The Fantastic Adventures of Lefty Feep, page 1
The Fantastic Adventures of Lefty Feep
copyright ©2020 by Christopher Broschell.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced of transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-7772447-8-1
Contents
Introduction
Time Wounds All Heels
Gather ‘Round the Flowing Bowler
The Pied Piper Fights the Gestapo
The Weird Doom of Floyd Scrilch
The Little Man Who Wasn’t All There
Son of a Witch
Jerk, The Giant Killer
The Golden Opportunity of Lefty Feep
Lefty Feep and the Sleepy-Time Gal
Lefty Feep Catches Hell
Nothing Happens to Lefty Feep
The Chance of a Ghost
Lefty Feep and the Racing Robot
Genie with the Light Brown Hair
Stuporman
The Goon from Rangoon
You Can’t Kid Lefty Feep
A Horse on Lefty Feep
Lefty Feep’s Arabian Nightmares
Lefty Feep Does Time
Lefty Feep Gets Henpecked
Tree’s A Crowd
End of Your Rope
Introduction
Between 1942 and 1950, Robert Bloch (known for writing the novel Psycho, as well as three classic Star Trek episodes) wrote about the extremely tall tales of Lefty Feep, a down-and-out lout. I have footnoted some of the more arcane references (it seems language has changed substantially, even since the 1940s, but then some of the cultural references in early Simpson’s episodes are hard to follow now).
Enjoy the tales of Lefty Feep, and remember to take them with a grain of salt!
Time Wounds All Heels
April 1942
I dropped into Jack's place the other night for a slice of tongue — some of it in a sandwich and some from between Jack's lips. The place was pretty crowded, but I managed to find a booth as Jack glided over to take my order.
"What'll it be?" he asked. Then— "Well I'll be damned!" said Jack.
"Probably," I observed. But Jack didn't hear me. He was staring at the tall thin man who elbowed his way toward the booth. I stared, too. There was nothing remarkable about the gentleman's thin, somewhat dour face, but his suit was enough to attract anyone's attention. It isn't often that you see a horse-blanket walking.
"See that guy?" Jack whispered, hurriedly. "He's a number for you. Used to be an upper bracket in the rackets."
"He looks it," I confided. "Is he dangerous?"
"No. Reformed, completely reformed. Ever since he divorced his third wife he's led a simple life, playing the races. But I never expected to see him in here — he hasn't been around for months. Wait — I'll see if I can steer him into your booth. You’ll enjoy it — he's the biggest liar in seven states."
"What seven?" I asked, in some curiosity. But Jack was signalling the glum-faced man in the checkered suit. "Hello, Lefty! Where in blazes have you been?"
"Everywhere, and up to my neck," said the stranger. "But make with the menu because at the moment I arrive by express from hunger."
"Sit here," Jack suggested, indicating my booth. This guy is a friend of mine."
Lefty favored me with a long look. "Is he a righto or a wrongo?" he asked.
"He's a writer," said Jack. "Bob, I want you to meet a friend of mine — Lefty Feep."
"A pleasure," I said.
Lefty sat down without a word and grabbed the menu from Jack's hands. "Shoot the steak to me Jack," he said. "Also I will have bean soup, clam chowder, a double order mashed potatoes, peas, carrots, roast chicken, a ham on rye, baked beans, an order of waffles, asparagus, pork tenderloin, scrambled eggs, coffee, apple pie, ice cream, and watermelon."
"You kidding?"
"No— eating. Now bring it here, but fast. My stomach is empty so long I think it's haunted."
Jack shrugged and moved away, muttering the incredible order under his breath. Lefty Feep turned to me suddenly with a scowl. "Vitamins!" he grated. "Vitamins!"
"You need them?" I asked.
"I hate vitamins," said Lefty. "Give me food any time."
"What's the matter, been on a diet?"
"You speak a mean truth, all right. For a week now I partake of nothing but vitamins. I am going pill-wacky." Lefty sighed heavily. "B'-bugs," he mumbled. "D-dizzy."
"Doctor's orders?" I inquired. "No. Restaurant orders. It's all I can get. Will you live in a burg where nobody nibbles anything but pills?"
"What town is this you're speaking of?"
"New York."
"But there's plenty of food in New York—" I began.
"There is and there isn't," said Lefty, darkly brooding. "There is now but there will be ain't."
"I don't get it."
"I figure you don't. Nobody will. I can make with the explanations but it is not such a thing as anyone will believe and I do not wish to get the reputation of a guy who sniffs snow."
"You're no drug addict," I said. "Come on, spill it."
Lefty Feep looked at me again with a wry smile. He shrugged. "You asked for it," he said. "It is a story that will make your hair curdle and your blood stand on end."
"Shoot," I urged.
He shot.
Last week I am coming back from Buffalo where I wager a few pennies on the bow-wows. My pooch comes in and I make collections, so I drive back very happy. It is the first time I make money by going to the dogs."
More and over, I know I have five rancho grandos waiting for me in Manhattan, where I place another bet with a personality name of Gorilla Gabface.
