"Wait, hell," says Charpa, "that's the quickest way to end a story what may never see chapter 13. "We need to move north, toward Brazil."
Mind you, going into Brazil through the back door is almost as dangerous as allowing Frankie the J to get within 5 feet of Queen Mudder. A short stay in a little cantina in Uruguay will buy us enough time to regroup and figure out just how we can use the Queen to our advantage.
Word on the street is that Frankie has been in a little town outside Sao Paulo minding the gerbils until the Queen could get there and take control of them. He was the only one crazy enough to stay with them, knowing even then they were in hyper-baric state.
Passing them off to Queen Mudder was just a part of the genius plan that Erskin Quint came up with knowing the Queen has always been an expert when it comes to handling exotic animals.
It was now a case of getting these gerbils quarantined and under control, or face a potential gerbil flu pandemic. There was no time to act.
Meanwhile, Brazil is known for its cheap pens, and LaFete had been charged with picking up a few dozen to keep the collaboration going. Cheap pens and recycled notebooks, without them there may be no more upcoming chapters, at least none that would be written on paper. There was still the community laptop that everyone took turns carrying about, but wresting it loose from Jesus Budda long enough to get another chapter written was always a feat LeFete found particularly distasteful. There was a certain smell he couldn't quite put his finger on and packing light meant he couldn't always find a sanitizer when he needed it.
It's muggy, and the flies on the pomegranates make for a miserable situation while sitting at the only watering hole in town. The morale of the writers was the lowest it had been in days. Three days that seemed like eternity would pass until the train taking them into the interior part of the country would arrive. It was everyone's hope, except that of Simon Cockle, that a cure for the gerbil flu could be found among the rarest of Amazonian plants. The group awaited word from the only doctor they knew, Victor, on whether or not he could fly to Brazil from his native Canada in time to capture the essence of that plant before it went into hibernation.
Skoob stepped up to the stage and took the microphone next to the karaoke box and began to belt out Dean Martin's "Little Old Wine Drinker Me" while LeFete tapped his toes jauntily to the beat, a smile forming on his lips, happy for the distraction as he contemplated just where he might pick up those cheap pens.
It wasn't Skoob's intention to make anyone feel better. It was the fever that got to him, the song in the background wafted across the air as Skoob collapsed to the floor in a heap in a scene reminiscent of David Lynch's Blue Velvet, only more like Matador on Black Velvet. No one more than Skoob was hoping to lure Colonel Juan into that cantina that hot, sultry afternoon. All they could do now is sip warm caipirinhas and wait…