Bookshelf Battle

The Wombat Garden was an enormous, state-of-the-art concert arena that seated roughly forty-thousand people in plush, comfortable chairs, most of which were full by the time Paige wandered in.

In a frenzied panic, the teenager walked up and down one aisle after another, searching for a free seat to no avail until someone shouted, “Hey!”

Paige turned her head. A freckled faced girl about the same age as Paige lifted a jacket off of the chair next to her and pointed to it.

It was right on the edge of a row so luckily, Paige didn’t even have to scooch past a bunch of people to reach it. She sat down right away.

“Thank you,” Paige said.

“No problem,” the girl replied as she shook Paige’s hand. “I’m Laura.”

“Paige.”

The teens looked around for a bit. The excitement in the room was palpable. Thousands of hormonal girls wearing Boyz a’Plenty shirts, holding up posters with their favorite boy on them, chatting away to each other incessantly.

“I’m sorry,” Paige said. “Were you saving this seat for someone?”

“In a way,” Laura said.

“Friend that couldn’t make it?” Paige asked.

Laura stared off into space and flashed a wry smile. “In a way,” she repeated.

“OK then,” Paige said as she leaned back. “Hashtag cryptic.”

Laura giggled. “My twin sister.”

“OMG,” Paige said. “Did she get lost or something?”

“She died,” Laura said.

Paige frowned. “OMG.”

“Oh its ok,” Laura said as she flipped through her official souvenir Boyz a’Plenty concert program. “Well, no, it’ll never be ok but it’s about as ok as it will ever be. We always went everywhere together. Movies, shows, concerts and she was always late, so I got in the habit of saving a seat for her.”

Laura’s eyes welled up.

“I’m sorry,” Laura said.

“It’s ok,” Paige replied.

“Its just that, she lost her battle with cancer two years ago,” Paige said. “And here I am, still putting my jacket on a seat like a big dummy hoping she’ll just walk right in and sit down.”

Now Paige was crying. “That’s not dumb. That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It is?” Laura asked.

“Hashtag love is forever,” Paige said.

“Hashtag love really is forever isn’t it?” Laura asked.

The girls traded a hug then Paige held up her tablet.

“Do you mind if I commemorate this moment with a selfie?” Paige asked.

“Commemorate away,” Laura answered.

The girls immediately pursed their lips into duck bills as Paige snapped.

“Hashtag bravest person I’ve ever met,” Paige said as she typed. “And posted!”

“So who’s your favorite?” Laura asked.

“OMG,” Paige said. “Hashtag a question for the ages. Let’s see. A.J. is dreamy but B.J. seems kind of damaged yet not so much that the love of a good woman couldn’t fix him, you know?”

“I totally know,” Laura said. “Sometimes I like to pretend that woman is me.”

“Me too,” Paige said.

“C.J. is the bad boy for sure,” Laura said.

“He is,” Paige said. “But you know, Davey just seems really sweet and down to earth so I’d have to go with him.”

“Everyone loves Davey,” Laura said.

“Hashtag so true,” Paige said.

The lights dimmed and thousands of girls instantly screamed in glee.

“Hello girls,” an announcer said.

More happy screams.

“Are you ready for the boys?” the announcer asked.

Joyous screams.

The lights flickered across the arena in a strobe effect. A hole opened in the stage and out of it, a platform immersed in fog slowly rose up.

“Coming to you from the Wombat Garden in fabulous Wombat World,” the announcer continued. “You’ve heard their hit singles ‘What Up, Girl?’ and ‘Don’t Be Sad, Girl.’”

The fog dissipated as the platform locked into the rest of the stage. Four shadowy boyish silhouettes were now visible.

Paige and Laura, like every other girl in the crowd, were on their feet, screaming like maniacs and bouncing up and down.

Choice words shouted from the audience included, “I love you, A.J!” and “Davey, I want to have ten thousand of your babies!”

“OMG,” Paige said. “Hashtag I’m gonna pass out!”

“I know,” Laura said. “Me too.”

Paige hit the record button on her tablet, pointed it at the stage and started a live stream.

“Here to perform their latest smash hit ‘Girl, Won’t You Be My Girl?’ its A.J., B.J., C.J. and Davey aka…Boyz a’Plenty!”

