Comic Book Melodrama

By Buck Rubbertoes

Nedford "No-Fuss" Knemis, born in the everglades of South Florida as a mix of Seminole Indian and White American, is taken to Europe to be educated after his parents are killed in an everglades boating mishap. Ned the No-Fuss proceeds to squander his grandmother's inheritance, gambling at the casinos in Europe, and getting into failed marriages. By chance he is recruited by a Greek spy operative to work in spydom, in the Balkans, and in North Africa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781649527806

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Comic Book Melodrama

Buck Rubbertoes

Copyright © 2022 Buck Rubbertoes

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2022

ISBN 978-1-64952-779-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64952-780-6 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue: Raros Bestias

Raros Bestias

Chapter 1

Hello Mr. Sandman

Chapter 2

A Year in Paranoia

Chapter 3

Two Hearts Attack

Chapter 4

Depletion Decision

Chapter 5

Morpheus and the Captain

Chapter 6

The Greek Who Saved My Bacon

Chapter 7

Massive Mind-stuff in Macedonia

Chapter 8

Kominos to the Rescue

Chapter 9

Sand in a Sandal

Chapter 10

Three Wives Waiting

Chapter 11

To Flee the Foible-Borne Fables

Chapter 12

The Spy Who Found Me

Chapter 13

The Prince and the Vino Popper

Chapter 14

Like Quaz on a Slow Monday Night

Chapter 15

Fly to Spy

CHAPTER 16

Spy to Fly

Chapter 17

Britsey Goes Shopping

Chapter 18

Into Greek Life Jumping

Chapter 19

Khe Ti Dichi Benito?

Chapter 20

The General Risks My Locks

Chapter 21

The Walta Who Wanted Malta

Chapter 22

I Laughed, With a View to Crying

Chapter 23

A Dawn Premonition

Chapter 24

Miale Ordeal

Chapter 25

The Girl Who Loved Oinky

Chapter 26

A Day Trip to Ka

CHAPTER 27

From Cairo by Cash-car

Chapter 28

Caroline and the Gold in the Caves of Crete

Chapter 29

Trimsail at the Raft

Chapter 30

Camel Rags in My Pocket

Chapter 31

Gunfight at the OK Garage

Chapter 32

Connexions in the Last Fantasy Conflict

Chapter 33

Wave Dancing

Chapter 34

Barbie and the Armless Dancer

Chapter 35

Tabby Goes Elsewhere

Chapter 36

The Short Goodbye

About the Author

Prologue: Raros Bestias

Raros Bestias

How rare, that lovely resting period in the steep green hills of the beautiful country.

I remember the wide river my sweet daughter and I would swim—a gentle three-hundred-foot-wide mass of eddying water spanned by a long concrete bridge under which people earnestly floated, on inflated tire tubes and other plastic devices.

Daddy, it's just a big swimming pool, isn't it? my astute young daughter exclaimed happily, and what with the tremendous numbers of people splashing in it—so many that people constantly bumped against one another—I could not have disagreed.

But you know, Daddy, that's just perfectly okay, she commented enigmatically. Then in explanation, added, D'ya think I'll meet someone to play with?

And how I admonished myself, Am I so beastly that I can't alleviate my daughter's endless search for some nice playmate? We went to an area of the river where children played and were chaperoned by the resort's caretakers.

And it did not matter either that the water was green and murky. One of our favorite tricks was to race across the river under the water, like two minnows swiftly disappearing, appearing, and tickling people's torsos in our amazingly swift escapes. And once, indeed and really truly! I came up out of the water and reached clear to the bridge, pulling myself up by holding on to the very top of the bridge!

Oh, this couldn't have been easy, one might say. Well, no, I had to agree. Not, at least, for someone who was homo ordinarius. But as for me, all I had to do was reach up, and there it was, the top of the bridge waiting to be grabbed. And once, when I flexed my arms, I found that I was able to stretch myself clear out and touch each end of the bridge! I was amazed at the wonders a short vacation could do for people.

