Zorgamazoo Page 2

  Now Mortimer Yorgle, or “Morty” for short,

  was a zorgle, you see, of a singular sort.

  He was certainly pleasant, and friendly enough,

  but his edges, I’d say, were a little bit rough.

  For instance, his necktie was always awry.

  His trousers were striped with ridiculous dye.

  On each of his hands he wore fingerless gloves,

  and a rumpled-up raincoat was one of his loves.

  His home, underground, was a humble abode:

  A tumbledown hovel on Rumbleton Road,

  in a neighborhood known to be rowdy and rough,

  near the slums of a town called Underwood Bluff.

  He worked on the staff of the newspaper crew,

  at The Underwood Telegraph Rumor Review,

  where the office was stormy with printers and ink.

  They made such a racket you could hardly think!

  Like a clock running wild, it’s machinery broke,

  the office was raging with newspaper folk,

  yelling, “I’ve got the scoop!” or “Hold off the press!”

  (How the newspaper printed was anyone’s guess.)

  The nature, most often, of Morty’s reports

  were the innings and outs of Zorgledom sports.

  From judo to jousting, he covered it all,

  but his favorite, of course, was Zorgally Ball—

  an elegant game of tremendous finesse,

  a cross between cricket, and swimming, and chess.

  When it came to the game he was sort of a geek.

  In fact, every day (or at least every week),

  he would go to the stadium, take in a game,

  or visit the Ballplayer’s Hallway of Fame.

  The Hallway, of course, was his favorite place.

  To Morty, it harbored a mythical grace:

  with its dark wooden walls, with its trophies and plaques,

  with its statues of ballplayers polished in wax.

  He always would pause at the end of the Hall,

  where a special exhibit emblazoned the wall.

  The display was an ode to his neighborhood team,

  whom Morty held up in the highest esteem.

  The Underwood Titans, that was their name.

  They were commonly known as the best in the game…

  Though Morty was fond of the place where he worked,

  his duties were something he commonly shirked.

  He often came late, not a second too soon,

  and sometimes arrived at a quarter past noon!

  (Which gave Porterman Shorgle, the Editor Chief,

  three ulcers, gastritis, and nothing but grief).

  One particular morning, when Morty blew in,

  old Porterman shouted above all the din.

  “Morty!” he bellowed, “you dithering dupe!

  You stink! Like a heap of my goopiest poop!

  Just look at the time! We’re down to the crunch!

  Geez, Morty, look here, it’s practically lunch!”

  Morty just smiled. “Well, what can I say?

  I do my best work at the end of the day.”

  “There’s no time!” cried his boss,

  who was slumped in his chair,

  who was nervously tugging the wisp of his hair.

  He stared for a moment, not saying a word.

  “Hang on,” he said finally. “Haven’t you heard?!”

  “Heard what?” Morty asked. “I got here just now.

  If I should’ve heard something, I’d like to know how.”

  Porterman scoffed in a worrying way.

  “It’s big news!” he exclaimed. “On the cover today!

  They’ve all disappeared! No one knows what to do!

  They’ve vanished—the zorgles of Zorgamazoo!”

  “Oh, yeah,” Morty said. “I’ve heard of that place.”

  A thoughtful expression passed over his face.

  “Never been there myself, but my Pop’s been a lot.

  He explained it all once…but I’ve mostly forgot.

  Anyhow, don’t you worry. I’m sure they’ll be back.

  They probably got hungry, went off for a snack.”

  “What’s the point?” said his boss, with a roll of his eyes,

  with one of his patented Porterman sighs.

  “You’re a good writer, Mort, and that’s why you’re here,

  but the next time you’re late, you’ll be out on your ear!”

  Morty promised (again) to mend up his ways.

  “Sure! From now on, for the rest of my days,

  you’ll never again have to holler and harp,

  I’ll be here on time, at eight o’clock sharp!”

  “I hope so,” said Porterman. “Start putting things right.

  But for now, back to work, get outta my sight!”

  So that’s what he did, and as fast as he could.

  But not back to work, as he’d promised he would.

  Instead, Morty left—the same as before.

  He tiptoed away and snuck out the door.

  But what would make Morty go skulking away,

  after coming to work so late in the day?

  The answer, good reader, is just a bit sad,

  and first you must get to know Mortimer’s dad…

  Bortlebee Yorgle, his father was called,

  a little old zorgle, entirely bald,

  and ever since Morty was only a tyke,

  his father and he had been highly alike.