The spotlight hit the boys. They turned around, smiled and waved and every girl in attendance impersonated a mental patient that had just escaped from an insane asylum.

“OMG,” Paige said as she squinted at the stage. “Davey has peach fuzz on his chin!”

Laura squinted. “He does!”

The boys wore flesh colored headsets that amplified their voices.

“Hey girls,” A.J. said.

That was met with a resounding, “Woooooo!”

B.J. strutted right up to the edge of the stage. “You ready to make some noise, Wombat World?”

Oh they were. And oh they did.

“Wooooooo!”

“Come on,” C.J. said. “You can do better than that!”

The girls belted out an even louder, “Wooooooo!”

“Hey fellas,” Davey said. “I love Wombat World, don’t you?”

“We sure do,” A.J. said. “And not just because we’re contractually obligated to as we’re signed with the music division of Carruthers Brothers Amalgamated Studios.”

“I love the rides,” B.J. said.

“I love the cotton candy,” C.J. said.

“That’s all great,” Davey said. “But you know what would would make a day like today even more special?”

“What’s that, Davey?” A.J. asked.

“If one of these girls…”

The girls lost it. Ear drums were shattered as they screeched at a dog whistle pitch and lobbed various undergarments at the boys.

Davey grinned and looked out at the crowd. “…would be my girl.”

More hysterics until the announcer took over.

“Attention girls. If you are sitting in seat 47A, congratulations! Head up on stage so your fun filled day with Boyz a’Plenty can begin!”

Every girl in the joint frantically checked her seat. Paige’s heart pounded as she stared at the number printed on the back of her chair – 47A.

“OMG,” Paige said.

Laura smiled.

“What do I do?” Paige asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what do you do?’” Laura asked. “Get up there!”

Paige looked up at the boys on stage, then around at the auditorium filled with insane girls, then at Laura.

“No,” Paige said. “This is your sister’s seat. It should be you.”

Laura grabbed Paige’s hand. “Don’t even worry…”

Before Laura could finish her sentence, Paige was shouting, “OMG thank you Laura, I’ll never forget you!” as she beat feet towards the stage.

“…about it.”

Laura folded her arms in disgust. “Shit,” she said to a Paige who was no longer there. “You were supposed to call my bluff so could be all like, ‘Well, if you insist’ but just run your stupid, inconsiderate ass right up there.”

The lights went dark. A few minutes later, the spotlight hit the stage again and Paige was sitting in a chair, flipping out and live streaming away on her tablet as the boys surrounded her.

“Hey girls,” A.J. said to the audience.

“We’ve got a very special guest with us,” B.J. said.

“Her name is Paige,” C.J. said.

Davey walked over to Paige and got down on one knee. Tears of epic elation streamed down Paige’s cheeks.

“Paige, I’ve just got one question for you…”

The boy band member with the peach fuzz on his chin took Paige’s hand into his, looked her in the eyes and asked, “Girl…will you be my girl?”

Paige looked as though her head was about to physically explode.

Background music filled the speakers. It was a hip, funky beat.

The boys broke out into elaborate dance moves as they sang in unison, “Girl, won’t you be my, be my girl…”

All the girls in the arena cheered.

“…won’t you be my whole wide world? Oh girl, won’t you be my, be my girl?”

A fuming mad Laura remained seated. “What a bitch.”

Doug wandered through Wombat Central Square, a fresh red bruise on his cheek from the purse he took to the face, wielded by the mother of the boy in the Kippy Kangaroo shirt.

“Earl,” Doug said into his walkie-talkie. “Been a half-hour since I’ve heard from you. Where you at, man? Riggs needs his Murtaugh, bro.”

The security guard leaned up on a fence surrounding a garden filled with leafy green bushes, each one trimmed into the likeness of a different Wombat World character.

“God almighty,” Doug said as he flipped the shades attached to his prescription glasses downward and watched the tourists pass him by. “I’m surrounded by rule breakers whose asses are covered by a corrupt system that won’t let me dispense my own brand of personal justice.”

A few feet away, a nine-year old boy leaned over the fence and blew chunks all over a bush shaped like Chester Chimp.