This Gorilla Gabface is a number I dearly love to hate. He is a big noise in the rackets, and I do not care to have dealings with such riff and raff. Our association is just sentimental, because he and I once work our way through reform school together selling alky.
But while I get reformed, Gorilla merely gets more and more unscrupulous in his business deals, until he is left with not one single scruple at all. I do all right, but he is always poking from fun at me, saying the only gold I will ever see will be in a halo, while he has enough gold for a complete set of teeth.
So I am very hepped over winning this little wager, like I say, and I start driving back thinking about how I will hand him the old razz and he will hand me the old cash and it will be a very fair exchange.
Along about noon a.m. I find myself in the mountain country, and I am so happy I start to yodel while I drive. In fact, I even open the car window a trifle to sniff some air, which is unusual for me, because I have a theory that air is not so healthy on guys if it is too fresh.
But the hills are very pretty, and the road has more curves than a Minsky stripper, and the sun is shining, and the birds are singing, and it is just one great big popular song if you know what I mean. I feel like a character on the Alka-Seltzer Barn Dance.
I am too happy to notice where I'm going, so it is no wonder at all that I snap out of it to find myself off on a side road going up a hill.
I figure on turning around when I reach the top, so I keep driving up and over. But the hill does not seem to have any top to it — I just keep on twisting and turning, and all the time the road is getting dustier and smaller, and the woods on each side are as thick as a House of David beard.
It is so uncivilized I do not even spot a gas station. For that matter, I no longer see any farmhouses or catalogue cabins. I wonder about this more than slightly but keep on driving.
The air is blue up there, and so am I, because I figure I am lost for sure unless I get a chance to turn around.
All at once I come to a level grade that goes off for quite a space into a little valley between the hills. I am just ready to wheel around when I notice the sign.
It is on the side of the road just ahead, standing on a stick between some rocks. I am curious to see what kind of advertising goes over here in the provinces, so I pull up and read it. It says:
PICNIC TODAY DIMINUTIVE SOCIETY OF THE CATSKILL MOUNTAINS
FREE ENTERTAINMENT AND REFRESHMENTS. STRANGERS WELCOME
I suddenly realize I am panging from hunger, not having taken in groceries yet today. And here is free refreshments, so what can I lose? I never hear of the Diminutive Society of the Catskill Mountains before, but I figure they never hear of me either, so it's even.
Before you can say Jack Dempsey, I make up my mind to drive on in, which I do. The road is just a little trail now, but I can make it if I go slow between the rocks.
All at once I look up at the sky, because I hear thunder. The sky is still blue, and the sun is shining, so I figure I make a mistake. But no, I get a little further, and the thunder is louder.
Then I round the last bend in the road and come out on an open space, and I see what is making with the thunder. There is an outdoor bowling alley, so help me, and the noise is from the balls rolling along the rocks.
But that is not what makes me turn off the ignition and sit there like somebody stuffed a watermelon in my mouth. I am staring at the bowlers.
"Now I am a personality who gets around considerable for many's the year. I have the pleasure of placing my peepers
Because the bowlers at this picnic are a bunch of dwarfs. So help me, there are a couple dozen of them, little shorty guys in nightcaps and ski suits, all running around like fugitives from Walt Disney.
This baffles me but plenty. Because the sign says this is a picnic for the Diminutive Society, and instead of seeing Diminutives, there are these dwarfs.
Finally I figure it is some kind of circus brawl or publicity stunt, though I don't notice any Pathe1 newsreel cameras. What I do notice is the nice collection of beer kegs off on one side.
I sit there and watch the pint-size Hank Marinos2 knock off the tenpins for some minutes. And then, all of a sudden, I hear a scratching at the side of the car. 'Aha, termites!' I say to myself.
But when I open the door I do not see any termite. Instead, the smallest guy in the world is standing on the running board, trying to reach the door handle.
He has a long gray beard on his face and a short beer in his hand. 'Welcome, stranger,' he pipes up, in no voice at all. 'Welcome to the Diminutive Society of the Catskills.' I do not altogether understand this, but what he says next shows me his heart is in the right place. 'Have a drink,' he says.
So I climb out and take the mug from him. The beer is plenty good, and has more kick than a chorus girl with her costume on fire. 'Little man, what now?' I ask.
He grins through his chin-spinach. 'What gives out here?' I inquire. 'Make with the explanations.'
He shrugs. 'We do not entertain visitors very often, I fear,' he pipes. 'I fear I fail to comprehend your meaning.'
By this time a whole crowd of shorty guys are standing around watching and poking each other. I begin to feel like I was back in school the time I was 16 and in the Third Grade. Most of these babies couldn't pick my pocket without using a stepladder.
So I turn around to the head squeaker again and try to make him understand, because I can see from what he says that he can't be any too bright.
'Listen, quaint-face,' I say, politely. 'Where's Snow White?'
This does not go over. Evidently these jerks cannot even understand English.
'I mean, what's the score? Which one of you is Dopey? What is this — a convention of Midget Auto Racers?'
