caught
fire when it was struck by a hot rock; he put it out by pushing
his head into a snowbank. Another time, a wide gap opened right
under Mak's feet - he, his sled, and his team all tumbled into
the blackness. When they climbed down, they found Mak had taken
out a magazine and was patiently awaiting rescue.

Soon there were no more mornings. So far north, at this time
of year, the sun had fallen below the horizon and did not rise again.
All there was left of light was a glow on the horizon and the
hope-giving gleam of Jacques' lantern.

Without their compass, they would have been lost. The world
appeared to Roger as a featureless expanse of grey. The sleds were
tied to each other for fear of being separated. Yet, because of
and the skill of Jacques and his crew, they made progress, and the
miles were put behind them.

Their luck turned from bad to worse, one 'evening' when they
were asleep. Roger awoke to a noise, a noise loud enough to be
heard above the squall. As he sat up to listen, the dogs began
to bark ferociously. Quickly, he dressed and crawled out of his
tent, grabbing an electric lantern.

The cold was almost unbearable. And, of course, he could barely
see. When he heard the dogs bark again, he started off towards them.
He flicked the lantern on, and was rewarded with a pale glow revealing
the snow falling thickly, and he could see for just about five feet -
after that everything was just grey.

Now, everything was quiet, but he trudged on towards the
remembered barks. Soon he came upon a stake in the ice, with long
leather leads tied to it. This is where the dogs were supposed
to be tied, but when he examined the leads, they were all broken,
and no animals were in sight. "Grim!", he called, turning around.
"Ralph! Buck!" The dogs did not answer.

As he started to head back to his tent, he realized that he
had no idea which way it was! His tracks had been quickly covered
by the grimy snow, and when he was calling the dogs he had turned
around and around until he had lost his sense of direction.

"No!" yelled Roger, in fear and desperation. "Mak! Jacques!
Where are you! Help!" And he began to wander away from the dogs'
stake. His voice was sucked away by the gusting wind - he could
barely hear it himself. Everything looked the same wherever he
turned, and he might have passed within ten feet of the tents
and never have known. He began to imagine himself wandering
off into the tundra, to die a frozen death, covered with snow
and lost to the world. He could feel his heart pounding quickly
against his chest, and tears froze to his cheeks. "Jacques!"

It was just then that Roger discovered what the noise had been,
and what had set the dogs to barking. Because out of the gloom
emerged the nose ... the eyes ... the head ... and then the rest
of a huge white bear!

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER VI In which Roger has an exciting and terrible experience with a bear.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

It was just then that Roger discovered what the noise had been,
and what had set the dogs to barking. Because out of the gloom
emerged the nose ... the eyes ... the head ... and then the rest
of a huge white bear!

Roger was not inspired. He just stood there as if he was frozen
into the deep snow. He had never seen a polar bear before, but Mak
had told plenty of stories about ravaging, vicious, slavering
white bears. Suddenly, the stories seemed very real, as the black eyes
regarded him carefully.

It was then that Roger felt something that very few humans ever
experience. It is a primitive instinctual empathy, more common to
the lower orders of mammals, and those who have felt it have often
not lived to describe it. It is strong and unmistakable, and it leaves
you helpless. It is the overwhelming knowledge that you are at the
mercy of a superior predator, and it is thinking about having you
for lunch!

"Arrr! Arf! Arf!" Buck! The big sled dog was nearby, and getting
closer. The bear turned from Roger, and Buck came bounding out of the
grey. The husky taunted the bear from a few feet away, barking and
bounding from side to side. The bear was getting very angry, and
was swiping with it's huge claws, but more noise from the distance
meant that the other dogs were on their way!

One lone canine never had a chance. The snow was to deep for
Buck to effectively take advantage of his better speed and agility.
The bear reared up, and then fell on the husky like so much mountain.
The snow turned red.

But then the other dogs were there! Grim! Tuck! Ralph and Norton!
The bear was surrounded by snapping, valiant dogs. They nipped from
behind, from the flanks, and the big bear spun around in fury trying
to get them all at once. And it couldn't. The dogs were a team, and
they were experienced at fighting, and they kept the bear at bay.
Into and out of the gloom, the beasts contended.

Roger did not flee. Only seconds ago he was rooted by fear, and he
had not recovered. And he was fascinated by the scene in front of him.
His heart pounded; they could not keep this up! The dogs were incapable
of seriously harming the polar bear - it's thick fur and winter fat
kept it immune to the dogs attacks. And the bear was summoning the
strength and endurance of a cornered animal. Many of the dogs had
leashes still tied to their harnesses, and they tripped themselves
and each other up. Buck lay in the snow with his neck twisted around.

Then the situation changed. Roger did not see him approach, but
Mak was suddenly there beside him. He had a rifle. "Shoot!" cried
Roger, and the Eskimo did, over the heads of the animals. Then twice
more. Though the sound was peculiarly muffled by the weather, the dogs
knew that sound, and they retreated to offer a clear shot. But the
polar bear was wily, and took advantage of the repositioning; it
bounded through the first opening the dogs presented, and vanished
into the snow storm.

The team would have given chase, but Mak was their master, and
his command was firm. "You didn't kill it!", pleaded Roger, "It's
getting away!" But Mak was paying attention to nothing but the still
form on the snow. Soon he gathered up his animal and carried it away.

Roger followed him back to camp, the dogs surviving following
meekly.