“Oh honey,” the boy’s mother said as she patted his back. “I told you not to eat all that candy. Are you ok?”

“Uh huh,” the boy said as he took his mother’s hand.

“Come on,” the mother said as she led her son away. “Let’s find a place to sit down for a little while.”

Doug stared at Chester’s barf covered face, then at the mother and son as they walked away.

“Not on my watch.”

The security guard was about to pursue the youngster when he heard a bunch of children laughing and instantly snapped his head towards them.

What a sight. Right in the middle of the square, an employee in a Willy Wombat mascot costume was lying down on the pavement, powerless against the hordes of small children who were jumping up and down on this poor individual.

Doug took one last look at the boy, who was now sitting with his mother on a bench on the opposite side of the square. “Shit. You just got lucky, punk.”

The security guard blew on his whistle and approached the scene.

“Hey you little criminals!” Doug shouted. “Attacking Willy Wombat is an official Wombat World offense!”

None of the kids seemed to think it was an attack. Some of the kids wrapped their little arms around Willy and hugged him. Others bounced up and down on his big belly. Some kicked, poked, and prodded him in the head and other assorted parts.
Doug blew his whistle again and tried shouting louder.

“Damn it! If you kids keep messing with the bull, you will get the horns!”

None of the kids paid the rent-a-cop any mind.

“Chief,” Doug said into his walkie-talkie. “I got a situation here. I’m going to need someone to bring me a stun gun and about twenty-seven cartridges. You know what? Make it an even thirty. Some of these kids are pretty fat.”

“Shut up, shit for brains,” the Chief’s voice replied. “Ellen’s on now and she’s going to dance with her guest. It will be heartwarming and hysterical.”

Willy flailed his arms and legs to and fro. Doug could hear a muffled female voice screaming from inside the oversized wombat head.

“Attention kids,” Doug said. “Free toys are being given away at the Wombat Gift Shop!”

The little urchins all looked up.

“That’s right,” Doug said. “Free toys at the Wombat Gift Shop.”

Like a pack of wild hyenas tripping on PCP, the tiny wackos stampeded away. Doug leaned over the mascot.

“Are you ok in there?”

“Unnghh,” growned the voice from inside the wombat head. “Holy shit.”

“Jess?” the security guard asked.

“Doug?” Jess replied.

“I thought you were Princess Paulina,” Doug said.

“I was,” Jess said. “But I turned thirty.”

“Oh,” Doug said. “Right. The official ‘no human character actors over thirty’ policy. My condolences. Happy birthday though.”

“Worst one ever,” Jess said.

Doug grabbed Jess by her furry hand and helped her to her feet. She stumbled a bit until she gripped Doug’s shoulder for support.

“It’s hotter than Satan’s asshole in here and twice as smelly,” Jess said. “I can barely see anything. I keep tripping over these giant feet. This whole suit must weigh like a hundred pounds.”

“Yeah,” Doug said. “FYI union rules require that mascots be led around the park by a handler. You got cheated today but next time don’t leave the backlot until they get someone to run interference on the kids for you.”

Doug led a very slow, extremely wobbly wombat actress to a bench in front of Jimbo Frog’s Pizza Extravaganza, helped her sit down, then joined her.

“I need to take this stupid head off,” Jess said. “I’m suffocating.”

“No can do,” Doug said. “Technically, I should run you in for breaking character. Using your own voice while in a mascot costume is a big no-no.”

“I could give a shit, Doug,” Jess said.

“I’ll let you off with a warning,” Doug continued. “The Chief’s been riding my ass to compromise my principles lately so I figure if all the little pukes running around here are getting a break then I suppose you should too.”

Jess sighed.  “I once got a call back for a second audition for a lead role on a premium cable TV show.”

“Which one?” Doug asked.

“The one with all the gratuitous nudity, violence, and absurd, nonsensical plot lines,” Jess replied.

“Oh,” Doug said. “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down, but as my partner Earl told me this morning, ‘in horseshoes as in life, close doesn’t count.’”

“Earl’s your partner?” Jess asked. “I thought he was just an old man you stand next to.”

“Yeah,” Doug said. “I could see how a layperson such as yourself could make that mistake.”

