THE BALLAD OF CLEMO AND WINSOR (NO RELATION)

My friend Don Winsor had an idea. Turned out it wasn't a very GOOD idea, but at the time we thought it had merit; what we would do is write a story together, on each other's FACEBOOK wall.
It's not as easy as we made it look.
Okay, that was sarcasm.

By popular demand I present to you, in it's entirety.....

THE BALLAD OF CLEMO (no relation) AND WINSOR (no relation)
(dedication added: For Vanessa and Patti, whether they'd want it or not.)

There were too many trees, and something had to be done. Winsor sighed a heavy sigh and wondered what had gone wrong. It was an idle sigh, and while history had shown him unlikely to affect any change, his disquiet with the changes of the past five years was building in him like the pressure in a particularly reclusive teenager's pimple.

There was a knock at the door...The kind of knock that betrayed the knocker.....while it did satisfy it's obligation to alert those inside to a presence outside, the knock itself lacked a kind of commitment; so much so that Winsor mistook the knock for a ring, and immediately answered his phone. It took a moment to clear the confusion.

Once Winsor was satisfied that the phone was not the culprit of the mysterious rapping (a musical artform heretofore sadly unexplored), he realized that he was expecting a pizza. "Be still and await my response, courier of Italianized flatbreads," he exclaimed, to no response. Winsor warily began to negotiate the distance between couch and entry portal.

It cannot be described, the look on Winsor's face upon opening the door and finding not which is heart desired (the above mentioned "itailianized flatbread") but in fact a slightly mussed and most hunger-sated Clemo, who acknowledged the aforementioned indescribable look with a hearty, tomato scented, "Have you ever had their pizza? I just tried it, and I've got to tell you, it's quite possibly the best pizza I've ever tasted. I mean, I've been around this great big world of ours, and I've tasted many things, but that pizza was just ambrosian."

Clemo seemed a bit stumped at Winsor's apparent impression of a Gorgon victim, but was less than surprised when the tall gentleman produced a Laser(tm) gun capable of producing a beam of pure anti-matter and casually pointed it in his direction. You see, it was this very device which Winsor and Clemo had inadvertently developed together whilst attempting to start a theatrical production company together.

Clemo laughed a tired laugh, and lamented casually, "Ah, yes, the Laser (tm) cannon we developed while trying to devise the perfect staging of THE MERRY WIVES OF TUMBRIDGE WELLS, that little known Shakesperian piece written, I believe, by Francis Bacon, pretending to be Christopher Marlowe. I thought it was a toaster."

Winsor smiled at the memory, and quickly lasered two slices of bread to toasty perfection. "Jam or Marmalade?" He queried. Clemo stammered a quiet response. "How dare you, Winsor? You well know of my strong views on the evils of spreadables." Clemo then soundly rebuffed his offender with a gentlemanly slap. "Just making sure it was you, J.C., and the best way to do that was to tempt an impostor with things wiped on bread." "Touche, my friend. Now, to the business at hand!"

Clemo pulled out a large manila envelope. He dramatically opened the top, and pulled out the contents. "Surely, you are aware of what these are?" He queried. Winsor looked on in a kind of stunned admiration. Of all the things to keep, after all these years......it was a sign of respect, certainly, and a kind of affection, to put so much emphasis on what seemed a trifle at the time of it's creation, but to see it here, now, after so much time

"I cannot believe that you kept this!" He cried, "My 3rd-grade Crayola sketches of every Beatles album cover, including 'Live in Las Vegas,' which never actually existed! How did you get these in the first place?" Clemo scoffed,indicating these are not what he wished to be noted. He reached deep into the envelope. Deeper,it seemed, than should be possible. He groped as a man who is sure something was in that pocket gropes, in the hopes that a sudden movement of the hand will reveal something hidden in the altogether limited space. His eyes widened and he turned a strange, whitish kind of pale. Finally, he spoke the words that would chill a man's soul. "Don. As strange as this may sound, something has.....got me."

At that moment, there was a strange kind of sucking noise; the kind of noise you would hear at the annual "Drink a Very Thick Shake Through a Very Thin Straw" contest, held every year in Zanesville, Ohio. Clemo's entire arm jerked, and began to disappear into the envelope.