The next morning, Yukon Jacques was very worried. "He is hongree,
is this bear, and he is angree, too, and he is also very not satisfied.
This weather, it twists the small minds of the animals." He
twirled his finger next to his ear. "Loony-Tunes, like Hollywood,"
he chuckled. "He will be back. We must go, and be careful." He noticed
Roger looking very worried. "Ha, ha! Cheer up! Our dogs are fast, and
Mak has good eyes in the snow. Jon and Gerry will carry rifles now
too. Heh heh, I would not want to be that bear if he shows up again."
But the smile on Jacques's face disappeared quickly when he turned
to his work.

For the first time since Bear's Tooth, Roger missed Walter.
He realized he had taken Walter for granted when he was with him,
and now when he needed comfort he felt very alone. So he
spent some time reading the 'Animals' book as he rode the sled,
paying attention to the pages on Arctic Mammals. Nowhere did it
mention that polar bears were particularly vengeful, so he finally
put Jacques' warnings out of his mind. Then he found an intriguing
reference to penguins, and he ended up reading about animal societies
and communal intelligence for the rest of the day.

If only Roger had had a book on earth science. If he did, he might
have expected the trouble that was now brewing beneath the ice.

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER VII In which Roger confronts the final obsticles on his journey.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

If only Roger had had a book on earth science. If he did, he might
have expected the trouble that was now brewing beneath the ice.

Far below the ice is the ocean, and below that is the earth's
crust. This crust had been in motion recently, along the juncture
of the continental plates. The volcano Roger passed by recently
was just one manifestation of the geological violence in the area
at that time. Another was the release of heated gasses from the
now separating plates beneath the North Pole. Just a small amount,
geologically speaking - a mere burp.

This gas immediately boiled the water at the ocean floor, and
both gas and steam rose to the ice above. As it collected and spread
along the bottom of the ice, it's warmth melted the ice above it,
creating more steam. The bubble rose through the ice, now spreading
out into twisting arms and bulbous pockets. Soon the heat dissipated
until the ice only melted at contact, not boiled, and the water
beneath the ice began refreezing. In short order, the bubble became
trapped in the ice and rose no further. If the ice had been just a
little thinner, or the released gas a little hotter, the bubble would
have burst forth into the air; instead, it became dormant just below
the surface, a disaster waiting to happen.

Of course, Roger's party had no way of knowing these events.
They sped a long the ice at a better rate than previously, with
the volcano long gone and the storm letting up. There was no bear
sign. When the sky cleared enough to take a star-reading, Jacques
pronounced that they would be at the Pole tomorrow, or the day after.

That night, Roger could not sleep. Long gone were his rampaging-
bear nightmares. Instead, he was filled with anticipation of finding
the Tiz Bottle. Oh, it would be great. He would carry it back
triumphantly to New York. His father would be very impressed, and
commend him on a job well done. The keys to the Van Webster Estates
would be placed in his hands, and all the servants would bow to him in
tribute. Soon - ha ha! - soon people would be coming to speak to
Roger Van Webster, Adventurer Extraordinary! With such visions of
power and glory, Roger finally dozed off.

The next day, they came upon a mountain range of ice. It sat
squarely across their path in mute defiance. Almost apologetically,
Jacques admitted that they must cross that natural barrier to reach
their destination.

Roger looked upon the peaks from his seat in the sled. Hundreds
of feet these icy piles rose. There was no easy way through the
glittering pinnacles that Roger could discern; in fact, it looked
quite dangerous. His high spirits dropped.

Jon and Gerry made camp there at the foot of the range. Mak
took his walking stick and set out to examine the piles for a path
through the barrier, and, at Roger's asking, the boy followed the
skilled Eskimo guide.

Shortly they came across a small grotto in the ice. Above their
heads, a narrow crevice wound down from the heights. It stopped
with an abrupt drop at the end of the grotto: with a boost, one could
gain the end of the ravine and follow it up. Which is what Mak and
Roger would do. Mak pushed Roger up onto the ledge, and Roger secured
a piton and a rope so that Mak could follow.

When Mak, with a huff, made it up there with Roger, he began
examining the crevice. "This was made from a recent shift in the ice",
said Mak after a careful scrutiny, "and it could be very dangerous
yet. But look", he pointed, "I think it goes all the way to the top!"
Then he halted, and climbed up a few feet. "No, look. See?" He pointed
out to Roger a series of scratches in the ice. And then another a
few feet away. "A bear has been up here. That's good news. A bear
would bring down any dangerous avalanches waiting for us up there.
So if the bear made it up, why, we can too. We are very lucky today."

Of course, Roger began wondering, it may be bad luck. There's a
big polar bear around here somewhere.

The rest of the day was spent preparing for the ascent the
next morning. The provisions on the sled were re-distributed and
re-tied. The dogs harnesses were checked and re-checked. Extra rope
and pitons and picks and pulleys and other gear were brought out of
wrappers and checked. They had a good supper, and went to bed early.
They would be ready.

And the next day proved that they were. With Jon and Gerry
going ahead to set ropes, and Mak getting the dogs to pull up the
sleds by pulley, and Jacques pushing from behind, it was almost
no problem. All Roger had to do was climb. The crevice did run to
the top, and by noon they had reached the top themselves.

What an amazing view! Roger was on top of the world!

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER VIII In which Roger finally makes it to the North Pole.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

What an amazing view! Roger was on top of the world!