Daddy, those are wonderful feats you are performing, my sage little girl said proudly. And yes, I became conscious that all the swimmers enjoyed watching me and would yell encouragement and applaud me.

Alas, I became plagued with insidious doubts. Oh, this can't be possible, I told myself. And of course, after that, I was unable to make those impossible things possible.

*****

On the last day of our visit in the resort, our hosts reminded us of an important event on our schedule. It was a resort-wide picnic and siesta.

Down the river, my daughter and I swam to a compound on the shore that we had not known was there. My wife, Louisa, however, was already there. It was a place, she mysteriously mentioned, where animals were kept. Many guests were already there too, sleeping or getting ready to sleep on resort-provided mats. We were all so tired and happy, with Louisa, or Loisie, talking to newly made friends, extolling the lifesaving love-bond she and I had forged with our beautiful, intelligent daughter.

I then saw cages built into the cliff's walls where animals were kept. Raros Bestias a sign over the cages read, Rare Beasts. This must be what Loisie had meant, I thought.

Oh yes, Ned, that's what it was, someone said. I looked around, startled at this reading of my mind and voicing of my name. I saw an animal-keeper talking to a young woman who was keeping her eyes on me in a quite hostile manner. She looked familiar; she reminded me of someone I had fled from after having got into a great mistake with her, in another part of the country a few months back. I got apprehensive and turned my back to her as well as I could without seeming unfriendly. In this way, I hoped she would not be able to read my thoughts anymore or say my name in front of my wife. it was a dangerous and obnoxious talent of hers to do that.

There were three animals, the keeper was saying, that were unique to this part of the country. The strangest one—he pointed to a creature that was curled up sleeping—was a small animal that was part cat and part slug. The creature had the head and upper body of a cat, but its lower body was a cone-shaped shell that trailed on the ground because it had no hind legs.

I looked at the cat-snail closely after the keeper poked it to make it sit up. It would move a ways and then stop to lick its paws and wash its face just like an ordinary cat. I was amazed at this unknown creature, but I was too sleepy to look at the other amazing animals. Our hosts had been right—we all needed a proper rest.

There was an empty cage along the wall next to these strange animals, and since I liked my privacy, I told my daughter to go join her mother while I went in to sleep in the cage.

The cage locked behind me—I was conscious of it but didn't care. My daughter stood looking at me alongside the troublemaking lady acquaintance and the huge crowds of gazing people. The animal-keeper was explaining to them that in the cages were four strange creatures that were unique to that part of the country. Four, I thought he said, but I was too tired to pay attention to the man's on-and-on droning.

I thought it had been such a nice vacation, and immediately I had an impression that the girl beside my daughter had shaken her head in disagreement. Well, she's always had her own opinions, I thought. I couldn't care. I felt drowsy and curled up to sleep.

Chapter 1

Hello Mr. Sandman

One day, I, Dr. Samuel Sanderson (also called the Sandman, or even Mr. Morpheus, at times), had a surprise visit from a long-forgotten acquaintance who had heard of me, or rather, had heard of an almost-miraculously patient, sympathetic, effective therapist in this corner of the region. The would-be client had been pointed in the direction of my office by some knowledgeable pedestrian he had accosted nearby. My Consultant-at-Large sign had led him to believe that perhaps he was at the right place, and so here he was, pleasantly surprised that the town's renowned miracle worker was his old school chum—the Social Sandman himself.

Brother, he said, I should have known it was someone like you I needed, old buddy, old pal. Why hadn't I thought of it? Guess I should've made an effort to look for my old pal, the College Social Sandguy, hey? Funny how things turn full-circle-wise when they get going. Hey, ‘full circle, Sandy,' which that reminds me. Do you remember—

Neddy, wait, I forestalled him. I was just on my way to lunch. Are you hungry? Let's go eat, and you can tell me all about this thing I might help you with while we munch on something.