The head little guy smiles again. 'You don't seem to understand at all,' he tells me. 'This is the annual picnic of the Diminutive Society of the Catskill Mountains. It is the one occasion each year when we venture forth from our homes to celebrate our ownership of these hills. We bowl, we drink, we make merry from sunup to sundown. It has been a long time, as I say, since the last stranger's arrival. May we welcome you?'
I don't get it at all. There is something awfully odd about this whole setup. The way these little guys dress, and talk, and giggle. But what have I got to lose? They are too small to hurt me, and I don't see any equalizers in the mob. They are kind of drunk and out for a good time so why shouldn't I stick around for a few drinks and a few laughs? Maybe it is the mountain air that does it, or maybe it is the first beer on an empty stomach. Anyhow, I shake hands with the head midget and say, 'Thanks, Shorty. How's for a little bowling?'
So then it begins. I take a turn at the alleys and I take a turn at the beers. These small fry have special bowling balls made up to fit their hands — about the size of tennis balls and not much heavier. I fling them two at a time, to be fair.
These small fry also have special beer mugs made up to fit their mouths. So I drink three or four at a time, also to be fair.
Pretty soon I turn out to be not only fair but also quite stinkaroo. These local yokels brew a mean beer, and before I notice it I am quite dizzy. The dwarfs do not seem to notice, either, but keep right on setting up the pins and the drinks, and I keep right on knocking them down.
I am a nasty hand at the old strike- and-spare, even though the ground is rough, and they stand around cheering me on while I polish off one bowler after another, also one beer after another.
Perhaps I am telling this kind of confused — but that's the way I get, all right.
It only seems like minutes, but it must be hours, when I glance over my shoulder and see the old sun is going down, I have killed the whole afternoon at this picnic.
The dwarfs also seem to keep track of the time, because all of a sudden they quiet down and get ready to take a last drink. Nothing will do but for me to drink with them. And on account of there being two dozen of them, I have a lot of drinking to do.
The head shorty keeps staring at me and nudging his pals while he watches me inhale the brew. 'Verily, he has a greater capacity than Master Van Winkle,' he giggles.
The name seems to penetrate the speckled fog in my noggin for a minute. 'What's this about Van Winkle?' I ask.
But the sun is very low and red, and it is dark all around, and I see the dwarfs suddenly start running across the bowling lawn and into the shadows. The head shorty runs after them. 'We must leave you, stranger,' he calls over his shoulder. 'Pleasant dreams.'
I start to run after him, but all at once I stumble on the grass and everything starts going round and round— ten little red suns juggle themselves in my head, and the ground comes up and I am out.
Just before I close my eyes I manage to holler after the last little runt again. 'Who is this Van Winkle?' I gasp.
I can not be sure, because I am going down for the third time, but I think I hear his voice come from far away. 'Why, Master Rip Van Winkle, of course,' whispers the dwarf.
I open my mouth to say something, but the only thing coming out is a snore.
When I open my beautiful baby blue eyes again, it is daylight. At first I do not remember where I am, but then it all comes back in a hurry and I realize I pass out and probably sleep the night here.
I raise up on one elbow to see if my little friends are around, but there are no signs. In fact, to make it funny, there is not even any bowling lawn, or tenpins, or tennis-size bowling balls. To make it not so funny, there is no beer keg, either— and I have a thirst, but strong.
Maybe it is all a dream, I figure. Then I turn my head and I begin to pray it is a dream.
Because I am now staring at the car, parked off to one side. And what I see is not altogether a sight for sore eyes like mine.
Yesterday I leave a nice new coupe standing there. Today I find a jalopy you couldn't trade in on a pair of roller skates. It is covered with rust an inch thick; the tires are down, and the windows are out.
I get up in a hurry because it is all clear to me now. These dwarfs I drink with are nothing but a gang of car thieves. They slip me a Mickey Finn3 and steal my coupe, leaving me this broken down wheelbarrow just to be quaint. No' wonder they treat me so well— they are nothing but a bunch of Dead End Kids in whiskers!
I run over to the wreck and wrench open the door. It not only opens but comes off in my hand.
Then I reach inside, and all at once something flies out and hits me in the face. A couple of bats — so help me!
I stare down at the cobwebs on the seat. Then I go around in front and stare again. This time I nearly fall down.
Because I see my license plates on this jalopy!
There is something wrong here. This is my car, all right — but…But? I reach up to scratch my chin. My hand never gets there. It tangles up in something soft, like a fur coat.
My hand is tangled in a beard. A white beard. My beard! At least it is growing on me, so it must be my beard, though I do not want such a thing. No, I do not want such a thing as this beard at all, because it is all tangled up with burrs and thistles.
I look down at my clothes and that is the last straw. You could even say that is the last shred. Because there isn't much left of my clothes except shreds. My trousers have got French cuffs made of rags. The moths have been holding a convention on my knees. My coat and vest look like something a goat would eat for dessert.
I am not sitting in the hot seat at the moment, but I am still plenty shocked.
Here I am, lost in the mountains, with an old car and a new beard. It is enough to make a guy holler — so I do. I kind of lose my head and run around yelling for the dwarfs to come out and make with the explanations. I guess I am off the beam for several moments, just screeching there, when I hear a sound.