The boy who vomited minutes earlier was up and feeling better. He and his mother were standing in front of Willy.

“Willy!” the boy cried. “Mom, it’s Willy!”

The boy’s mother handed Doug her camera. “Would you mind?”

“I absolutely mind, lady,” Doug said. “I can’t compromise park security by appearing in your photo.”

The woman glared at Doug. “I meant can you take a photo of my son and I with Willy?”

“Oh,” Doug said as he looked at the slumped over mascot, which he knew contained an aching Jess.

“Willy’s on break,” Doug said.

“No,” came Jess’s voice from inside the head. “Its ok.”

Doug stood up and pointed the lady’s camera at Willy as the boy and his mother hugged the mascot.

“You sound funny, Willy,” the boy said.

“Yeah,” Jess replied. “That happens when you get curb stomped in the vagine fifty times, kid.”

“Huh?” the boy asked.

Jess was quiet for a few seconds, then mimicked Willy’s squeaky voice. “Have a wombat-tactic day at Wombat World, little boy!”

Doug handed the woman her camera and sat down as the boy and his mother left.

“Hey Doug,” Jess said.

“Yeah?” Doug asked.

“You and I started working here right around the same time, didn’t we?” Jess asked.

“Hmm,” Doug said as he thought about the question. “Yes. The year was 2006. George W. Bush was in the White House and Dick Cheney had just shot his friend in the face. Justin Timberlake was bringing the sexy back and The Departed was on its way to winning the Oscar…”

“Didn’t ask for a history lesson,” Jess said. “Just seems like time has gone by way too fast.”

“Time is the cruelest of all mistresses,” Doug said.

“Where’d you think you’d be by now?” Jess asked.

“On the force,” Doug said. “Figured this security gig was just a brief stop until I got a state police cruiser of my very own. You?”

“Crushed under the weight of all my acting awards,” Jess said.

“That’s a big dream,” Doug said. “Me? I’d just settle for a nice wife to come home to.”

“Come to think of it,” Jess said. “I have been wondering where my handsome prince is.”

Doug raised an eyebrow. “Maybe closer than you think.”

Without skipping a beat, Jess replied, “I said, ‘handsome,’ dummy.”

“Eh, you know Jess,” Doug said. “No offense but I’ve always believed incredibly good looking women such as yourself are nothing but a major hassle anyway.”

“Seriously?” Jess asked.

“Yeah,” Doug said. “Give me a woman low on options who shares my interest in nerd culture and I’ll be a happy camper.”

“But you just came on to me,” Jess said.

“When?” Doug asked.

“When you said maybe my prince is closer than I think,” Jess said.

“Pbbbht,” Doug said. “Stop flattering yourself, woman. All I meant was that yes, somewhere around here there’s a handsome guy who will be willing to take on the arduous, unenviable task of keeping an attractive woman happy.”

“I’m not that high-maintenance,” Jess said.

“Jess,” Doug said. “Please. Accept your rejection and move on.”

“Really,” Jess said. “I’m all about grease and wrenches. I’m happiest when I’m working on my bike.”

“Shh,” Doug said as he held up his finger and pressed it against the mascot head’s fuzzy fabric lips. “You’re just embarrassing yourself now.”

“Uggh,” Jess said. “Whatever.”

Jess and Doug sat silently for awhile.

“Say Doug?” Jess asked.

“Yeah?” Doug asked.

“Didn’t you just cause a big headache for the gift shop?” Jess asked.

“Oh shit,” Doug said as he pulled out his walkie-talkie and pressed the call button. “Wombat Gift Shop! Wombat Gift Shop, come in!”

An employee of the gift shop returned Doug’s call with a deafening, “Arrrrrrggggh!”

Doug stood up and took off. “I better look into that.”

Jess remained on the bench, mumbling to herself. “Turning thirty. Losing my princess job. Being forced to wear a throw-rug shaped like a glorified rodent. Getting rejected by a male mutant I wasn’t even propositioning. Can this day get any worse?”

Earl walked across the cement floor of the Wombat World main receiving warehouse. Boxes of cheap, tacky toys and merchandise shipped in from third world labor camps lined the shelves.

His walkie-talked squawked.