That I was somewhat disturbed was putting it mildly! I was very disturbed. I am one who faithfully keeps thinking the past is a securely dammed-up river that has no leaks and who invariably keeps getting disappointed because cracks in the facade keep happening. And here was a cold cresting flood of dark, mean memories babbling away, right here before me. It was only by instinct that I stayed calm during this very unexpected turn in the day's events.

Neddy was disheveled. He was perspiring profusely, and his breath was of alcohol, even from as far away from him as I could stand. I detested him. I wanted to hate and throw him out, and yet, yet my curiosity grabbed and got the better of me. I was choking in a flood of past mishaps with him, yet I couldn't wait to hear and later groan at the tales of his sad survival.

Listen, I said as I locked up, you graduated near the top of the class, didn't you, old Red Ned? One of the things I haven't forgot. Smart as the tip of a Spanish stiletto you were. So how in the world the dilettantish old Sandbox could ever be of service to one of the class elites, I just have to hear. Are you thirsty? What brands of vinos are you sipping these days now, you old Neddy? In our senior year you were big on tannins, remember? Old Reddy Neddy, we called you. Liked your mixed merlots with your tapas ‘n' tortas, yes?

Neddy just stared at me bleakly.

So what's up? Come on, tell old Uncle Sandstorm all about this new thing of yours that I can smooth over for you.

We got situated at a table and sure enough, Neddy ordered a carafe of a red to go with his multiple cheeses. I ordered my own medium-sized pizza and specified a room-temperature beer. I don't know why, but I despise cold beer when I'm with a difficult client. The icier the beer, the greater my degree of—excuse me, hatred. And the Sandstorm can hate; yes, he can.

Neddy took a nice, mouth-shrinking chug of his wine and slurped out an answer. Shandy, I'm getting schnookered. Gawrd, I'm in a pit an' I need shom help.

Aha! He was getting married. That sounded easy enough. A thought flashed by me while I waited for him to continue. What did they call guys like the one Neddy was looking for—the best people, was it? No, the best men. That's what Neddy wanted, a best man. Neddy glanced at his carafe and got excited. Oh shit! Look at this. This fricking thing's empty.

He called to the waitress. Miss, there has been a deplorable mistake here. I should've ordered the whole bottle. Can you take this back?

A slight confusion of converged protestations, apologies, and fake promises ensued, which anyway were soon resolved in favor of the client, who came into possession of both a full bottle and the half-full carafe. With this new arrangement now to his advantage, Neddy turned sheepishly back to gaze out the window to retrieve his thoughts on his coming nuptials. I waited but finally decided to get him brought back down from his clouds.

Wow! Getting married, huh? For myself, good bro', congratulations are in order so, good for you! Couldn't happen to a luckier gal, whoever the senorita is, hey?

Uh, yeah. No problem, he answered.

However, ‘Gee, I'm so sorry, my man. I'm not going to be available that very date,' I was going to say as soon as he popped the question.

Uh, got it? Popped the question? The Sandman knew a little about humor too.

And I had to get into some humor, for I felt this blasted Neddy drawing me into cynicism, and I hated it. Come to think of it, I found myself starting to hate stuff, and I had to watch myself. That I knew. It had been a long time since that had happened. And yes, yes, the Sandstorm can ha—

Gee! That Ned could still do that to people; I guessed things just never changed.

And who's the lucky doll? I asked. Not that I could ever care. Oops! I care, I care, I care! I chastised myself. It's my business to care, for Pedro's sake.

Pedro's sake. Now where in the discombobulated hell had that come from?

Oh, you'll meet her, I guess, Ned said between wine chugs. She's, well, she's… He lost his train of thought and gazed blankly into the attractive bottle before him.

She is, I tried to prompt him. She's here with you but out shopping maybe?