Few men had the honor to gaze upon that view. Before them, the
ravine wound down the other side of the barrier to the floor of a
valley. The valley was round, and the range of mountains circled it
like a fence. The floor of the valley was flat, making it look like
the bottom of a crater. The mountains were white, and the floor was
white, the horizon glowed with the promise of a future sunrise that
comes but once a year. The view from their height was encompassing
and spectacular.

And there, in the middle of the valley, less than half a mile
away, standing if it were the center of the world, was the familiar
red-white striped Pole indicating the farthest North of all the Earth.
"Hey!", exclaimed Roger, "It's just like in the cartoons. Like a big
barber's pole."

"Well, what did you expect?", put in Yukon Jacques with a chuckle
as he set another piton.

Going down was much faster than going up, as any novice might
expect, and soon they were at the bottom. Jacques recommended a break
for supper, but Roger wanted none of that. The Tiz Bottle was just
over there! Carelessly, he trudged on, leaving the others to gather
the dogs to the sleds and follow as best they could.

Soon enough, the North Pole was just ahead. And there, in plain
view at the base of the Pole, on a little pedestal of ice, was the
Tiz Bottle! Awash with excitement, Roger ran up to the Pole. Mak's
shout of warning did not penetrate his one-track-mind.

The Tiz Bottle had the elegant, fluted shape of an old-time
Coca-Cola bottle, about a foot high. It was made apparently of marbled
ceramic, of much the same colors as polished emerald and jade. It
looked very fragile. Carefully, Roger reached down to gently pick
it up.

It wouldn't budge. The bottom was frozen somewhat to the icy
base upon which it rested. Roger turned to his companions and
yelled "We need something to thaw it out slowly!".

The other men had stopped a few dozen yards from the pole. Mak
was stooped down, scrutinizing the ice before him. "Fool!" hollered
Jacques. "Little boy brat! You're in a real mess now! Run off without
us like you know what you're doing. Well! You don't move! Not one
inch! Oh ho! You are in trouble, and I am very angree! This ice is
very thin, and it could break any minute! Wait, and I will throw
you a rope. Do not move, little brat boy!" Mak nodded his head in
agreement, and motioned for Roger not to move.

Roger became very frightened very fast. But it wasn't the thin
ice that was frightening him the most. It was the dreaded polar bear
bounding over the snow straight towards the sleds! "Look behind you!
yelled Roger. "The Bear! The Bear!" The bear was ferociously charging
the camp. Yes, it was the same one that had been in camp earlier, and
it was very vengeful indeed.

Jacques looked up from where he was fetching the rope, and saw
the bear charging right at him. There was no time to do anything that
Roger could imagine. The bear was huge and mean, and it ran right up
to the mountain man, growling deeply. Jacques turned to face the bear
squarely, and growled back! Well, the bear may have been big and mean,
but Jacques was too, and Yukon Jacques was also the ugliest man in
Canada. The bear turned aside.

And ran towards Jon! And Grim leaped up to bite the bears throat!
Mak had gotten the great dog free, and was busily unharnessing the
rest of the huskies from one of the sleds. The bear stopped and spun,
sending the smaller animal flying, and it crashed into one of the sleds
as it did so. The wooden sled was smashed to bits, and packs went
flying across the snow.

The polar bear paused for a minute, as if to get its bearings, or
maybe to decide who it would maul first. And then the report of a
rifle shot echoed from the valley walls - Gerry had his rifle.
A patch of red flared on the bear's flank. Oh, how it bellowed!
It bolted away without looking where it was going at all. It tipped
over another sled, shied away from the dogs tied to it, and then
ran out over the ice. Directly at Roger.

Once again, Roger was caught up in overwhelming panic. He's just
a boy, after all. He watched without moving as the bear ran in his
direction, nearer every second. He didn't know what to do when the
ice started cracking beneath the bear's weight. It scrambled to change
direction, but the ice was slippery, and it only succeeded in spinning
around backwards and sliding end-first into the Tiz Bottle pedestal,
jarring the bottle loose.

The bear looked at Roger. Roger looked at the bear. And then the
ground beneath them disintegrated. Ice, bear, bottle, and Roger, all
went tumbling down.

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER IX Where Roger has an adventure beneath the North Pole.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

The bear looked at Roger. Roger looked at the bear. And then the
ground beneath them disintegrated. Ice, bear, bottle, and Roger, all
went tumbling down.

They fell for some few seconds, and then hit an icy expanse
below. "Oomph!" went Roger; "Oomph!" went the bear.

The ice was not level, but sloped downwards. Everything that fell
started sliding deeper into the ice, down through an icy tunnel.
Swoosh!, went the bear as it slid along, followed by a smaller
swish! that was Roger, which was in turn followed by the skittle
of the Tiz Bottle and the tinkle of little icy chunks. It became
dark as they went down.

It was the scariest ride Roger had ever taken. Though he tried,
it was impossible to arrest his decent. He could not see, but he
felt himself speeding along as he descended, and could tell when
he went around corners by the changes in momentum. The few bumps
along the tunnel hurt when he went over them. Then, suddenly, there
was nothing beneath him! He held his breath, expecting to be dashed
to bits, but he seemed to land on another slope and he continued
his decent with only a small jar.

Then, it was over. There was another moment of free-fall, and
then he hit the floor hard. He skidded a few more feet, and then
slid feet-first into a pile of fur, which also smelled bad.

Yikes! Roger kicked away from the bear with all his might, and
he skid backwards and banged his head into a wall. Then, he sat up.

