'Ten Minutes Late for Reality' by Lou Morris (c) 1988, 1989, 1991, 2002, 2015. Thirty-four:


   "Let's go to Death Adventure!!"

                                 - 200,000 New York bennies
(weird tourists).

   Many a car blew by Mongo as he walked on the right side
of the road heading for Death Adventure.
   Vroom!  Vroom!
   The road was quite busy.  Tourists of all ages busily
drove towards their destination.
   Uncle Belly's Deli lay at the end of this four lane
highway.  That was not their destination.
   Vroom!  Vroom!
   The Goetz Intermediate School occupied the other end of
the road.  That was definitely not their destination.
   Mongo watched as, up ahead, a line of cars sped into the
Generic Corporation's Death Adventure entrance.  The one with
the big tiger statue waving a big Death Adventure flag.  That
was their destination.
   "Hey, bookbag?" Mongo asked, sweating slightly, waving a
colorful Death Adventure brochure as a paper fan.  "Is that
the entrance up there?"  He pointed at the big tiger about
two hundred feet up ahead.
   His bookbag must've answered "yes" because Mongo
continued to walk toward the large tiger.
   The traffic started to die down, the early evening
traffic dribbling down to a few stray cars.
   "Glad we waited 'til the night to come, Bookie.  That way
we won't have to wait so long on the lines."
   "What's that bookbag?" Mongo asked.  "You see something
lying in the grass over by that telephone pole?"  He walked
over and picked up a black top hat.  "Wow!" Mongo commented,
sniffing it.  "It smells like a weenie roast!"  He sniffed it
again then stuffed it into his black bookbag buddy.  "You
found it, so you can wear it!"  He resumed his trek towards
Death Adventure, merrily skipping every few steps.
   He reached the entrance, so he started the long walk to
the parking lot.  Even though the sun was hidden below the
tree line, the hot asphalt produced more heat than a fire
breathing hydra with a high fever.  Mongo began to really
   "Boy, I could go for nice, ice cold Cepsi-Pola right
now," Mongo voiced, wiping his forehead.  His bookbag
responded by getting very heavy.
   Mongo sat the bag down and opened it.  "Wow!  Thanks,
Bookie!" he chirped, withdrawing a six pack of Cepsi-Pola.
Ice cold, too.
   He plopped down on the curb and opened himself and his
bookbag a pair of sodas.  They drank.
   "What's that, Bookie?  You say that you won't be able to
come in to Death Adventure with me?"  Mongo held up an
envelope containing the lone ticket that he won from IRS
phone.  "Don't worry, Bookie," Mongo said, putting the
envelope back into his buddy.  His fingers glanced something
new, so he pulled it from his bookbag.  It was something that
he thought he had lost to those mean Cassville cops.  He held
up a magically produced hand gun.
   "We'll get you in."