"Grab my hand!" yelled Clemo
"That's fairly intimate for two gentlemen to become, Clemo."
"Curse you, Winsor, and your fear of intimacy! It shall be my undoing!"
With a dismissive sigh and a look that said "oh, very well," Winsor grabbed Clemo's remaining hand and tried to help free him from the mysterious pull of the envelope. What could he have brought in the envelope?
Clemo shouted, "By Achille's mittens, you shall not have my phlanges!"
With a mighty final tug,the two gents pulled free of the manila prison.

They fell to opposite corners and after the release of tension that sounded like something underwater yelling, NI NI NI!, they rose from their corners, and stared across the room at each other. "If I may be so bold as to ask," stated Winsor, politely, "What in all the green glades of Gilson's Creek was THAT?"
"I'm not sure, my alliterative friend, but trust me when I tell you that I will not be opening that manila envelope again. It seems to be possessed." And with that, Clemo absent-mindedly opened the envelope.

A small piece of paper, about the size of a smaller version of an 3 x 5 card tumbled out from between manila sheets, and floated to the floor as if being drawn to it by a very forgiving magnet. Clemo drew his trusty Webley revolver from somewhere within his voluminous cloak, and prepared to fire, but was interrupted by his compatriot who, in his charming and yet self deprecating manner, said:
"Ekerty wip boble neffle tiptop bang, hycvwa."

For a moment the gentlemen locked eyes upon this utterance, neither of them seeming to have any idea what it meant. Winsor held the confused gaze whilst slowly kneeling and retrieving the card. When he returned to full height and looked at the card, his brow furrowed. One word shown clear in black sharpie on the white face of the card. He turned the card so Clemo could see the card fairly shouting:
"EULALIE!"

Clemo put away his gun. "There is only one thing this could mean which does not involve Meredith Wilson, or perhaps does, but it is certainly is a puzzle. First of all, we must ask, EULALIE who?"
"Please, practice your yodeling at another time." Sneered Winsor.
"Quite right. There will be another time to fine tune my Alpian singing style. Perhaps your little black book will hold some answers."
Winsor nodded solemnly. There were few things he hated more than bringing out that part of his past. But, if it could possibly help the situation, he would put on the mask of stoicism, and attend to the matter. He walked across the room, pausing only to pick up a lamp which had fallen in the recent "manila envelope" adventure, and placed it on the table; which was in itself difficult, for the table had been mangled in the aforementioned adventure.

Winsor opened his book, a stark reminder of the strange time when, for many years, he would only date older women. More specifically, older women who had once been panelists on THE MATCH GAME television program. Even more precisely, older women who had been panelists on THE MATCH GAME between 1973 and 1979. He flipped through the listings.
"Joanne Worley? No... Vicki Lawrence? Possssib...nooo... Betty White, no... Mary Wickes... definitely not. Avery Schreiber... no... Leslie Nielsen... no..."
"Wait," said Clemo. "Aren't those last two... aren't they men?"
"Yes... terrible mistake, that. Their names are rather girly, though. An easy mistake... two, rather. And two very awkward dinners."
Clemo was supportive. "Yes, I can see how you could make that mistake. Both of those....gentlemen.....are very.....well...."
"I do so hate to interrupt you," injected Winsor, and Clemo was grateful for the exit, "But I do believe I have stumbled upon a clue."
He opened the book wide, and there, in all it's glory, was the name Eulalie Page.

"Eulalie Page...."mused Clemo.
"Eulalie Page....." muttered Winsor.
"Any bells ringing?" Asked Clemo.
"Not a one" Replied Winsor.
"So, it's a long forgotten Page then?" Said Clemo.

Winsor sighed, for it seemed that Clemo was falling back upon the Pun, which was, in his opinion, the lowest form of verbal humor. Winsor considered hitting him with a Good Humor bar, which he had just been musing upon, feeling a bit peckish after this trip down memory lane.Then, Winsor noticed that the card was not only inscribed on one side, but fully covered with pencil marks on the opposite.

"I fear, J.C., that we may have overestimated the importance of the prominent Eulaliness of the forward side. It seems the back may be where our answers lie."
"Or," countered Clemo,"it may be that this is simply a piece of random paper that fell into my envelope."
"Clemo, if you in fact filled this envelope, why all the guesswork as to the contents or message?"

Clemo's eyes widened, his eyebrows raised and furrowed, and his mouth opened with a sharp, pre-speech intake of air; an expression that indicated that he desperately WANTED to retort but was faced with unconsidered truth.
After a moment, he managed a response of "BURMA!"
Winsor was puzzled.
Clemo raised his left eyebrow apolgetically. "Sorry about that. I panicked. Let's have a look at the BACK of the Eulalie message."