“Hey Earl,” came the garbled voice of Doug. “Got a little boy here wearing a Kippy Kangaroo shirt. That’s the mascot of the theme park down the road. I’m going to bring him in for questioning.”

Earl pulled out his walkie-talkie and pressed the call button. “Doug, just stand there and do nothing until I get back.”

Too late. Doug’s voice came through once more. “Hey kid! Hold up! We don’t take kindly to kangaroo lovers around here…”

“Asshole,” Earl said as he holstered his radio.

The back end of a tractor trailer truck was lined up with the loading dock. Brother Klaus, still wearing Jim Bob’s clothing and sunglasses, stood inside the warehouse, waiting.

“Hello,” Earl said. “What have you got?”

“Oh just a whole mess of soda pop syrup, I reckon,” Brother Klaus said in a southern accent. “Hoo dowgie, traffic was a bear but I wrassled it all the way here, sure enough.”

“Got your ID?” Earl asked.

“Yessir,” Brother Klaus said as he handed over the driver’s license he pilfered from Jim Bob. “Can’t be too careful nowadays, especially with all them terrorists running around willy nilly.”

Earl inspected the license. It was issued in Florida. It listed the driver’s name as one James Robert Tucker. But something was off.

The security guard squinted at the photo, then looked up and squinted at Brother Klaus’s face.

“You lose a little weight there, fella?” Earl asked.

Brother Klaus was quiet for a moment, then patted his skinny, nearly non-existent belly. “Why I sure did, pardnah and thank you for asking. My wife done got me on that program where you stand on your head three times a day and you gotta slap yourself in the face with a wet noodle anytime you eat anything bigger than your fist. Works wonders.”

“Huh,” Earl said as he turned around and took out his walkie-talkie. “Hold on. I’m going to call this in.”

Brother Klaus reached into his pocket and pulled out a garrote wire.

“Chief?” Earl said into his walkie talkie.

“What is it, Earl?” the chief’s voice replied. “You know I hate it when people interrupt me during the View. Joy Behar is a national treasure.”

The cultist separated the two handles and gripped one into each of his hands.

“Sorry, Chief,” Earl said. “Look, I got a…”

The wire was around Earl’s throat. Brother Klaus yanked back with all his might, crushing his victim’s windpipe.

Earl dropped his radio on the ground. He threw his hands up and lunged at his attacker, but it was of no use. His eyes bugged out and his face turned purple.

“Earl, I don’t have all day here,” the Chief said. “Aww shit, Whoopi’s on fire today.”

“Gack.” Earl struggled a bit more.

“Earl, you there?” the Chief asked over the radio. “Eh, probably something to do with old shit for brains. Tell Doug to stop harassing the customers over piddly shit. I’ve gotten ten complaints already and I haven’t even had my breakfast burrito.”

“Ack.”

The long, difficult life of Earl Hutchins had come to an end.

Brother Klaus looked around and seeing no one, he pocketed his wire, then dragged Earl’s body through the warehouse until he found a dumpster. He lifted the lid, hoisted his victim in as if he were so much trash, then let the lid drop.

“Earl!” came the Chief’s voice. “Everything ok there?”

The cultist returned to the scene of the crime and picked up the radio.

“Shit,” the Chief said. “If you’re hurt or something let me know. I’d check it out but the ladies are about to tell me why my penis makes me inferior.”

Brother Klaus adopted his best, default American accent and pushed the call button. “Everything A-OK here, Chief.”

A moment passed.

“Earl, you sound funny,” the Chief said.

“Me?” Brother Klaus said. “No. Maybe your inferior penis has affected your brain.”

“Probably,” the Chief said. “Take it easy, Earl.”

“OK,” Brother Klaus said. He then returned to the dumpster, opened up the lid, chucked the radio in, then closed it.

It wasn’t a moment too soon, for as Brother Klaus returned to the trailer, a team of burly looking workers wearing yellow coveralls with Willy Wombat’s face on the back walked in.

“You got a delivery?” one of the workmen asked.

“Sure do,” Brother Klaus said. “Whole heap of soda pop gunk.”

“Where’s security?” the workman asked.

