Cuyahoga Jones' Kingdom of the Crystal Balls
Action Hero Cuyahoga Jones tells all about his return to action!
Action Hero Cuyahoga Jones tells all about his return to action!
As I was sitting in my hammock, looking back with satisfaction on my long Action Hero/Archeologist career, I was struck by the fact that I was, despite years of classroom work and hammock-stretching, still in remarkably good physical condition. My superhuman strength hadn't left me. Nor had my blazing speed. Nor had my incredible agility. If I had wanted to, I could still climb a jacknife-bridge faster than any Cuyahoga Valley squirrel, leap onto the roof of a speeding truck, tear open the roof with my bare hands, and subdue a gang of bank-robbers while not breaking a sweat. But I didn't need to. I had cleaned up all crime around here years ago, and could spend my afternoons dozing in my Inca-style hammock. Yes, retirement was good to Old Cuy!
But still, . . . something was knocking at the trap-door of my mind. (My colleagues at The University had always said that I had a mind like the trap-door of a set of long-johns.) My Western-Reserve Super-Sense was telling me that trouble was again brewing in The Valley, and Cuyahoga Jones might have to put on his old felt hat, strap on his trademark machete, and have one last heroic duty to perform for the good citizens of Northeast Ohio.
About then, a trusted old friend and colleague, the Marquis de Corduroy, appeared in my yard. (My faithful canine companion, Duke the Wonder Dog, was not at my feet to bark and wag his tail at the Marquis' approach. Being very old for a dog, Duke had retired years ago to the home of my mother, who cares for him to this day. Whenever I call to see how Old Duke is doing, she tells me, "Cuy, we put him to sleep!" It brings a smile to my face every time she tells me that, as I think of how she must be lovingly patting his head as he starts his daily series of naps.)
I called out, "How are you, Marky?" He smiled. (I recalled that, over the years, the Marquis de Corduroy had always smiled that special smile when I called him that. He smiled so hard, he looked like it hurt, like the face you would make if you got your finger slammed between two bowling balls at Cloverleaf Lanes. Then his brow would furrow and his eyes would get like narrow slits as he glared at me. I loved calling him "Marky" and seeing him appreciate it so much, still to this day!)
Donatien Alphonse Francois de Corduroy was his real name, but everybody in Archelogy circles called him "the Marquis." I was the only one who affectionately called him "Marky." I recalled how, many times during my adventuring past, Marky had saved my life. Whenever a bullet whizzed past me, I'd turn around and see Marky there with his Derringer out, ready to take on the would-be assassin! Every time a bomb blew up near me, I could always count on finding my good friend there by the detonator-box, ready to start the search for the perpetrator. I recalled one time when a rope-bridge I was crossing suddenly collapsed. Good old Marky appeared out of nowhere, sword drawn, ready to do battle with the evil-doers who had wanted me to fall to my demise! Who could have wanted a better or more trustworthy friend on his adventures than I'd had in the Marquis of Corduroy?
I recognized him right away, even holding his pistol in front of his squinting eye, even after all these years. When he saw that I was awake, he lowered his weapon and stepped forward, ready to shake my hand. "Marky, there aren't any assassins around, you don't have to come here to cover my naps for me! Ha ha ha! Matter of fact, I haven't been shot at since the last time I saw you, decades ago!"
Marky had changed some over the years. He was fatter and paler than he used to be. I had heard a lot of rumors about him over the years, none of which I believed. I had heard that he'd been imprisoned at the Fortress of Milan, Ohio, imprisoned in the Chateau de Vermilion, and transferred to the Bastille in Perrysburg, where he reportedly shouted from his cell to the crowd outside, "They are getting cable TV for the prisoners here!" causing a riot. Two days later he had been transferred to the insane asylum at Chagrin Harbor. He had supposedly been released after the overthrow and execution of the infamous Cuyahoga County Commissioner Maximilien Robesdoffer.
He had met Marie-Constance Quesnet Sans Pantalon, a former actress and accordion-player at the now-defunct Ohio City Players. Madamouselle Sans Pantalon and Marky were now inseparable. I heard that he had fallen on hard times, and that he had had to sell his castle at Lagrange. The ruins of the castle were acquired in the 1990s by fashion designer Ralph J. Perkine, who now holds regular theater festivals there.
It had also been rumored that Marky had suffered a severe amputating injury while hurdling a razor-wire fence during one of his many prison escapes, and that he now wore a shiny new prosthesis. The Marquis was the type of guy, though, who seemed to attract a lot of rumors. I took all of them with a grain of salt.
Marky seemed his usual self, despite the wear and tear of the years. He said, "Cuyahoga Jones, I have a proposition for you. . . ."
And a new adventure began. . . .