The bear was breathing heavily from a few yards away. At first,
Roger just lay there rubbing his head, and noticing the coldness
seeping into his bones. Then he remembered his flashlight, and he
brought it out of his pocket. (Of course he had a flashlight! He
had been traveling in twilight and darkness for the last few
weeks.)

When he turned it on, the sudden light hurt his eyes. The light
reflected from all the walls of the cul-de-sac he had entered, and
then re-reflected, so that it looked like the walls themselves were
aglow. He was in a chamber about twelve feet high, about thirty feet
in diameter. The bear was in there with him. It was leaping mightily,
its breath fogging and echoing in the chamber. There was a large
brown-red stain across one flank.

Well, being trapped in a hole in the ice with a wounded, angry
polar bear was too much for Roger! He was really beyond his
stressful-situation-threshhold; he wanted to cry.

The bear hadn't the slightest interest in Roger, to be sure.
It was below an opening in the wall of the chamber, one that was
about eight feet above the floor, and seemed to be the entrance of
a tunnel that sloped upwards and out. With frenzy, it tried and
tried again to jump up and get into the tunnel. But the ice offered
no purchase to the mighty claws of the bear, and it only frustrated
itself.

Then something caught Roger's attention. It was the Tiz Bottle.
It was laying on the ice very near the bear; each time the bear
jumped towards the hole, it threatened to smash the bottle as it
landed back on the floor. Well, thought Roger, it can just stay
there. And his lip began to tremble.

And, when he noticed that, he noticed another thing - that
hole was not the only entrance to the chamber. In fact, there were
two other entrances to the chamber. Each was also high off the
floor, and each also was a sloping tunnel leading upwards. One of
these tunnels was the one Roger and the bear came in from, but
there was no indication which it was as far as Roger could see.

Change that to `trapped in a hole in the ice with a wounded,
angry polar bear, who is about to destroy the Tiz Bottle, and
with no clue which way is out', thought Roger. And he rolled
over and started to cry.

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER X In which Roger begins his escape from the deeps.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

Change that to `trapped in a hole in the ice with a wounded,
angry polar bear, who is about to destroy the Tiz Bottle, and
with no clue which way is out', thought Roger. And he rolled
over and started to cry.

The bear stopped leaping. It lay down, tucked it's nose
between it's forepaws, and started sobbing also.

Roger found himself wallowing in despair. Things were just
absolutely hopeless. He couldn't save himself. No one would find
him. The bear was going to eat him for lunch the minute it became
hungry. This was the end. Good Bye World! Roger Van Webster was
a goner.

For some reason, the wise words of Herbert Zimm rose unbidden
into his thoughts: Polar Bears are not Vengeful. This stopped his
flow of woeful thoughts like a parking brake. Polar Bears are not
Vengeful. He peered out from under his arms, which were across his
face, and through his teary eyes he saw the bear. The bear was
looking sadly back at him with large, button eyes, also riming with
tears. Polar Bears are not Vengeful. Well, this one was, he reminded
himself. Zimm had it all wrong.

Roger was going to die. He knew that to be true. And the phrase
"nothing to lose" was taking on a new, profound meaning within him.
Do something, he said to himself. Polar Bears are not Vengeful.
Why just lie here, crying? What's the difference? Why not just go
over and give that bear a good smack. That'd be funny; you could
die laughing, anyway. Roger stood up, and wiped his face. There
was ice on his cheeks.

The bear was staring at him. Roger couldn't walk towards it.
Why not? he asked himself. Why in heavens not? But he just couldn't
take the step. Though he didn't realize it himself yet, there was a
spark of resolve twinkling within him, trying to keep him alive.
Polar Bears are not Vengeful, the thought repeated. Well, nothing is
ever what you think it is, Mr. Zimm.

Okay, he thought, let's try this. He went through his pockets
for something hard and sharp he could throw at the bear. He quickly
came up with his ice pick. It was still hanging on his belt from
the excursion over the valley wall. Wait! There was a length of
rope, a bag of pitons, and his boot chains, and a flare, all hanging
from their proper loops or in their proper pockets. Mak had gone
through great lengths to show him the proper way to carry his
equipment before the climb. The slide ride had not dislodged
anything. Hope surged in Roger!

But he didn't know which exit was the right way out. It was
still as impossible as ever. His throat hurt as he had to swallow
again that large and bitter pill of lost hope. The sadness and
frustration he had been sinking in moments before was rising up
around him again.

Remember, he thought, there's nothing to lose. Pick an action
and act. You'll feel better just doing something. Polar Bears are
not Vengeful. Stop thinking about how bad things are, and set your
mind on doing something constructive.

And so it was that Roger again fought his despair and set out
to free himself. That tiny spark inside Roger was now a little
candle-flame. Roger had mastered an important lesson. In the face of
disaster, he found the courage to go on - the courage that can only
be found when you forsake hope in exchange for resolve.

He looked around, trying hard to not think of the white bear.
What else could he use? The only other thing in the chamber was the
Tiz Bottle, right up next to the bear. And small chunks of ice
scattered across the floor. No, not scattered: they fanned out
from one wall, the one near Roger. Why, the debris pointed right to
one of the entrance holes! It must be the one that they arrived
in, of course.

Fighting back his hope, Roger set a piton into that wall.
The flame was waxing brightly. As he hammered, he whispered "Polar
Bears are not Vengeful" over and over, as if he wanted it to
become true.

