Power Park: A Novel

By David Keay

Ever hear of a twenty -thousand- year -old roller coaster?
How about a moth piloting a commercial flight from Washington to Boston?
Fake News or Real Deal?

Meet: Lance Mantis, business man. He'd like to reinstate Power Amusement Park to its former glory, but will Communication Station replace it instead?

Meet: Larry Leverage, U.S. intelligence agent suspected of counter terrorist activity by The Crockett Organization.

Meet: Lucy Lava, Martel comic book heroine on a mission to assist whistleblower Stan Landfill allude the evil clutches of Al Kaida and Hillary Braun.

Meet: Probis, pirate record producer, navigating The Void's best and worst record stores.

Meet: Leonard Schneider, nightclub comedian and lawyer. Can he reach a new generation?

Meet: Bill Buckle, one -hundred -year- old Principal of Eisenhower High School. Don't call him "senile."

Meet: Wayne Johnson AKA Skidoo, former School of the Americas instructor and current clown with The Bizzarro Circus.

Meet: Bobo Gandalf, rock star and activist. Watch him pass on the pickle and put in a pitch for NATO.

Meet: Jerry Plankton AKA Adrian Hate. Goofy chemist or pop singing dreamboat?

Will these West Moreland citizens see their beloved Power Park saved or savaged?
Find out in this fond farewell to a simpler era and caustic commentary on where we've arrived.
Amidst today's insane political climate, Keay's targets are spot on in this surreal romp.
A barrel of laughs and food for thought from The Dean of Satire and author of cult classic Fake Book.
It's been worth the wait.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667817200

Book preview

ONE

Power Amusement Park opened on June 13, 1937, under the auspices of businessman Nathanial Mantis.

Yet, as Jasper Lamar Crabb, a tour guide here at the West Moreland Historical Society is about to demonstrate, in his words, something like an amusement park existed on its present site some twenty thousand years ago.

Stooped, grumpy and, judging by the fumes, hungover, Crabb rather rudely leads us over to an encased display, housing a huge, flattened rock.

On the rock, an alien script, resembling chalk marks on a blackboard, are accompanied by indecipherable illustrations.

This was found on the grounds when they were clearing the area for The Park. Does it remind you of anything? Anyone?

Looks like a menu, one of our group manages.

A menu. Very good. Anyone else?

That section over there, offers another, looks like some sort of List of Rules or Bill of Rights, or something. You can tell by the way certain symbols get repeated at the beginning of each line. Over there, it doesn’t do that.

"Very astute observations. This script, bearing no resemblance to any other, and with no examples found elsewhere, following what must have been a relatively brief existence, on this planet at least, vanished as mysteriously as it arrived.

"This is indeed believed by our analysts to be a ‘menu’ of sorts, likely a list of unknown amusements on offer, which one shudders to imagine, accompanied by their prices. The currency in question being gauged in a hierarchy of animal hides, as determined by these splotches of differing size.

And this section over here, indeed believed to be a kind of Rules of Conduct. You know: No Spitting, No Posting of Bills, No Tooting Your Wooden Flutes. And whatever you do, Don’t Tease the Leopard! Crabb stresses, with mock drama, making the kids laugh.

The writing on this rock is estimated to be at least twenty thousand years old. We know that written script has only existed on the planet for about five thousand years. Frankly, most of the analysts secretly agree that the only explanation for this is that it’s the work of someone from another planet. And so, the aliens had apparently imposed their language on the locals, though I’m not supposed to say that, he says, putting his finger to his lips, widening his eyes for the kids, and they shriek with delight.

He waves us over to another display.

The rock script was found in close proximity to these items.

There are several huge, curved rock chunks with deep grooves, like inverse trolly tracks. There are some hollowed out rocks of uniform size and shape which could comfortably hold two persons. Each has a sort of handlebar at its center, running its width, presumably for passengers to hold onto, made of very long antlers or tusks embedded into the sides of the stones. There’s a pile of smooth stone wheels and another of what could be axles.

Are we looking at the remnants of a modest, primitive roller coaster?

Again, says Crabb, "the world didn’t have the wheel for another 1,500 years.

They claim the first roller coaster was built in 1884 at Coney Island, but us West Morelanders can all be proud as hell for having a good twenty-thousand-year jump, even if it was slave labor at the command of the Little Green Men that did it.

TWO

I gave Crabb a wave as he led his group into the next room.

I recognized Lois Elaine from The Independent posing as a tourist in his group.

I was here to check out the new Tribute to Power Amusement Park.

We’d been covering it for months in The Daily Trumpet, as had our crosstown rivals at The Monitor.

Technically, the Park was still open, but all the rides had been shut down for years and in a state of extreme neglect.

Just why has never been satisfactorily explained.

Taking photos of the dilapidated attractions remains a popular tourist activity. There’s a sense of history, of cultural importance, to the place.

The Arcade, and a few very fast-food joints, continue to flourish on the grounds.

They did a good job: Each of the former attractions had its own display, with model, wall text and film.

I knew them well. Every West Morelander did: The Holy Roller Coaster, Nefarious Wheel, Ollie the Octopus, The Barrel of Fun House….

Famously, Bill Buckle, Principal of Eisenhower High, once worked summers at The Barrel’s ticket kiosk, as a teenager in the 30’s.

I say famously, because Buckle once ran for State Governor and, outside of Lance Mantis, heir of Nathaniel, is the closest thing West Moreland has to a celebrity.

Today, he’s 100 years old and senile, and everyone wonders why on earth he didn’t retire decades ago. I guess he likes his job.

I approached the Fun House display, admiring the detail to the brown beer barrel façade and to The Word Worm, facing his passengers from the front of the first car on the tracks.

On the screen, from the passengers’ viewpoint, The Worm barrels past a set of double doors and into the darkness.

The Worm pauses in a dimly lit space full of dilapidated cardboard boxes.

The Worm speaks through a shrill, crackly speaker.

The Worldly Worm warmly welcomes one and all. He kindly invites you to celebrate some magic moments from the life and times of the incomparable Nathaniel Mantis, esteemed founder of Power Amusement Park. The Worm encourages you to hop out and play with the boxes, just like Nate used to do. If you consider yourself too cool to participate, The Worm will be very disappointed in you and give you a poor grade.

The screen scene dissolves from the boxes to a mature British gent, vaguely familiar from stodgy old Public Broadcasting programs, sitting calmly in a big comfy chair, beside him a table supporting a decanter of water and empty glass. There’s a long pause as he pours himself a glassful, takes a sip and addresses the camera with some rather queer commentary:

"As the wall text indicates, Nathaniel