In the alley, vomiting

Markie Broiler: Man alive! We’ve found every stinky finger-licking secret on the green ball Planet Seattle Earth!

Danny Nutter: I don’t like your altitude or your shoes. And stop fingering the stink, we’re in the big time tent now!

MB: Yikes! Are you the Dark Administrator from strange and mystic Orangutan High School in Issaquah, Washington?

DN: Perhaps. And also, no. On with the experiments!

MB: We are Newspaper Men now. And besides whiskey tankards, do you know what that means now?

DN: Scandals! Underground! Sandals! Ground round! Pork shoulders!

MB: Yes, under the dirt where gritty meat babies are born. I just hope we can scoop the Channel 13 Fox News traffic report! It is on target, and comedy swings on vines at the audience.

DN: Their porno stars are no match for our porno stars.

MB: And also extreme snowboarding cola!

DN: You are right! I am feeling the radical weather of refreshment.

MB: In my pocket holds the key. And a map. I found it on a dead magician.

DN: Emeralds! You found emeralds and donkeys! Let us blow open the underground doggie and mule running scheme!

MB: To the Monorail!

DN: To the Monorail!

At the track

MB: Oi, that speed has given me the poop shoots, but now we are here! Bless that draft of broken dreams, plus the smells I have created too!

DN: World War me! You smell like monkey!

MB: Just like Jesse James who wound up blind in a world of hurt.

DN: But with baseball cards and swollen nards, not aces, spades, and leotards.

MB: Don’t pull no single yoke all yer life!

DN: Yes. For once I understand. But Broiler, why are the donkeys here running for their lives and pulling for the midgets?

MB: Leave that to Newspaper Man me. I will get us scoops.

DN: I will sit or stand and listen to myself learn.

At the hotdog stand

MB: Excuse me hatted man.

Vendor: Chili dog?

MB: Yes, I understand the secret language too. Are there scoops?

Vendor: Condiments. All you want.

MB: You see Nutter, clues are everywhere, and can be made from cardboard cartons of dead lips and subpopcorn!

DN: Also in the green paper with the big man’s heads you give to everyone!

MB: Enough talk and chili. Let us bet the surest horse in horsetown, Trifecta.

DN: I have tri-infections! Scabies, rabies, and—

MB: The grippe? One hundred green dollars on the grippe!

DN: I would talk to the friendly ticket man, but my jaw can no longer box and my palsied wrists cannot accommodate the heaving burdens I bare.

MB: You talk in riddles, like my chilidog. I will command ticket man in a boisterous manner so that he knows I am not new to midget donkey bets.

At the ticket window

MB: So Mr. Pants, we are to bet Happy to win a Trifecta in a box in the three, and I have the money to prove it!

DN: You have made the scoops again. Now I feel I might never make scoops as good as you.

MB: Ha ha ha, it is unfortunate to be dumb and not make scoops. But don’t worry. Let us wade in the pit where they warm the horses to 98 degrees. Surely there will be something to scoop there for you.

Watching the races

DN: Why is his hat so hard? I would put mine on the donkey so to watch my reflection of blowing hair when I drive. Broiler, that man is screaming through a funny tube!

MB: Cherubs! Now we are getting to brass tracks.

DN: They have broken the gate. Surely someone should stop them.

MB: My blood courses wildly. Now I am yelling! Trifecta! I am peeing all over my soul and also my aqua sox.

DN: Did you bring the smoked lunchmeat in your pencil case?

MB: With all this jumping and peeing I am feeling bad.

DN: Like when you ate brain salad?

MB: Yes, but with more . . . flux.

DN: People are not yelling at us anymore. How do we know if Trifecta donkey won?

MB: Go Mister Blister, twist your sister’s wrists to the wind! Let me see all of the horsepower they talk to me about!

DN: Now I am afraid you have chili-lip fever. I have seen it before.

MB: My tender Trifecta has lost. And with it, Quinella dies too.

MB: We must use our Newspaper Man thinking caps and then alert Seattle to the reason why the donkeys, mules, and doggies trudge so readily and purple. I postulate capitalism.

MB: And also The Man.

DN: Did you ever notice that The Man is fat and never wears the trousers too.

MB: Ouch! Your obscene imagery hurts my celebrity skin and now I’m ugly. What else is ugly?

DN: That wiener dog with no hair and that man with the spread sheets.

MB: His kids can no longer talk the talk or walk the walk but still drink the drink and stink the stink.

DN: That is the chili-lips that speak and stink.

MB: I bet more bets, I scoop more scoops! On fire! 16-to-1 odds. Biggest Piece of Meat! Taco Horse #1 make hot money place in the 2nd and I have to go number three.

DN: Perhaps it is not chili-lips at all. Perhaps it is fever wagering coupled with the desire for extreme cola.

MB: So tell me this smart all over, how come okay for idiot me to spend the paycheck on donkeys but not for 14 year olds to drink tankards at Von’s when they drink the Bartles and Jaymes Wine Coolers behind where RKCNDY was!

DN: I cannot feed you answers or cure you like the ham in your pockets.

MB: Yes, my friend. You are right again. We do need more beer scoops.

At the beer stand

DN: One Von’s tankard of your finest beer. Or Miller.

Beer Vendor: We don’t have tankards. Only large and small.

MB: Nothing small gets me drunk. That is for sure the problem.

DN: Please give us your big beers and make them doubles! We are Newspaper Men breaking scandals in half with our superbrains!

MB: Expense these to the newspaper and put yourself down for 25 cents. I like your style but I hate the no tankards part. I need the big to be the funnymouth or pottymouth or maybe just woozy.

DN: Me too, I’m woozy. Let us sit in a room of men.

In the TV betting room

DN: Do you see how the mini-ponies run with even smaller midgets on the tiny light boxes?

MB: And all these smelly men reading their newspapers and ignoring. Always ignoring.

DN: Maybe they are reading our scathing reports and are all paralyzed by our silver tongues and real world advice.

MB: Yes. Among these men, we are definitely, like Mr. Tom Hanks, big.

DN: Paul Schell is not big, but he has got you drunk on the Monorail.

MB: He takes our Monorail Meetings away every time we have them, but now he will get our Monorail Dream to come alive and make love to us.

DN: Yes, and I hope it is not angry and messy when it comes alive to greet us. Traffic is prudent for people who drive their utility sport vehicles unencumbered by passengers.

MB: But we have made the answer. We will let the streets run with water and people can ride the dolphins to work.

DN: We will tell Mr. Paul next time when we give him our scoops about the underbelly of midget ponies. He is always interested in the services we provide.

MB: Too bad there is no Monorail betting, or dolphin riding betting.

DN: MAYBE THERE IS!!!!!!

MB: Hot corn to you Sir Nutter. Hot on the track of crime!

DN: Yes, crime can no longer run on the racetrack of crime!

MB: Like the many News Papermen before us, we will be triumphant and cherished by dolphin riders everywhere.

DN: And we will be drunk on whisky tankards when they give us our pullovers.

MB: Pulitzers. And yes.