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER XI In which Roger and the polar bear finally have it out.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

Fighting back his hope, Roger set a piton into that wall.
The flame was waxing brightly. As he hammered, he whispered "Polar
Bears are not Vengeful" over and over, as if he wanted it to
become true.

In terms if climbing, Roger was not very skilled. His only
experience was climbing the ridge that morning, and he mostly just
watched others do the real work. Still, he remembered to put his
boot chains on, which were spiked for gripping the ice, and he
managed to pound in a piton with the suitable end of his pick, and
affix to the end a rope. Before very long, Roger had climbed up to
the opening of the tunnel he had arrived in.

Meanwhile, the white bear watched. It had been greatly confused
when it fell into this hole. For a while, it's only thoughts were
for getting out of this strange place. When it realized that it
couldn't climb out, it felt something akin to Roger's despair: an
animal despair, a resigned outlook on life, a perception that there
was nothing to do until something happened to change the rules. So
it lay itself down and waited. At that time, the memory of vengeance
was still submerged by the weight of this newer situation.

But, when Roger had reached the opening, and had indeed started
to climb up the slope of the tunnel with his pick and his spiked
boots, the nasty bear came to the realization that this other
creature was going to escape when it couldn't. That made it angry.
And when, in its anger, it remembered how much it wanted to MANGLE
that little runt, it became fierce. And the fierceness broke the
spell of despair.

"RRAAARRRR!"

Roger heard that roar. He looked over his shoulder, and he saw
the white beast charging towards him. But this was a different Roger
than the one that had fallen into this trap. Having faced up to this
particular fear, and become acquainted with it, it had no hold on
him anymore. He merely faced ahead, and tried to hurry up the slope.

The bear made a mighty leap, but, like earlier, the goal was
too high, and his huge claws missed Roger's legs.

Unfortunately for Roger, they DID catch a length of rope. A rope
that was still attached to Roger's waist, and which still dangled
half-way down to the cavern floor.

The bears weight on the rope as it fell back tugged Roger off
his balance, and his spiked boots lost their grip. Roger fell on his
stomach, and started to slide back down.

Thinking quick, Roger swung the pick still in his hands into the
ice. It held! Roger stopped sliding.

But his legs were dangling over the edge of the opening. They
were quite within the bear's reach now.

With a bellow, the bear made another leap. It didn't even have
to try very hard. Its long claws sunk into Roger's boot, and a good
distance into Roger's calf, and then ripped the boot off as it
landed.

Roger felt the pain, but he was thinking too fast now to let it
distract him. With the same insight as he had displayed in the Hard
Luck Cafe, Roger drew forth his flare gun while he held onto the
pick with his other hand. Looking back, he saw the bear shaking its
head furiously, with Roger's boot in its mouth, and growling
maniacally.

He fired. The bright ball of fire that the weapon discharged hit
the bear squarely in the side, and then bounced over to the side of
the chamber, next to the Tiz Bottle, where it burned brightly. The
bears fur was ignited by the bolt, and it flew into an even fiercer
rage than before. It spun around, trying to escape the flames on its
own back.

Roger, meanwhile, with his pick and his one good foot, pulled
himself up, and climbed well away from that horrible place.

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER XII Which relates Roger's rescue, and the results of his battle.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

Roger, meanwhile, with his pick and his one good foot, pulled
himself up, and climbed well away from that horrible place.

After he had climbed perhaps thirty feet, the slope of the
tunnel became level. There Roger attended to his wounded leg. The
boot was gone, and his sock was showing clear, colorful evidence of
his injury. Roger didn't want to look; he was satisfied to take his
scarf and tie it tightly around his calf. The pain from the wound
had begun to immobilize his ankle and make his knee swell.

The next part of the tunnel sloped gradually downward, and Roger
carefully slid down. The light, and the noise, from the chamber
below was lessened.

At the top of the next slope, Roger's progress was interrupted
by a fissure across his way. It extended above, below, and to both
sides: it was a crack in the earth's icy mantle almost twenty feet
across. As he looked around him, Roger spotted the tunnel on the far
side by the light that was glowing from within it.

As he held his breath, he heard the sounds of climbers
descending slowly. Very soon, Yukon Jacques backed slowly down to
the edge of the fissure, a rope trailing behind him like a tail.

Roger was very happy to see him.

Well, Jacques, and Jerry who was behind him, helped Roger cross
the chasm and make it to the surface. There Jon tended his wound
with the medical supplies he'd been carrying, while Mak paced around
and told Roger over and over how stupid he had been. Roger's leg had
been cleanly punctured by one claw, and scratched by two others; his
thick boots had saved him from worse.

After listening to Roger's story, Jacques and Mak went down the
icy tunnel again. ( Their rope was tied to the striped pole in the
ground right next to the opening. ) Roger waited anxiously. Almost
an hour later, they returned. They did not have the Tiz Bottle with
them.

As it appeared to them after examining the chamber, the flare
Roger fired had melted a large hole in the ice; the ocean floor was
only a few inches below. The Tiz Bottle must have fallen into the
hole, because there was no sign of it. Nor was there any sign of the
polar bear that had wounded Roger so. Perhaps it had climbed up one
of the other tunnels, or taken it's chances in the cold water.
Neither man could tell.

Roger took the news calmly. To tell the truth, he wasn't as
interested in the whereabouts of the Tiz bottle as he was in the
speed of the pain killers Jon had given him. Very soon he was
sliding relievedly into sleep.