  Both of them always were rumpled a bit.

  Their clothes never had a particular fit.

  Their gravelly voices were nearly the same,

  and Zorgally Ball was their favorite game.

  Yet alike as they were, they could never connect.

  They differed in only a single respect:

  Adventure. That was the difference, you see,

  the one thing on which they could never agree.

  While Morty was known as a stick in the mud,

  his Pop loved adventure. It was there in his blood.

  Morty, however, was unlike his Pop.

  When it came to adventure, he was rather a flop.

  He was cut, you could say, from a different cloth,

  with a nature that bordered on cowardly sloth.

  Yet his father was daring. He’d wandered around

  to wherever adventure was commonly found:

  in the pit of a cave, on the edge of a cliff,

  in search of the how, the why, the what if?

  In his youth, he had traveled from village to town;

  he had been an explorer of fame and renown.

  But things change over time, as often they do,

  and slowly they changed for old Bortlebee, too.

  These days, he was sick. He was riddled with ills.

  He was no longer known as a seeker of thrills.

  He suffered, you see, from a breathing disease.

  He’d wheeze and he’d sneeze until weak in the knees.

  There were pains in his feet.

  There were pains in his head.

  He spent most of his time in a hospital bed.

  That was why Morty neglected his job,

  why everyone thought he was kind of a slob,

  since whenever he could, he would visit his Pop,

  at Our Lady of Zorgledom Hospital Shop.

  Together, they’d sit by the radiograph.

  They’d chat about life. They’d listen and laugh.

  When visiting hours would come to a close,

  Morty would say: “I should go, I suppose.”

  Then trying to muster a smile on his face,

  he would scoop up his Pop in a clumsy embrace,

  knowing perfectly well that tomorrow, perhaps,

  it might be the day of his father’s collapse.

  Yet in spite of a moment so gloomy and cold,

  old Bortlebee’s tone would be rosy and bold.

&nb
sp; “I’ll see ya, my son,” he would merrily say.

  “I’ll betcha tomorrow’s a beautiful day!”

  When Morty got home, he’d have work to be done:

  an article due that he hadn’t begun!

  He would sit at his typewriter, rapping the keys

  while tapping his feet and bobbing his knees.

  There at his desk, by the light of the moon,

  he would comfort himself by humming a tune.

  With a bit of a song, it was Morty’s belief,

  he could cope a bit better with feelings of grief.

  Perhaps he was right, but here is the thing:

  Late in the night, when he started to sing,

  he wouldn’t just whistle...he’d RATTLE and ROLL!

  His singing would often fly out of control.

  So his neighbors would holler: “Hey, quit it, ya creep!

  You’re singing off-key, and we’re trying to sleep!”

  So he might settle down. He might even stop,

  but he still would be troubled with thoughts of his Pop.

  Yet somehow he’d finish, alone in the night,

  he’d work until darkness was turning to light…

  I am utterly certain, without any doubt,

  it would’ve kept going, day in and day out,

  if it weren’t for events that would alter his plan,

  on the day his amazing adventure began…

  But for now, my good reader, the greetings are done.

  The story of Mortimer Yorgle’s begun.

  The moment has come to move onward and find:

  Katrina

  and

  Morty—

  their fates

  are

  entwined...

  Chapter 3

  the lobotomy doc

  We now shall return to Katrina Katrell, who was feeling unhappy and rather unwell. She had sadly been locked in her bedroom alone, by the hand of her guardian, Mrs. Krabone.

  Perhaps the one question you’re anxious to know

  is regarding her parents: Like, where did they go?

  Well, in stories like these, as I’m sure you have read,

  the parents, quite often, are thoroughly dead:

  run over by rhinos or gored by a moose,

  or murdered when somebody poisoned their juice.

  In this case, however, I’m sorry to say,

  her parents weren’t dead, they were merely…away.

  They were wealthy, you see. They were captains of trade,

  adept in the ways in w hich money was made.

  So they traveled a lot, a tremendous amount

  (while charging it all to a corporate account).

  Theirs was a world of banking and loans,

  of virtual meetings and cellular phones;

  of foreign investment and business affairs;

  of taxis and boardrooms and leathery chairs.

  All of their life was spent up in the air,

  incessantly flying from here and to there.

  From Lisbon to London, from Paris to Rome,

  they had gone off on business, and never come home.

  Why, even Katrina was born on the fly,

  on a company jet that was up in the sky.

