Here's the story:
A guy named Harry Stephen Keeler wrote many books and they're so interesting a society of Keelerites was formed and for the past decade or so has encouraged its members to write short pastiches of Harry's style. Apparently I recorded an audio version of one of mine back in 2001.
Chapter
I
A
Disturbing Telegram
Philo vunPtaffholster leaned back in the specially-designed
car seat of his brand-new 1960 Metropolitan convertible and once more regarded
the telegram that had just arrived from Mora Bora, informing him that like it
or not, he was not the only man on the planet with a plastic skull!
He was on his way to spend an
hour or so with the most beautiful woman in the world—bar none!—and now, as he
pulled out of his driveway into the slow-moving 5 p.m. traffic, he began to read the message from the far off
Pacific that threatened to strip him of his fame, his fortune, and more
importantly, the most beautiful woman in the world—nuff sed!
MORA BORA 5:13 a.m. JULY 5, 1960
FROM: DWIL SPROCKET
TO: PHILO VUNPTAFFHOLSTER
PHI, OLD FRIEND, I’VE GOT BAD
NEWS. A NATIVE OF MORA BORA, ONE MANUEL AMANO, IS GOING TO REVEAL TOMORROW AT
HIGH NOON THAT HE TOO HAS A PLASTIC SKULL LIKE YOURS.
Philo swerved around an
18-wheeler that was making a wide right turn, then drove on.
NOW, AS YOU KNOW, YOU’VE MADE QUITE A NAME FOR
YOURSELF IN PAST YEARS AS “THE MAN WITH THE PLASTIC SKULL”, EXHIBITING YOURSELF
IN TRAVELLING MOTORCADE CIRCUSES, ALLOWING PEOPLE TO FEEL AND MANIPULATE YOUR
NON-RIGID SKULL.
A car in the right lane cut
Philo off and he had to slam on the brakes, sending the car into a tight,
well-controlled spin. Straightening out, Philo once again turned to the telegram
and drove on.
I’VE
MANAGED TO FIND OUT THAT THE OPERATION ON AMANO WAS PERFORMED BY A DOCTOR
WESLEY TOOTHWELL, WHO PRACTICES AT PEPPERDUKE UNIVERSITY, JUST DOWN THE ROAD
FROM WHERE YOU LIVE IN NORTHEAST CHICAGO. HE’S A, WHAT DO YOU CALL IT, BONE
SURGEON.
Philo pulled into a service
station and told the attendent to fill’erup. The attendant gave a toothy grin
and shuckled, “Gawsh, Mr. vunPtaffholster, anytime!”
“How did you know my nam—”
Philo shot back, but immediately realized his mistake—he was one of the most
well-known and beloved circus performers in the Tri-State area.
“Wa-all, Mr. vunPtaffholster,
it’s writ’ raght thar on th’ sida yer car!”
“That’s right,” Philo
thought, “I forgot that I had a sign painter come over and paint:
PHILO VUNPTAFFHOLSTER
“THE MAN WITH THE PLASTIC
SKULL”
A Circus Near You
on both sides of my car.” He paid for the gas,
got back in the convertible, and picked up the telegram as he started the car,
and drove on.
THERE IS MORE TO TELL YOU BUT THESE TELEGRAMS ARE, WELL, EXPENSIVE. I’LL
WRITE YOU A LETTER AND SEND IT TO YOU VIA THE U.S. MAIL.
A policecar pulled up
alongside the Metropolitan, which was going about fifty, and the policeman who
was riding shotgun held his billy club up and, through the closed window, thumped
it against his gloved left hand once, twice, three times, all the while gazing
at Philo with a sleepy grin on his face. Philo winced, and felt the skin on his
hump loosen. He knew what those three thumps meant—the third degree! Then he
saw the cop’s eyes drift down to the sign on the side of the car, and the cop’s
face went ashen. He yelled at his partner to speed up and to Philo’s
astonishment, the policecar sped on ahead and was soon out of sight.
Philo breathed a sigh of
relief and resumed his telegram-reading. Once again he drove on.
I GUESS THAT’S ABOUT IT,
PARTNER.
DWIL
Philo put down the telegram
and thought about the implications of another person having a plastic skull
like his. And how? Philo had always been told that it was ol’ Doc Winkerdoll
that had saved his life by removing his heavily radar-active skull back in
1954, replacing it with a skull prosthesis made from Plastene, a new form of
plastic the doctor had invented, a form that was actually more like a soft
rubber with incredible tensile strength. It wasn’t the whole skull, but just
the bowl-shaped top part, from the tops of the eye orbitals up.