He awoke later, to find that the company had already crossed
back over the mountain pass, and was on it's way south again. His
leg ached like a demon. He was laying atop one of the sleds, wrapped
in furs and strapped down tightly. The wind was cold on his face,
and the sky was familiarly dark.

The prospect of another three weeks in this dismal winter was
very unencouraging. Later, when Jacques asked him if he was feeling
better, he replied that he wouldn't feel better until he got back
home. Jacques laughed lightly, and explained that they were going to
skirt around those throublesome volcanic areas, and so it would be
"a leetle longair".

This exchange started a cascading series of thoughts: about
Bears Tooth, about Walter, about his father, about the quest, about
the Tiz Bottle. Roger's disappointment was acute, but he found he
could deal with it. As the days passed, and his emotional numbness
lessened, he was still able to bear it.

And, eventually, he was able to look forward to trying again.
There were three Tiz Bottles left, after all. And Roger was sure
that one of them had his name on it.

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER XIII Wherein Roger returns to Poughkeepsie, only to find he isn't
staying long.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

And, eventually, he was able to look forward to trying again.
There were three Tiz Bottles left, after all. And Roger was sure
that one of them had his name on it.

When they finally did make it back to Bear's Tooth, Walter
greeted him happily, and the whole expedition had an evening at the
Hard Luck Cafe. The Northmen slapped Roger on the back (painfully),
set him up with dusty Coca-Colas, and pressed him for the story.

Roger fielded the request to Yukon Jacques, who, with a
story-teller's gleam in his eyes, got up on the bar and began the
tale. He paused often, remarking on how thirsty speaking was, and
refused to continue at those times until someone brought him another
bottle of whiskey. The crowd cheerfully complied, and eventually the
story was out of him. When he finished, there was a loud cheer, and
the Canadians went back to their dicing, card-playing,
arm-wrestling, and knife-sharpening.

Roger was confused by Jacques' narrative. Partly because it kept
lapsing into French. But it was mostly due to hearing his own name
as a character in a story. Jacques made him out to be a fool some
times, a hero at others, and a hapless stranger to the wilderness in
between. The men cheered and laughed at the story-Roger's
misadventures, while the real-Roger sat in the corner pretty much
unremarked, as if neither Roger had much to do with the other. It
was altogether disconcerting. In the end, Roger decided that he
didn't like being in stories, and that was that.

The next day, the men who had traveled with him for the last
three months wished him good luck and bid him good bye. It was Mak
the Eskimo who spoke the words that Roger would remember the
longest: "You have faced the fierce beauty of the North and
survived. The rest is fishcake."

The trip back to Poughkeepsie was like a study in the history of
transportation. After the sledding, they traveled by truck, then by
a rickety bush-plane, then by jet, and finally by limousine through
rush hour on the N.Y. State Thruway. Walter handled all the
arrangements, and Roger mostly slept through the whole affair.

When they got back to the estate, things were pretty quiet.
Vincent Van Webster was speaking at a super-market magnate's
convention in Tahoe, and there was only the grounds- and house-staff
around. There was a sealed letter left for Roger. It read

Roger:

I heard the news of your most dreadful failure
at the North Pole. I'm sure you did your best.
If you've learned anything at all, you've
learned that the Tiz Bottle is not something
easily gotten. It is only granted to a man with
the determination to stick it through. I hope
you have better luck at the South Pole. Give my
regards to Major McDermitt, will you?

your father,
Vincent Van Webster

Roger read the letter quietly, and then called for Walter.

"Yes?", drawled the butler, who, back in his familiar demesne,
cheerfully went about his usual role of being were he was needed
ahead of time. He had been reading the letter over Roger's shoulder
when he was called.

"Walter, I'm dreadfully tired of the cold and snow, but it seems
we must make preparations for a trip to - "

"The South Pole. Yes, sir." interrupted Walter. "I shall make
the arrangements immediately. I think that you will find this trip a
lot easier than the last, sir. Antarctica is veritably crowded
compared to the wastes of the north, what with all the research
stations and government outposts and such. Your father has
connections at Fort Zero, in fact, that will be of good use."

"Major McDermitt?", guessed Roger.

"Err, yes, in fact, that is indeed the man I will call. I
believe your father ... uh ... funded some rather expensive ...
er ... equipment (shall we say?) for the Major, and he should prove
most accommodating at this time."

"Do get your affairs in order, sir. I don't suspect it will be
too long until we leave for Antarctica", Walter spoke, ending the
exchange before Roger could ask more.

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER XIV Where Roger wings his way south, and other foul things
happen.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .


"Do get your affairs in order, sir. I don't suspect it will be
too long until we leave for Antarctica", Walter spoke, ending the
exchange before Roger could ask more.

Indeed, it wasn't. They had all their gear from the North Pole
Expedition still packed in crates and bags. After they printed off
some new T-shirts for the trip ( `Tiz Bottle Expedition II - the
Other End' ) they were able to leave.

The trip to Antarctica began at the Memorial Air Force Base on
Long Island. Roger and Walter traveled there in the Van Webster
limousine, followed by a van carrying equipment. When they arrived,
the found the base gates guarded closely. Walter and a guard talked
for a while, during which time Walter produced several white, pink,
and yellow papers, some of which the guard kept, some which he
returned.

After the proper bureaucratic incantations, Walter and Roger were
allowed to walk onto the base. The limo returned to the estate, and
the van was escorted, by two ponderous gray vehicles marked
"MAV-21U", to an empty hangar.