Clemo took the piece of paper and stared at it like a starving man would stare at the Mona Lisa. He turned it clockwise; counterclockwise; he flipped it in the air; he wore it like a hat. Finally he said, "Well, that's interesting."
"Yes," said Winsor, "I especially liked it as a hat."
"Well, you always had an eye for style, but that's not what I meant. Apparently, these chicken scratchings are exactly that....the scratchings of a chicken. But, much like twenty monkeys will evetually write HAMLET, this mystery fowl has given us the beginnings of a quest..."

"Let me see that. Hmm... chicken scratches, indeed. But this list... bread, milk, eggs, chicken... Why would a chicken make a list which includes eggs and chicken, which are surely in ready supply in their immediate vicinity?"
"Perhaps it is a lonely chicken, and that is a personal ad," posited Clemo.
"No, Clemo, I propose that it is neither a personal ad, nor a code. We are dealing here with a fiendish list composed by a forgetful, serial killing chicken. Of course he has to put chicken and eggs on his list..."
"She," interrupted Clemo. "It would have to be she, for it to be a 'chicken.'"
"What? Fine. She, or he, would most certainly be caught if they were to murder chickens in their own coop, or to steal eggs from nearby hens. Wait, HENS are female chickens, you dolt! I think. Anyway, of course they'd have to go OUTSIDE the coop to satisfy their bloodlust, else risk capture!"
"They are already captured. They are chickens, in a coop."
When faced with that kind of logic, both men simply stared at each other, wondering what the other was thinking.
"I wonder what Clemo is thinking?" Thought Winsor.
"Hot Fudge Sundae." Thought Clemo.
Then it came to them, simultaneously:
"Round up the usual suspects!" they exclaimed, in perfect four part harmony.
"Find the nearest coop!" cried Winsor.
"I've got a map!" cried Clemo.
"Where to begin?" said Winsor.
"Kentucky?" queried Clemo
"Too obvious." countered Winsor.
"California?" Clemo queried. Again.
"Hot chicks, but not the ones were looking for." Winsor replied.
"Well, then, I'm out of ideas." muttered a devastated Clemo.
"And you've completely destroyed the vaudevillean concept of the Triple." said Winsor, Triumphantly.
"Curse you and you attachment to ancient comedic technique!" roared Clemo, churlishly.

And there they sat, like protagonists in a Beckett play.
"Shall we go?" said Clemo.

Hours passed.

Still, more time passed.

One of them sat down, and turned away.
The other yawned.

Finally, at just the right moment, Winsor answered."I think it's time. Let's go apprehend the serial-killing chicken that apparently sneaks out of its coop to murder other chickens, to steal and destroy eggs."
Clemo furrowed his brow. "Why did you just restate everything like that?"
"For people who lost track of us while we waited for the commercial break to be over."
"Of course," acknowledged Clemo.
"Now, why exactly is this our responsibility? Truth be told, I was coming over here in hopes of maybe getting a bite to eat, or having a game of Six Degrees From Kevin Bacon, and perhaps some stimulting conversation about the sorry state of morals in the American Cinema. Instead, I'm on a chicken quest."
Winsor looked outraged. "Are you suggesting we simply ignore our responsibilities to the rule of law, and in a smaller sense the fowl community in letting this alleged crime go unpunished?"
Clemo thought of a moment."Yes. That is, in a nutshell, what I'm suggesting."
Winsor was caught off-guard by this thunderbolt of honesty, as well as the complete negation of a sub-plot."Well. Then. I guess we'll just..."

At that very moment, there was a terrible ghastly silence, much like the sound of a set of bagpipes being put through a food processor.

"BAH GAWWWWWK!"

The Evil Chicken had landed.

Winsor turned to look at the chicken which had just landed upon his open terrace with surprise, disbelief, and an a shrug of apathy."Well, I guess this tears it.We stick with the chicken."
"CAWWWWWWW brrrrrAAWWWWWWHK CWAWW,"threatened the chicken.
Clemo responded quickly."You don't frighten us, you paltry poultry!"
"Clemo, we are not comicbook superheroes.We do not need to resort to calling him out in such a manner.Perhaps the evi... Perhaps the chicken would like to have some tea with us. Etgay the ungay."
"Bkawww?"The chicken was perplexed.
"Ikcenschay antkay eakspay igpay atinlay,"observed Winsor as he set the table for tea.