“Ahh there was a feller what come in here a few minutes ago,” Brother Klaus said, returning to a southern accent. “He gave it all a once over and said it looked good.”

“Weird,” the workman said. “They usually wait until we get here.”

The workman and Brother Klaus stared at each other for a bit.

“Oh well,” the workman said as he shrugged his shoulders. “Come on guys, lets get this all unloaded and off to the concession stands.”

“OMG,” Paige said as she pressed a red button on her tablet and stared into the camera. “We’re rolling. Hi Lifebox followers. Here I am, live streaming from Wombat Central Square, where all the magic happens. Hashtag so much fun.”

Mack watched his niece with confusion until his sister explained it all.

“Its like everyone has the power to make their own TV show now, but none of them are ever any good.”

“Oh,” Mack replied. “So pretty much like regular TV.”

Paige flipped her tablet around to give her followers a glimpse of what she was seeing – brightly colored buildings, three jugglers on stilts tossing bowling pins in the air and catching them flawlessly, kids waiting in line to have their picture taken with Lonnie Llama. Off in the distance the wombat bumper car arena was visible and kids were plowing their wombat shaped vehicles into each other non-stop.

Dylan jumped into Paige’s shot, pointed his shorts clad behind at her tablet and bounced it whilst reciting Stank Daddy lyrics. “Damn, bitch! You gotta fat ass! Damn, bitch! You gotta fat ass! Shake that, shake that, shake that ass!”

“Sorry everyone,” Paige said. “That’s my brother. We’re looking for a good mental hospital to ship him off to so let me know if you know any. Hashtag sad.”

“I’ll make it rain all my cash,” Dylan continued. “So shake that, shake that, shake that ass!”

“Dylan!” Paige said. “Get out of the way! Hashtag brothers are the worst.”

The boy lost interest and looked at his map. “Mom. We have to catch the wombat rail to Spaceville and get in line for the shock rocket.”

“Yeesh Dylan,” Abby said. “Shock rocket? Really? Isn’t it a little early in the morning to go on a ride that’s going to launch our stomachs out of our butts?”

“It’s like a band-aid,” Dylan said. “The sooner you rip it off the better.”

“Princessify Yourself is right around the corner,” Paige said. “Come on Mom, we can get a two for one special.”

“Ehh,” Abby said as she took a sip of her store bought soda. “My princess days are over, hun. You know kids, I think the best way to start a Wombat World vacation is with a trip to the Happy Little International Children Experience.”

The kids groaned.

“Oh god,” Dylan said. “That sounds straight up awful.”

“Hashtag boo,” Paige said.

“It is adorable,” Abby said. “It was my favorite ride when I was your age. All these cute little animatronic kids dressed in clothes from around the world sing to you about how the world would be so much better if it were run by kids.”

Abby looked her spawn over. Paige was lost in her live stream. Dylan was staring at his map and picking his nose.

“Although come to think of it,” Abby said. “The irony is not lost on me.”

The entire theme park was lousy with loudspeakers. An announcer chimed in. “Good morning wombat fans. Its another bright, sunny day here at Wombat World, America’s number one amusement park dedicated to a cartoon marsupial. If you can find another park dedicated to a cartoon marsupial that’s better, cleaner, or cheaper, then by all means, go there, ingrates.”

“OK,” Abby said. “Come on, kids. We’re off to see the happy international children.”

“Shock rocket,” Dylan said.

“Princessify yourself,” Paige said.

Abby shook her head and looked to her brother, who held his arms out.

“I’m just along for the ride,” Mack said. “Whatever you all want to do.”

“All of our attractions are up and running,” the announcer said. “So make your way to Fancy Town. Say hello to Mayor Diggsley and take a ride on Lord Prissybottom’s Whirling Dirvish.”

Abby stepped into Paige’s shot. “Paige,” Abby said. “Can you put that down for a minute?”

“OMG,” Abby said. “I can’t have my mom on a live stream. Now I have to delete the whole thing and start all over. Hashtag production values.”

“I wish I could delete my life and start over,” Abby mumbled.

“All of our transportation methods are conveniently accessible,” the announcer said. “Guests are invited to move about the park by their choice of wombat rail, wombat bus, wombat boat, or if you’re one of our few non-obese visitors, wombat bicycles are available for rent.”