But ol’ Doc Winkerdoll was
killed not long after performing the operation, and never revealed the secret
formula for Plastene. He left a note saying it was hidden in a 2-inch Plastene
sphere, but the four government agents who killed Winkerdoll searched every
inch of his office and home and never found it.
At this point in his
ruminations Philo pulled into the posh driveway of the Smith-Smythes, where
dwelt the most beautiful woman in the world, Confessa Smith-Smythe.
Chapter II
Confessa
Worries!
Confessa
met him at the
door as she always did, giving him a warm kiss while rubbing his hump for luck.
But she had a look of worry on her pretty face.
“Oh, Phi, oh Phi, oh Phi,”
she bewailed, “I’ve just had the most dreadful news!”
“Me too! You first,” Philo
countered.
“Well, you know that Daddy
has had some bad luck in the market lately, and he just found out that unless
he pulls a big score with Plastene, Inc. the company that you and he started in
anticipation of the day when the formula is found, he’s dead broke! And you
know we can’t get married until he can afford to pay for the lavish wedding ceremony!”
“Gosh, Confessa, that is
bad news. My news isn’t quite so bad, but it’s sort of in the same category. I
just found out that there is another person who now has a plastic skull, and
that may put a damper on my circus career. As the only man on earth with a plastic
skull, I was quite a draw, but with this Amano guy—”
“Oh Phi! What are we to do?
You’ve always been so resourceful. In fact, it was because of your hump that
Daddy was happy for us to become, well, an item. He always said, ‘If a
man can grow up with a handicap like a huge hump on his right shoulderblade,
and still not be bitter with the world, that man is good enough for my daughter!’
Of course I've come to love you in spite of your hump—although it does get in
the way of our lovemaking sometimes and I do wish it could be removed—but
that’s not to mention your brave experience with your radar-active skull.”
“We-ell, Confessa, I feel the
same way about your father. As for my skull, you remember how I discovered back
in 1954, quite by accident one day when I wandered too near an army air force installation,
that my original osseous skull was hyper-sensitive to those new-fangled radar
waves used by the military since WWII. I got an excruciating headache that
knocked me out and it was only through the good luck of being found by Ol’ Doc Winkerdoll
that I survived. Apparently, the radar waves caused my skull to contract,
giving me the horrible headache. So he removed the top of my skull and replaced
it with a Plastene facsimile. I was in a coma for a month afterwards but came
out of it in good condition.”
“Oh, Phi, if only he had told
you what he did with your old skull, we might be able to help Daddy. I've heard
that the military and the police are very interested in any material that can
detect radar-waves. Of course it’s obvious why the air force wants it, but—”
“—Why would the cops want it?
I know what you mean, Confessa, it’s a real mystery.”
He pulled her close to him
for another kiss, then snapped his fingers. “Hold it! I just had an idea. Can I
use your ’phone?" He reached for the telephone and dialed 0. “Operator,
connect me with Professor Wesley Toothwell at Pepperduke University!”
A few minutes later a voice
answered. “Toothwell here.”
“Doctor Toothwell, my name is
Philo vunPtaffholster. Did you just perform surgery on a Mora Boran native,
giving him a plastic skull?”
“Why, yes, I did. Did you
say, ‘vunPtaffholster?’ ”
“Yes I did. I’m the original
Man with the Plastic Skull. Er—ah—did you use Plastene for your skull?”
“No I didn’t, Mr. vunPtaff—”
“Just call me Philo, please.”
“Thank you, Philo. No I
didn’t use Plastene. As you know, the formula is still unknown and the Plastene
in your head is the only bit of it known to be in existence.”
“That’s right, Doctor. May I
ask two questions? One, is the man you operated on planning on travelling
around, exhibiting his skull in circuses? And two, was the operation difficult?
I mean, would it have been easier if you had had some Plastene to work
with?”
“Well, Mr. vunPtaff—er,
Philo, the answer to your first question is, absolutely not. Mr. Amano has an
abject fear of circuses, especially clowns, and wouldn’t get near a circus. In
fact, he leaves his village in Mora Bora whenever a circus comes to town, and
lives on another island until the carnies leave town for good. As for the
second question, the answer is yes, yes, yes, and double yes, yes! The
qualities of Plastene, as exhibited by the hundreds, if not thousands of circus-goers
who have seen and manipulated your Plastene skull, show that it is a much better
material for skull-fabrication than the hard bakelite I used. The formula for
Plastene, when it is finally found, will make mill—”
“That’s what I wanted to
hear, Doctor! I think you’ll be hearing from me again—sooner than you think.