Not around at present, Sandy. Not available. You'll see what I mean. Meanwhile, this is what I want to talk about. I am hesitant, you're noticing. It's because, Sandy, when I tell you what I want, I wish you'd keep an open mind about this. People are saying I'm paranoid, see. I don't know who. People. What I'm saying is, it's not going to be your job to examine me, my brain and all that, see? So I don't want you to worry about me going crazy, okay? I'm really saner than I used to be actually. Well, much saner than I was the last time. Got it?

He stopped talking and looked at me with such an innocent earnestness that it would have been mean of me not to give this revelation about craziness my studied consideration. I tried to show empathy as intelligently as I could without opening my mouth. I simply nodded sagely and went ahead and sank down into his dark pit with him.

Good! I'm glad you're with me, he exclaimed, his words thick with the wine's astringency. "Damned if I'm not feeling better already. Gosh, I guess I knew it the minute I saw who it was I was dealing, ah, consulting with. I guess I should've realized I really was going to be in good hands. The best I've been with in a very, very long, long time. Thanks, Mr. Sandhorse! You're the greatest! Always were.

"Now where was I? Oh yeah, the little lady. I want you to—by the way, you are under contract as of right now, okay? Salary or whatever it is you do. No, no, I insist. You just draw up your papers, and we'll sign them, but as of right this very momento, you should consider yourself aboard. Is that fair? You know old Neddy. Top of the class. Always at the top of the old rag pile. No need to worry.

"Now where was I? Oh yeah, the little lady.

"Shit! What time is it? I got a plane ride to steal, ah, catch. Listen, old Sandshoes, take care of this mess here for me, will yuh? Add it to your account. Expenses, you're authorized them, certainly. Top of the class.

Well, cheers, all that. All that good stuff. Got your card. Call you with details.

And without further ado he stood, grabbed the dark bottle and popped the cork down its throat. Yuh, me, I call yuh, he hiccupped. Time bein'. Gawrd, de plane! Got t' go. Ta!

And having wrapped the big bottle securely under an armpit inside his coat, he just walked off.

I sat there gazing at the empty carafe and at his untouched cheeses. Expense account, you dirty bastard! Expense account indeed.

Sir? The waitress arrived just in time to catch my grousing. Did the gentleman just walk out of here with that opened bottle? Sir! It's not allowed, sir—

It's okay! I almost yelled. Excuse me. What kind of vino is that? What proof, I mean. No! What I mean is, may I have the bill please? The other gentleman has left.

I see that, but—

Don't worry! This time I whispered. I'll take care of everything, take care of you too, only just don't worry…

She nodded with some confusion, smiled nervously, and walked away.

Nothing is this pretty girl's fault, I told myself. Not her fault. She deserves a nice tip. But I stared with total hatred at the empty porcelain carafe and had loathsome thoughts on the unmet marriage prospect who was causing my friend his alcoholic failings. Moreover, I was apprehensive. I paid our bill and got out of there, knowing for sure that Neddy was probably not done with me by a long shot.

Not done sticking me? Of course, he wasn't done sticking or sandbagging me.

He was just beginning!

Chapter 2

A Year in Paranoia

I, the indomitable Dr. Sanderson, did not wish to think of Nedford Kniemis as a nemesis. Indeed, not at all, for I, the Sandman, only want to have friends that I can help. However, something—Ned's booze-drowning problems perhaps—brought out the restiveness in me and, well, I must say that I ran, or sailed. Oh, this blasted psychological truth! I sailed away to hide from my old pal-client problem child, Neddy, who has always disturbed my peace.

I was in a new office. Thanks to my tenacious foresight it was removed a decent distance from my previous one, and I thanked my luck for that too. Then I got a new client. That I was at a different location was good, but that this new client had found me so quickly was not good because she kept me tied to the immediate past, and that was bad.

