Zawmb’yee Nuje Continues the Blog, Chap 9, 104

Zawmb’yee continues blog, CHAPTER 9

Zawmb’yee Paints The Palace


     I had learned all the maneuvers when I said to Apacevj, “Now what?”
     “Just practice, enjoy yourself, and when you’re ready, fly to the ceiling and do a painting. If you can’t focus on an eksetyk, there are mechanical switches on the desk — see: UP, DOWN, HOVER, EMERGENCY LANDING. Or use the joy stick. No problem. OK?”
     “Um. Uh…”
     “Um. Well, I’m not really much of an artist and…”
     “Feel better?”
     “Yes, I understand.”
     “Good. OK. Have fun, and afterward I would suggest for homework that you read at least 600 pages a day for this week from the ofuye.”
     “Uh, well…”
     “Please, High Priestess chickie babe… When you’re finished absorbing the written context, I will show you the Upper Utd’mbts equivalent of those 4200 pages in about 5 minutes. That, I think, you will find astounding and worthwhile. But without the preparation it will be impossible to absorb. Yes, a bit arduous, but well worth it.”
     “Thank you, Fevepo Zawmb’yee. Then may I have leave to go?”
     Mieta Apacevj bowed and left. I started to think this might be fun.
     I laid out all my paints and brushes and a jar of water on the top of the Reksipj. I flew it just below the ceiling so I could recline in my chair and brush paint onto the ceiling. I did a background like I did in Doug’s hallway. Doug… My eyes washed the hands he would have held, would have maybe added a suggestion, a praise. I rested: the artist reclining, declining to continue without his laugh, just in hover mode.
     But this limbo didn’t last. There was a loud grinding sound in the ceiling and then the tapping of a pickax. It seemed like the explosive drill-pick-and-chisel music of a lunatic archaeologist, who in his mania to discover, has thrown his careful brush aside, and the sounds were coming closer. I jumped out of my chair, ducked…
     Yeow ugh Kievifkwa hell: ceiling burst open — rain of plaster, rock, and a falling lunatic who crashed onto my desk, screaming and moaning, a drill bit in his lap.
     I said, “James Ziohat, I presume.”
     “Yes,” said the lanky manic man, flailing about. He had curly black hair, half straitened for vanity, half left curled for guilt. Ascetic by appearance, hypocrite by fat vulgar intrusion like the cork screw of a wild boar.
     I hit the emergency land button, and we plunged to the floor. Four Kutibea agents ran to me and carried me twenty feet across the marble floor while ten Wipzib surrounded James Ziohat with drawn guns. A team in haz-mat suits charged across the floor and sprayed him with a foam.
     An agent said, “Fevepo Zawmb’yee, are you alright?”
     “Yes, I’m fine.” I watched from a distance.
     More Kutibea stormed into the room. One took direct aim at James and shot him with a stun gun. He fell to the ground. The haz-mat team tore off his clothes, rinsed him with a water cannon that slid him around the polished floor, and handcuffed his hands behind his back.
     “Fevepo Zawmb’yee,” said a tall muscular Kutibea with crisp enunciation, “the intruder has been neutralized and decontaminated to level one. We may approach, if you wish, for the questioning, but contact is to be avoided. Do you want to observe?”
     “Yes,” I said, and we walked over to where they had pulled him to his feet.


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