They were met by Major Henderson, who gave them magnetic badges
and escorted them to a small building near the hangar. As they
walked over, Roger watched the van being unloaded by several men in
white cover-alls. Inside, there was a pile of paperwork, which
Walter went over with the major, and which Roger signed where he was
told. However, Roger was too preoccupied with watching through the
window as the men in white spread the equipment from the van all
over the tarmac to pay much attention to what Walter and Major
Henderson were worrying about.

Then the officer left them for a while, and, fascinated, Roger
watched the men in white. Some of them were rummaging through the
van, others through the equipment. By the time the major returned,
the van was being disassembled, and three of the men were apparently
fascinated by something on the inside of a clothes locker. Major
Henderson spoke briefly with one of them, and then rejoined Roger
and Walter in the building.

"Well, believe it or not, your clearance is approved. Everything
checks out. You'll be assigned bunks for the night. Your mission
departs at oh-three-hundred. Any questions?"

"Well," said Roger, "yeah. What's a M A V dash 2 1 U?"

"Mobile Assault Vehicle. Okay, get going."

Roger and Walter left for their accommodations. After a meal in
the mess, Walter recommended that they get some sleep. Bunks were
exactly what they had; Roger grumbled as he had to sleep on the top
bed. Three in the morning seemed an extravagantly serious time to
catch an airplane, but there was no point in asking the military to
lighten up, thought Roger. Well, maybe he can sleep on the plane.

Their plane was a military transport of dubious proportions.
The wings looked to small to get such a plump-looking object into
the air. Further, it was camouflaged with forest green, khaki, and
gray blobs.

A man in a white cover-all with a clip-board checked them off
his list as they climbed the rickety gangway to get on board. Roger
stopped to ask why a plane flying to the South Pole needed to be
camouflaged. The man stared at him and didn't reply. Then he gave
Roger a form to sign, which stated (basically) that the U.S.
Government was not liable for any motor vehicle they could not
re-assemble properly.

At last, they were on their way. The aircraft, with a shudder,
a whine, and then an incessant drone, took them out of New York.
They made fuel stops in Florida, Panama, and Chile, and then
they landed in Antarctica. Boy, was it cold!

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER XV Which illustrates Roger's cold reception at Fort Zero.


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .


At last, they were on their way. The aircraft, with a shudder,
a whine, and then an incessant drone, took them out of New York.
They made fuel stops in Florida, Panama, and Chile, and then
they landed in Antarctica. Boy, was it cold!

The landing field at Fort Zero was no more than a sheet of ice.
At the edge of the sheet of ice was a scattering of low, drab
buildings, a tower, and a high chain-link fence that circled the
entire field. There was no one there. When they and their belongings
were dumped unceremoniously onto the ice, the plane left, and Roger
and Walter were alone, wondering. It was all very suspicious.

Walter pointed out a guard pacing the fence, a few hundred feet
away. In his white uniform, he would have been difficult to spot at
all, except that he was in front of the gray fence. Roger gave
Walter a questioning look, to which Walter shrugged, and so the two
set off to talk to the guard.

As they approached, it was apparent that the guard was stalking
something, as he was hunched over and walking on his toes. The
target of the stalking soon became evident. Two penguins were
waddling casually up to the fence from outside the perimeter.

Roger had never seen penguins before, but he had read about them
in his Herbert Zimm book. These were about three feet tall, and
waddled in a silly fashion, eyes darting left and right. Fascinating
to Roger, they seemed to be conversing with each other as they
waddled, because their heads kept nodding up and down and side to
side from their uneven gate.

Walter nudged Roger, and pointed to the guard. He had a gun! And
he was aiming at the penguins! Well, Roger could think of no
reasonable excuse for shooting such endearing creatures, so he went
into action. "WAIT!" he cried, "Don't Shoot!" And he started to run
to the guard.

The penguins heard the cry, just before the soldier fired, and they
managed to dive behind a snow bank, the rifle shot missing widely.

Then the guard turned and saw Roger running towards him, Walter
trailing more slowly. He did not lower is rifle as they approached.
In fact, as they closed, he pointed it at them! "Halt!" he barked in
a fierce, commanding tone. "Stop right there, or your dead meat!"
Roger stopped in his tracks, and Walter, decelerating much more
slowly, could not avoid a collision. They both went down on the ice.

In a moment, the guard in white was standing over them,
threatening them with his gun. "You are my prisoners", he declared
when Roger and Walter stopped shaking the disorientation out of
their heads. "You will proceed with me to the camp, and General
Natick will deal with you." He then spoke to the back of his wrist.
"This is Malone, on perimeter. I've apprehended two suspected
Communists." There was a garbled, metallic mumble, to which Malone
replied "Roger."

"Yes?", asked Roger politely.

"Shut up, Red. No one asked you. Now GET UP!". The last words
were a bellow, punctuated with a thrusting motion with the rifle.

They proceeded to the shabby buildings, and were marshaled into
a door labeled DETAINMENT. It was much warmer inside, but no one
offered to take their coats. They were escorted through a maze of
hallways. At an elevator, they waited for several men wheeling carts
of stuffed penguin dummies, each riddled with bullet holes, to
evacuate the car before they entered. Then they descended for a long
time. When the doors opened, they went down a long, dark hall, and
were then placed inelegantly into a small room, and locked inside.
They were alone for a few minutes, during which time they dared not
even speak. Then a officer entered, with a briefcase.