True, thought Clemo, as he went to the bookshelf to remove the hollowed out volume of Kelsey Grammer's autobiography "So Far"which held Winsor's pistol. He remembered the day they'd hollowed the book-"It is now as empty physically as it is in every other way," he'd observed.

As he stood gun-getting and remembering, Winsor and the chicken finished having tea.

A brief side note on the effects of tea upon chickens, or in fact any of the domesticated fowl. The inherent caffiene within the various varieties of tea can affect the chicken in many a varied ways; for example, Earl Grey tea tends to make your average chicken somewhat lethargic, and in those periods of lethargy, it becomes quite easy to lull the chicken into a coma (and, with the proper hand gestures, into a casserole) with the music of Mannheim Steamroller or, in a pinch, The Alan Parsons Project. However, Lemon Zinger tends to make the chicken cranky.

"Winsor," asked Clemo, "Whatever tea have you served our guest and OH MY GOD how could you do such a thing to Kelsey Grammer's heartfelt autobiography?"

Winsor's doubts upon the intelligence of his friend surfaced like an Orca in the Artic Circle, but being unaware of the effects of tea upon the average chicken, he let it pass."I have, of course, served the chicken a hot cup of Celestial Seasoning's Salmonella Suicide tea," and with those words, as if on cue, the chicken did a spit take, its eyes bulged in surprise, and it collapsed forward onto the table.
"I keep this tea on hand for guests I hate but want to be civilized toward."

Hours later, as they sat enjoying the last of the fried chicken they'd just made, both men realized something important. "Winsor," said Clemo, "we have been entirely sidetracked from our true purpose here this evening."
"Have we?"
"We had dates. A double date. I just remembered... the envelope had the tickets to MAME starring Jude Law; we were to escort our respective redheads to the show tonight."
"Egad," exclaimed Winsor in a way not heard often enough these days.
"Egad indeed," Clemo screamed, for no reason.
"What time is it?"
Pocketwatches were produced from pockets.
"Smurfette's little hand is between then seven and the eight! There is still time!"
Clemo looked incredulous. "Where is Smurfette's big hand?" he asked.
Winsor gave Clemo the look a slot machine might give the man who pulled the lever....so many options, so many combinations, none that would be appropriate, and only one that would be realllly funny.
"We must fly!" Cried Winsor.
"Yes, to pick up our loved ones, and off to an evening of maiming!" cried Clemo, trying on the veneer of excitement for size.
"Mame-ing" corrected Winsor, looking for his car keys, his wallet, his autographed photo of Eddie "Rochester" Anderson, and his Little Orphan Annie Secret Decoder Ring. He found everything but the tickets to the musical nightmare they had promised the ladies that they would be attending.
"Have you seen the..." he began.
"...rain? Have you EVER seen the rain? I want to know."
Clemo had, in fact, but was more curious about the tickets to MAME. Then he remembered he had stuck them to the soles of his shoes with bubblegum, because they were important and should not be lost. They were still there, and not too much the worse for wear. Clemo was examining the tickets, when he stopped suddenly and asked, "Why are we going to this horribly miscast horrible musical?"
"Because of the women.They deserve a date night."
"But they are smart women. We all enjoy theatre. Why would we want to see MAME? Why would we want to see Jude Law playing Mame?"
"This town is a cultural wasteland," explained Winsor. "Our only other options are low-budget horrible semi-professional or community efforts. At least this will be ridiculously high-budgeted and horrible. We will be able to laugh about it afterward over drinks."
Clemo nodded in agreement.Tonight they would forgo mystery-solving,crime-fighting,and hyphen-misuse, all for Love.

That's about it.
The end of the road; the end of the story.
It could be said that after the musical, they went to dinner at a nice place; they talked of many things; the past, the future, and all was well.
"I say, Winsor" said Clemo. "I hate to interrupt our reverie, but isn't that Jude Law?"
And surely it WAS Jude Law, looking every bit like a dollar bill caught in a change machine, trying to put cream in his coffee while negotiating his Moons Over My Hammy.
"What's that in his lapel?" asked Winsor, but the tremor in his voice gave away his fore- knowledge.
It was a chicken feather.
A perfect chicken tail feather.
The game was afoot.
But THAT is a story for another time

The End