“Kids,” Mack said. “Maybe you could let your mom know you appreciate all she does for you by going on her ride first.”

“OK,” Paige said. “Wombat Central Square live stream, take two. Hi Lifebox followers, it’s Paige coming to you live from…”

Dylan couldn’t control himself from jumping butt first into Paige’s shot again.

“Dolla, dolla, dolla will make you holla,” the boy sang. “So shake that ass, bitch!”

More from the announcer. “Wombat fans, do you know that a dream is something you think about in order to avoid killing yourself as you shuffle through your soul crushing existence? Head on over to our animation museum, where you can get a break from the oppressive heat and take in a three hour documentary about how the Carruthers Brothers turned their mediocre sketches of a cartoon wombat into a bloated behemoth of an entertainment empire.”

“Children,” Mack barked.

The kids snapped to attention.

“You will go on your mother’s incredibly boring happy international children ride and you will make a reasonable effort to make her believe that you are enjoying yourselves as you do so,” Mack said. “Have I made myself clear?”

The announcer was back. “A special treat for you today, kids. Boyz a’Plenty, one of the four hundred boy bands to have signed on with the music division of Carruthers Brothers Amalgamated Studios, will be giving a free concert in the Wombat Garden in a half-hour.”

Paige looked up. “OMG.”

“One lucky attendee will win a tour of Wombat World, guided by the boys themselves,” the announcer said.

“OMG,” Paige said as she turned to her mother. “Mom! Mom! Mom!”

“That sounds fun,” Abby said. “Let’s check that out.”

Paige turned off her tablet. “No!”

“What?” Abby asked.

“What if I win the tour?”

“You’re probably not going to win, Paige,” Abby said.

“But I might,” Paige said. “And then the boys will think I’m a loser because my family is with me. Hashtag epic humiliation.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Fine. Go.”

Paige ran away from her family like she was competing in the fifty-yard dash.

“But keep your phone on so I can call you!” Abby shouted after her daughter.

“Hashtag can’t hear you!” Paige shouted back.

“Have you ever wanted to experience what it would be like to have your stomach launched out of your butt?” the announcer asked. “Now you can without having to work for NASA because we will literally allow anyone, anyone at all, on this gravity defying journey to the stars. The Shock Rocket is boarding now.”

Dylan grinned at his mother.

“Mack,” Abby said. “Will you take him on the Shock Rocket?”

“Sure,” Mack said. “You don’t want to come?”

“No, I’d better not,” Abby said as she took a sip of her soda. “My doctor says my blood pressure is a little high, though for the life of me I can’t figure out why.”

Mack knew better than to say anything. “We’ll meet up with you later?”

“Yup,” Abby said. “I’ll be busy being serenaded by the happy international children and wondering where I went wrong with mine.”

A beautiful woman with short black hair road a motorcycle onto the backlot of Wombat World. It was a big old hog, with shiny chrome plating and exhaust fumes belching out of the tail pipe.

She didn’t wear a helmet. She didn’t believe in them. She felt the wind in her hair was worth the risk of damage to her brain. She did wear a pair of torn, scuffed up jeans and a leather vest over a plain white tank top.

Naturally, her biker image wouldn’t have been complete without the requisite tats. “Life” was spelled out with a different letter on each of the four fingers of her left hand. “Death” was written out with a letter on each of her four right fingers and her right thumb.

“Jess” was scrawled in neat cursive across her bicep, surrounded by a red heart with a dagger stuck through it.

To complete the look, her eyes were hidden under a pair of aviator shades and a cigarette dangled out of her mouth.

As she putted her bike slowly through the backlot, all the magic was happening around her as cast and crew got ready for the day. Actors, actresses and miscellaneous performers wandered about in a hurry. There were kings and queens, aliens from outer space, monsters, demons, clowns, jugglers, acrobats, and of course people in full furry mascot suits. There was a Ferdinand Ferret, a Chester Chimp, a Lonnie Llama, a Jimbo Frog, even a Wanda Wombat but curiously, Willy Wombat was nowhere to be seen.