Her name was Cherokee Brighteye, and she was the fiancée of my old bad client, my old pal Mr. Neddy Kniemis, who had made it to my doghouse. Her I liked immediately. She was attractive; sounded smart and seemed serious about her life. I quickly learned that she was a no-nonsense young woman. But when I ended my interview with her, I hated Neddy more than ever—hated, despised, abhorred him more than ever. I could have strangled him for sending me into paranoia.

Ned had not sent her to me as I might have thought; she had sleuthed me out on her own. She had taken the trouble to do this because of her desire to learn more things about Neddy, she said. She was very persistent, I said, and I remarked to myself how very lovely she was, being black-eyed, sporting long black wavy tresses, wearing a silky black knee-length dress, and boasting a clear cinnamon tone to her firm skin. And the facial features—eyes, nose, mouth, and ears, each so delicate! I congratulated Neddy to her on his having attracted such a fine woman to his side. To his miserable damned side I had wanted to say but didn't.

Yes, thank you. She took the compliment in stride. But if you'll do me the favor, or the honor, of telling me about yourself, it would be greatly appreciated, financially appreciated, and as I've said, it would be great to hear how a social therapist makes money in such an out-of-the-way spot as this.

"Well, Miss, you could be a client. You're not going to pay me in revolutionary scrip, are you? Or a box of vegetables or some such thing? But I know what you mean. I give thanks, I can tell you, that however useful and necessary it is to me, I have never fallen desperately in love with money. It and I have always had an ambivalent approach toward each other."

Touché—and that is a good thing. She tried not to grin. "It better be because I just don't see needy, hurt people beating down your door! Is it the fault of our perilous times regardless of your protestations? Has that insane German's war stifled you? But the war hasn't arrived at these calm islands. Regardless, what I'm trying to say is that since I first heard of you, I've been learning that you have a stout contingency of well-sayers out there, a little hard-to-change group with only good things to lay on you. But darn it, when I'm trying to figure something out I get full of contradictions. It has to be the war, I said to myself just now before coming in. This ugly world war must be curtailing the man's psychiatric work. Is this so, Mr. Sanders?"

It's Doctor, and it's Sanderson, my dear. The war is another thing I'm unconcerned about. And I am not a psychiatrist. I am a psychologist.

Okay. She nodded. I said ‘psychiatrist' just for politeness anyway. She reached into her purse. "I really had you figured for a shamus of some kind. Here's one of your calling cards. ‘The Sandman,' it says. ‘Life-Path Arrangements. Consultations with the Dream-Maker.' Now just what in the world is this all about? What is Neddy getting me into? I asked myself. Y'know, it really has me bothered. I mean, sir, that I see myself telling him some day, ‘Oh, Neddy, I'm so glad you love me,' only for him to reply, ‘Yeah, in your dreams, baby.' So that is why I'm here. That is what I need to know."

"Neddy? Neddy wouldn't say that. Neddy is not getting you into anything untoward that I know of, just into a marriage that he says you both want. And what he came for, you see, is to get me to sort of bless this betrothal. To, ah—"

"To check me out! I can read. And if I treat you as well as I've said I will, will you check him out for me? Can you read that?"

I laughed heartily, though I guess I should not have. Neddy, I said, Neddy has been difficult. He has had previous marriages and side entanglements, of which you probably know already. He also has one child, a beautiful young daughter that he had with his first wife. Other than that, well, I have no wish to get into what I call unprovables. Rumors.

Indeed. Well, it seems I may know something about him that you haven't learned. But let's set that aside for a bit. Tell me something about this life-path and the dream-making business. How does that work? Have you had much success at it, or is this empty office more indicative of your circumstances?

Me? I have nothing to hide. How far back do you want to go? I don't have all afternoon for a review of my specifics.

She laughed. Oh, don't spend the afternoon babying me, please! I just, well, you have another card, for example. This one says something about a ‘facilitator.' Tell me about that.