"I'm Commander Todd. Your Roger Van Webster. And Your Walter
Geezlewort. Your charged with Conspiring Against the United States
of America, Espionage, and Treason. How do you plead?"

"Geezlewort? That's a ridiculous name!", blurted Roger, who was
giggling uncontrollably.

Walter replied "Why, Innocent, of course. We've done nothing."

"Very well", sighed the commander, closing his briefcase. "Your
just making it hard for yourself. The evidence of your anti-American
activities is overwhelming. (GUARD!) Prepare yourselves for trial."

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

The TIZ BOTTLE

a story (enhanced) by KJM


CHAPTER XV


(continued ...)

. . . . . . .

"Very well", sighed the commander, closing his briefcase. "Your
just making it hard for yourself. The evidence of your anti-American
activities is overwhelming. (GUARD!) Prepare yourselves for trial."

After a huff, Commander Todd continued. "Do you have a legal
council here at Fort Zero?"

"No, none", said Walter.

"Yes!", said Roger. "Major McDermitt."

"McDermitt ... McDermitt ... oh, yes. I'll send for him", said
the commander. Then, "As of now, consider yourselves under military
arrest, pending trial." And then he left, before either Roger or
Walter could ask a single question.

The two of them sat in the gloomy room for almost an hour more,
each trying to determine just where they went wrong. The door was of
course locked again.

Then, rather abruptly, the door slammed open, and a short,
rumpled figure entered, carrying a large load, which was quickly
thrown on the floor. The man turned, closed the door, and then leaned
against it. He sighed stiffly. After he recovered, he turned around and
looked the two prisoners over. He was wearing grimy spectacles, and
his greying hair was very disheveled. He seemed very dissatisfied.

"Well," he said. "Well .... well." Then the man stooped and pulled
printout from the pile. "Hmmm. Roger ... I'm going to have, eh ...
some diff-ficulty getting you out. Of heeere."

"Major McDermitt?", asked Roger.

"Oh, please. Call me Earl. Everyone else does." Earl's voice
was slow, bass, and rough. "You've gotten yourselves into some ...
deeeep trouble."

And then the major started pacing the room, Roger amd Walter
doing their best to stay out of his path. Bit by bit, he filled the
two in. "If only I had been there when you landed, this whole thing may
have been avoided, I think. Yes, I do. To my way of thinking, I am
partly the cause, and I do think that way."

"Major," inquired Walter, "what is the trouble?"

"The penguins are communists, Walter. I guess you didn't know.
That. No, know one knows but us. Here at Zero. It's a mess. Lou -
he's in charge - General Natick, that is. Lou has been on top of
this for some years now. Secrecy. Reconn. Battle-ready. Pressure!
It gets to us all. It. Gets. They are theee enemy, Roger, Walter.

"This here piece of paper says that you wrere asking some pointed
questions. Roger? M.A.V.? Camouflage? You didn't need to know these
things. Need to know. Need to know. That's what the hinge is.

"And then. And. Then! Aiding the enemy. Two penguins. Lou wants
to fry your ... er, behinds. But I can't let him do that. Not knowing
Van Webster like I do. I do. So here I am. Responsible."

Earl pointed to the bundle. Roger saw now that there were some
backpacks, some helmets, and some guns. Yikes. Roger remembered
the polar bear, seeing a gun like that. "I'm going to try to get
you out of here," continued Earl. "There's a Jamaican station about
two-forty kilometers from here. We'll go there. They'll bring you
home."

Suddenly Earl stopped pacing and looked right at Roger. He doesn't
get enough sleep, thought Roger. Earl sighed, and then exclaimed
"Let's get this gear on and move!"

"Look," said Roger, "Can't we just explain to the General that
we didn't know what was going on and that we're sorry and that we won't
do it again and that we just want to go find the Tiz Bottle and go
home?"

"There's no reasoning with Lou Natick on a day like today," answered
Earl. "The penguins took out twelve troops out on Republican Ridge
just last night. Good men too. We lost ground we'd been holding since
1983. And then you show up. No one is in the mood for Tiz Bottles."

. . . . . . .

(to be continued ...)

[wayfriend]

It's now been over six months with not one reply.

I'm changing my title to "Hall of Gifts Pariah".

[jacob Raver, sinTempter]

I'd do four main things.

First, break up that first paragraph into many...break up those sentences too. Look at your sentence length in Nom's Garden...it's shorter with less "," in it.

Second, try to 'hook' the reader in the fist three paragraphs. Here, you the author make a promise to the reader. From what you've written I'd gather the story will be about Roger's personal journey to resolve his being bored and lonely. While this may be true, I'd venture you have much more planned for Roger...and us.

Third, add some descriptions of what the characters are doing during their dialogue, where thier eyes are (staring at the floor, ceiling, the person their talking with, etc.). Describe the room or setting they're in. Think about how this could affect the mood of the scene plus convey much more about your characters and also create a visual image for those readers who rely on the visual aspect when relating to your story.

Fourth, maybe add a little (make sure it's only a little) exposition during the dialogue - convey some information to the reader 'under the table' so to speak. Look at the first couple chapters of LFB (my personal favorite writing ever). Keep it to a minimum though, exposition overkill is anathema to a good story, but it's very hard to convey all that you want the reader to understand about your plot or characters without it.

You've got some talent. Your writing is a little timid. Add some passion, keep at it. I think you'll develop a wonderful style if you add some edge and believe in yourself as a writer.