Thanks for everything!” With that Philo hung up the phone and turned to his
Confessa. “Darlin’, I think I've got the answer to all of our problems!”
Chapter III
All
Strings Tied Up
Bong Hai, leader of the tong, the Fat
Black Lemurs, leaned back in his papa-san chair and tamped down another
bowlful of his tong’s best brand of opium. He lit the pipe and took a long,
slow pull, gazing at the wall as if it were ten miles away. He set the pipe
down and settled deeper in the chair, then reached up and rubbed his skull vigorously with his hands. He pushed with both hands, squeezing the sides of his head
until they receded about an inch. Then he pushed the top down, squeezing the
sides out. He had a plastic skull!
The sensations Bong Hai felt
as the inner side of his Plastene skull rubbed against his brain, even moving
it a bit, were exquisite. He simply could not describe the pleasures to anyone
who did not have some good opium and a Plastene skull.
He thought about how he got
his new skull. His photographic memory had it all down in detail and the opium
was making it seem especially real. His lips mumbled soft words as he drifted
into the warm, rolling clouds of nepenthe.
“It began wi’ that ’Melican
fella, vunPtaffholstel. He velly smalt. He have filst plas’ic skull. He got
skull in fi’ty-fo’ because he fin’ his skull contlac’, get smallel, w’en he get
neal ladal.”
Bong Hai chuckled to himself
at his pitiful attempt to say “near radar”. And drove on.
“But he luckily foun’ a bone
sulgeon docta’—fella name’ Winkeldoll—who lemove skull an’ leplace it wi’
Plastene. Docta’ also hid folmula fo’ Plastene at ’loun’ same time. Folmula not
foun’ until day six yeals latel, w’en vunPtaffholstel get blight idea w’ele it
be. He kill two bilds wi’ one lock! He fin’ folmula fo’ Plastene an’ fin’ his
ol’ skull w’ich contlac’ w’en neal ladal. All in same place!”
The wizened old tong leader
smiled to himself as he continued to manipulate his Plastene skull with much
pleasure. His softly spoken ruminations continued.
“He get bone docta’ name’
Toothwell to op’late on his hump and he fin’ that oliginal docta’ name’
Winkeldoll, aftel lemovin’ skull an’ leplacin’ it wi’ Plastene skull, also
lemove hump an’ leplace it wi’ oliginal skull! T’en he hide folmula ball
inside skull-hump! Why? Because he know govelnment agents wan’ to kill
him fo’ bot’ seclets an’ will sealch offices flom A to Izzald.”
He took another pull on the
opium pipe and continued to manipulate his Plastene skull, which he got at the Chicago
Center for Frivolous Elective Surgery, or CCFES. Once the formula was released
by Plastene, Inc. to much public hooplah and unheard of investment by the stock
market class, Bong Hai, thanks to his huge fortune amassed from opium sales,
was one of the first to receive a new skull.
“So much pleasule I get. Make
me glad vunPtaffholstel get lich flom Plastene, get lid of hump an’ mally
sweethealt, an’ sell impoltant ladal-sens’tive skull to militaly so they can
tell if ladal bein’ used ’gainst them.”
Bong Hai’s eyes glazed over
with extreme joy as he mumbled one last question.
“Nevel did figule out w’y
cops wan’ed ladal-sens’tive matelial. Cops nevel use ladal ’gainst own
cit’zens, would they? Aftel all, ’tis ’Melica, lan’ of flee, light?”
I heartily recommend googling "Harry Stephen Keeler" and reading one of his many books. To discover more -- much, much more -- check out Richard Polt's Harry Stephen Keeler Society. Here's what the Wall Street Journal had to say.
What? No music? Okay, how about a song from 1968 recorded at an Enlisted Men's Club music room at Redstone Arsenal, Huntsville AL. Rick Murphy on piano, Peter Blue on comb, harmonica and vocals, Fender Tucker on guitar, Chris Clements on the tape recorder, and John Lennon (a Colorado skier), Rockee Blue and Joyce Butler as the crowd. It was the first of the two times they played together.
(c)1968 by Toehold