"Oh, sure. Well, early on, you see, I discovered there was no need for me to advertise my services there in the old neighborhood where I first set up a shop. Of course, I had business cards printed, but that was just a convenience to have my numbers passed out. I had inadvertently glommed on to the fact that those who passed the office out front had begun to refer to me as ‘the facilitator.' It was something I had not thought of. It happened, thinking back, one morning when I had pulled up my shirtsleeves and put on an apron to go out and sweep my small portion of the sidewalk. I do not know precisely who first used the term on me, but I suppose it came from some of the very first clients who had come to me, ones I had managed to satisfy.

"Since, however, the description fit well enough, I did nothing to discourage it. Facilitator seemed just as apt as consultant, anyway, I decided, with the proviso that a facilitator, as I saw it, made it quite definitely incumbent upon himself to ‘make things easy' for his clients. Put pressure on himself, in other words, to ‘fix things painlessly;' whereas, as a consultant I had no such built-in connotations.

"A consultant, I self-described, merely listens to a prospective client's concerns and then decides whether he can advise or not. He himself does not set any physical activities in motion, any that he participates in, if he does not wish to. So this is how I would think of myself in my new consultancy.

"But was this technical tweaking of my new title going to be a detriment to how I would conduct my business? I decided to just let things be. I was not going to change the public's perceptions of me just on my semantic whims alone. People would think me mad were I to start ranting over a self-inflicted semantic denial, while discussing fees, for example.

And that was it! I was the only one in the whole wide world who was thinking all this up. Who else cared? Just who? This thought caused me to rein in the neuroses and get on with some light inward bantering regarding my discovered status in the neighborhood. It is so easy for the one intimately involved in his livelihood to begin obsessing over the silliest trivialities, isn't it. Gosh, so many times the only facilitating a consultant does is to make it easy for a prospect to smoothly walk back out the way he came in! He does this and, bingo! The man in the natty suit and nice manicure has been paid for a consultation. And these, my dear Ms. Brighteye, are pleasant thoughts, pleasant, pleasant thoughts indeed.

Before I continued, I enjoyed looking at a conspiratorial smile from her. But she had nothing to say, not yet. "Anyway, the satisfied folks out there must all have been happy with the solidly paved life-paths—there's the word—I had managed to clear out for them, and so now, today, any visitor or stranger who might be seen hesitating at my door may invariably be approached by one or another of the respected locals. ‘That's the office of the facilitator surely enough,' the stranger will hear. ‘He's a good man to talk to.'

"And that, Ms. Brighteye, is how I got reacquainted with my old college chum Reddy Neddy. By the way, how did you get involved with such a character? How did that happen?"

She sat back in her chair and pondered my question. "That's fair, just as I wanted to know how you hooked up with him. Your second association with him was by word-of-mouth, strictly, it sounds like. The two of you have not been staying in touch. No yearly alumni reports, no buddy promises about keeping track. And yet, sir, you've really done a marvy job for my suspicious fiancé these past months. I think I can certainly grant you that, because he has been nothing but unendingly sugary towards me these past weeks.

How did I meet him? It was at Two Hearts Beach on the island of Bon Cuberre, about a year and a half ago. It was at the Pearl Cobblestones Casino, the night I won a jackpot, as a matter of fact. He came flying at me like a blackbird landing on a tossed peanut! I was a fool, I know now, but well, at that time, I really thought he was quite charming. We clicked, kept on seeing each other, and he finally said he, ah, you know, loved me so much that he wished I would be his wife. He had by this time quite realistically presented himself as a wealthy Palm Beacher from the USA. Today I don't care if he is or isn't, or if he's just a scammer. I simply wish to protect myself and glean what I can so that the two years I will have spent on him aren't wasted.

I thought I detected an annoyed expression on her face upon saying that, but she quickly composed herself and carried on. "So that brings us to this visit. I promise not to complain or bother you with silly bickering. But tell me, what have you found out about me that he so desperately needed to know? Can you