  Her mother, of course, was under-prepared.

  “A baby?! How awkward!” the woman declared.

  “I haven’t got time for raising a kid,

  and I doubt that I’d want to, if even I did!”

  When her father got word that Katrina was born,

  he grimaced a little and got on the horn.

  He called his accountant to raise a concern:

  “On babies,” he asked, “what’s the rate of return?”

  So you see, my good reader, her parents were duds.

  Too much of the blue in the both of their bloods.

  This was the reason Katrina was thrown

  together with “Mrs. Gremelda Krabone,”

  which of course made Katrina abundantly glum,

  to be languishing under her guardian’s thumb.

  It’s not fair! she was thinking.

  It’s simply not right!

  Being locked in my room without dinner tonight!

  Such were the thoughts that were filling her head,

  as she hungrily hunched on the edge of her bed.

  But just as her anger was reaching its peak,

  from the silence below, came an ominous creeeeeeeaak!

  Katrina was puzzled. She thought, with a frown:

  Who would be calling to this part of town?

  A prowler, perhaps, or a murderer might.

  Who else would come visit so late in the night?

  She climbed to her knees, with an ear to the floor.

  With her hands on the carpet, she listened for more.

  From below came an almost inaudible drone,

  but she knew who it was by its nasally tone…

  Old Krabby?! she thought, in a logical leap.

  Right now the old bat should be snoring asleep!

  Yet Old Krabby was up! She was talking as well.

  But why and to whom?! thought Katrina Katrell.

  It was then she recalled what Old Krabby had said,

  and what she was planning to do with her head!

  Could it really be true?! Was she being sincere?!

  She’d invited some wacko and now…he was here?!

  Katrina stood up. It would likely be best

  to break out of her room on a miniature quest.

  She would snoop just a bit, go sneaking around.

  She would sort out the source of this mystery sound…

  She pulled up the carpet, where no one would look,

  revealing an almost invisible nook;

  and there in the dark was a treasury trunk

  filled with a clutter of jumble and junk.

  Most people would think it was nothing but fluff,

  a collection of doodads and whatchamastuff.

  To Katrina, however, one thing was true:

  This stuff came in handy—you just never knew.

  She dug up a spring from a grandfather clock…

  It was just the right thingy to jimmy a lock!

  She twisted the spring and she made it a key

  (she was rather inventive, I’m sure you can see).

  Then gripping the spring in her sensitive fist,

  she opened the latch with a flick of her wrist.

  Then quietly pacing with caution and care,

  she crept down the hall to the top of the stair;

  and down a few steps, like a gossamer ghost,

  she peered ’round a lopsided banister post…

  A man stood below, on the entranceway mat,

  his collar turned up to the brim of his hat.

  He took off his gloves, his cap, and his coat.

  He loosened the muffler that covered his throat.

  His features were drawn and incredibly dark,

  but his eyes were aglow with a sinister spark.

  Old Krabby was there. She was wringing her hands,

  like a criminal, hatching felonious plans.

  She quietly spoke to the man in the hall:

  “Doctor, I’m glad you could answer my call.

  It’s nice you could visit so late in the night,

  I’m certain your skill will set everything right!

  You’ll cut out the naughtiest bits of her brain,

  so only the parts that are normal remain.”

  “I will do what I can,” the stranger replied,

  “your need for a surgeon cannot be denied;

  because Madam, your case is a serious one.

  So let us discuss it. Just what’s to be done?”

  Above, in the stairwell, Katrina was still,

  her fingers and throat in the grip of a chill.

  This stranger, she sensed, by his timbre and tone,

  was the sort to send shivers that shook to the bone.

  Now, here
’s what Katrina so furtively heard,

  as her guardian spoke in a whispering word:

  “It’s my girl. She’s upstairs, and she’s coming unwound.

  Why, she’s quite a few ounces short of a pound!

  Delusions of grandeur, that’s what she’s got!

  She thinks she’s so special! She thinks she’s so hot!

  She thinks of herself as courageous and brave,

  but doctor, I wish she would simply behave!

  But her brain is diseased, it’s gone on the blink!

  She’s completely insane! She’s right on the brink!

  Why, only today she redoubled my doubt

  by claiming some creature was skulking about.

  Some sort of a beastie, with horns on its head,

  and wearing a tie! Or that’s what she said…”

  As he listened, the Doctor was thumbing his case,

  Silent and solemn and gazing in space.

  His brow furrowed up like a fisherman’s knot,