The rider parked her bike in front of Studio 1A, a large, warehouse style building. Her leather boots hit the ground and she strutted inside. She passed four teenage boys, each one wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

They were in the middle of a rehearsal.

“Girl…don’t you know I need you girl, girl you’re my entire world, oh girl, oh girl, tell me you’ll be my girl.”

“Hello Boyz A’Plenty,” the rider said.

“Hello Jess,” the boys sang in return.

Jess moved on, right past a gaggle of clowns. There were male clowns. Female clowns. Happy clowns. Sad clowns. One particularly crazy looking clown with yellow eyes, red hair and a face painted all white but for some simulated red blood drops on his chin jumped out in front of Jess’s path and screamed a guttural guffaw.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

Reflexively, Jess kneed the clown in the groin, which knocked him flat on his ass.

“Oh Jesus, Ted,” Jess said as she helped the clown up to his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“Oww,” Ted replied. “No, its ok.”

“Seriously though, buddy, you know I can’t help it,” Jess said.

“I know,” Ted said.

“I see clown and my body immediately goes into ‘knee him in the dick’ mode,” Jess said.

“Most people do that,” Ted said. “It cool. I just have to find a better gig.”

“Feel better, man,” Jess said.

“I will,” Ted said as he limped away. “I need some ice for my clown nads.”

Jess took a right and headed down a long hallway. She passed by a man wearing a pink bunny costume. His human head was visible. He carried his bunny head under his arm.

“How goes the battle, Pete?” Jess asked.

“Eh,” Pete said. “There are worse jobs I suppose but I swear the kids keep getting meaner and smellier.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Jess said.

“I blame the Internet,” Pete said. “There are some things you just shouldn’t be able to look up until you’re able to legally buy enough beer to forget what you just saw.”

“Agreed,” Jess said as she pressed forward down the hall.

An old man wearing a neon orange suit and a ridiculously large top hat stopped Jess and held up two ties, a red one and a purple one.

“Look at these, will you?” the old man asked.

“I’m looking,” Jess said.

“Which one do you like?” the old man asked.

“Norm,” Jess said. “You’re Mayor Diggsley. Mayor Diggsley always wears an orange tie.”

“Yes,” an annoyed Norm said. “But an intern spilled cottage cheese all over my orange tie so now Mayor Diggsley will have to change it up for the first time in his long history as leader of Fancy Town.”

“Oh,” Jess said. “Then you can’t go wrong with purple.”

“I knew it,” Norm said as he tossed the red tie aside. “Purple it is.”

“Break a leg,” Jess said.

Jess walked past a few more weirdoes until she finally reached her dressing room.

It was a tiny space, little more than a glorified closet, but it was hers. She turned on the light and shut the door behind her.

Soon, she was out of her boots and biker duds. Her shades were off and her smoke was extinguished.

In her underwear, she sat in front of a mirror and put on some makeup, being sure to put some nice rosy color in her cheeks. She coated her lips with red lipstick and smacked them  together until the color was just right. She finished the look with some mascara, long eyelashes, and just a hint of glitter on her cheeks for a sparkly effect.

An adorable pink, fluffy gown hanged on a coat rack. She stood up and put it on, then put on a blonde wig, followed by a golden crown.

The dress was long sleeved so Jess’s bicep tattoo was covered.  She pulled on a pair of long white gloves to cover up her knuckle tattoos.

Jess then returned to her chair, stared at her reflection in the mirror, and batted her eyelashes.

A bottle of water sat on her table. She took a swig, then coughed to clear her throat.

She changed her voice to a Marilyn Monroe-esque baby doll pitch and proceeded to get into character.

“Tra la la la la, tra la la la la! Animals of the forest, how I’ve missed you! What’s that, boys and girls? You’d like to have your picture taken with me, Princess Paulina? Why I would be delighted.”

Jess ran her lines for awhile longer until she heard a disturbing sound coming from the hallway. It was another woman speaking in a Marilyn Monroe-esque baby doll voice.

Yep. Another woman was singing, “Tra la la la la” and it wasn’t her.

Jess stood up, threw open her door and stepped out into the hall way only to find herself staring at another woman dressed as Princess Paulina.

At a time like this, Jess was only able to think of something very un-princess like to say.

“What the fu…”