ANTENNAVILLE (A FICTIONAL INTERLUDE) — excerpt from upcoming work of pseudofiction INDRID COLD IS DEAD

ANTENNAVILLE (A FICTIONAL INTERLUDE) — excerpt from upcoming work of pseudofiction INDRID COLD IS DEAD

Here is where I put on my Milan Kundera hat and insert a few pages of fiction inside of a book of (mostly) nonfiction. (Kundera often did the opposite, tossing whole philosophical chapters about the difference between rocks and pebbles into the belly button of his novels about boy meets girl, boy cheats on girl, boy knocks up other girl, boy tragically dies in a robbery gone awry in some syrupy backstreet of Phnom Penh, et cetera, ad barfeam . . . )

This little story, I believe, could easily take place in real life—and probably one day will, if it hasn’t already. If you want to pull something daffy and try to rip this idea off, knock yourself out, granted you might probably maybe 100% get a visit from my old pals Gino Scarlotti and Joey Three Flushes, who won’t kill you with kindness as much as they will turn your kneecaps inside out with kindness. (It’ll warm my creepy little heart if you think I’m bluffing.)

Okay, here goes! (and rendered in second person so you feel like you’re part of the action).

Your name is Shayla Wayward, and you are the founder and unconditional/nonnegotiable supreme dictator of Deep Woods, Inc., a guerrilla marketing firm that specializes in fabricating cryptids and bringing their “legend” to life and then perpetuating that legend so to draw attraction to whatever American town desires it. Basically for three hundred fifty dollars an hour, plus tax and gratuity, you will turn someone’s busted-up little jerkwater town into a primo attraction for paranormalheads and kooksters. You basically do what Mothman routinely does for Point Pleasant, West Virginia, or what them little green men do for Roswell, New Mexico.

Currently you are in a log cabin/city hall, sitting across from a new client, a corpulent gentleman by the name of Garnet Dukedom, mayor of Saskwelchahawhaw, South Dakota.

“Mister Mayor, as you know, all of this is 100% confidential,” you say. “I encourage my clients to really let loose and provide me with as much information as possible, whether it be facts about your town or just ideas you have stampeding around your noodle. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, ma’am, it does,” Mayor Dukedom says, creaking his chair up a little close to his desk and leaning in. “I’ll be candid, our economy here in Saskwelchahawhaw is as dead as yesterday’s bread. We’ve exhausted about every option on the planet to get out of the red, and we currently sit about one dead donkey away from total financial collapse. Which is, yeah, where you and your team come in.”

Ah, yes, your team. Dex Chimney, the ideas man, and Case “Land Line” Bossier, the techhead. They were currently in your 2018 Jeep Guzzler, probably listening to Rocket from the Crypt and snorting high caliber cocaine.

“And, I might add, why we have agreed to the exorbitant fee you’ve thwacked us over the head with,” the mayor says, sulkily.

“My fee is high because my results are guaranteed. My work is one hundred percent effective.”

“So far.”

“Well, yeah.”

The mayor clasps his hands and rests them behind his head and leans back. “Fear not, Miss Wayward, I have no interest in squabblin’ about all that. I understand your price is high because the quality of your work is high, which is why we’re sitting across from each other and not playin’ tiddlywinks on Zoom or whatever.”

You mentally clocked in as soon as you sat down across from the mayor. Thirty bucks you’ve made before either one of you has even had to stifle a poot.

“I’ll be candid, sir, I’ve already taken a look around your gorgeous little town. You’ve definitely got a lot of necessary ingredients to make this thing work,” you say, sincerely. “I’m confident I can secure some quality lore for you to, well, nurture.” That’s spook-speak for you’re pretty sure you can cook up a bullshit monster for the mayor and his little froot loop coterie of pinched-face spinsters so they can swindle the rubes.

“That’s music to my ears and nose and everything else, Miss Wayward.”

“Good to hear. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to start with a line of routine questions.”

The mayor nods in noncommittal accord.

“Are there already any sort of legends or myths or, you know, just plain ol’ spooky stories floating around town? Any alien abductions or haunted properties or unusually large hairy beasts or anything like that?”

“Oof.” The mayor tugs at his little mustache and leans back in his chair. “As far as I know, nothing at all. Zilch.”

“Weird lights in the sky, phantom dogs, unusually large birds, haunted train tracks . . . ”

“No, ma’am. At least, no that I know of.”

“You mentioned a donkey. Was that just an expression or do you have a lot of donkeys around here?” In your cursory tour of the square mile yawnfest that was Saskwelchahawhaw, you had seen zero donkeys—or cows or chickens or sheep or, yeah, people.

“Well, I was jokin’, but now that you mention it, Old Man Barksdale has msybe a dozen or so donkeys crawlin’ all over his farm. He uses ‘em to haul grain around.”

“Interesting,” you say, optimistically. “That there is excellent news.”

“Why is that?”

“Donkeys are not indigenous to the Dakotas, correct?”

“No, definitely not.”

You draw a little picture of a donkey in my memo pad.

“Oh, before I forget, how married are you and your fellow townsfolk to the name, um, shit . . . ”

“Saskwelchahawhaw?”

“Yeah, that,” you say. “Are y’all stuck with that name or do you think you could maybe change it?”

This question appears to truly perplex the mayor. He zones out for a long second and says, “To be honest with you, I have no idea. Personally I’ve never cared too much for the name. Years and years ago, before my time, Saskwelchahawhaw was simply known as Dickrock Bend. But, you know, times change, womens’ lib and all that, which is totally fine,” the mayor says, fidgeting like a hamster. “But yeah, make a long story short, Gus Crampton, my predecessor, got bullied into going down to the Clerk of Courts in Butterburg—you know, the county seat up the road—and officially changing the name from Dickrock Bend to Saskwelchahawhaw. Real boneheaded move, if you ask me, but, as I said, this was before my time.”

“So that’s a yes,” you say, with an affable chuckle.

“Yeah, that’s most definitely a yes. I’ll personally look into it on Monday.”

“It’s just that Saskwelchahawhaw is an absolute six lane pile-up of a name. I have to do Zen and watch Jane Fonda for an hour before I even think about saying it.”

“Tell me about it,” the mayor says, probably picturing Jane Fonda doing her shimmery little spandex spread. “Apparently, it means ‘death by ennui and malaise’ in the local yahoo language. You know, Native Americans and such.”

“Hmm.”

The mayor clasps his hands together like he’s about to pray. The smell of Certs and Polo Crest marauds your nostrils. “Lemme ask you, if we can change it, what do you think we should we change it to?”

“Hmm . . . Anything in the English language but Dickrock Bend,” you say, thinking. “Is there any sort of, like, structure or monument or mountain or anything at all notable at all around here?”

“Well, we do have the biggest antenna in South Dakota. In fact, it’s the second biggest antenna in North Dakota and South Dakota.”

Your eyes bristle with epiphany. “Mayor Dukedom, you are a genius.”

The mayor immediately loosens up upon hearing this. It’s almost certainly the first time in his life he’s ever been christened with such a champion of a noun. “How’s that, young lady?”

“Antennaville,” you say, and snap your fingers real loud for effect. “Pure uncut gold.”

“Antennaville . . . Antennaville . . . ” The mayor goes full mantra with the word for a little bit, fucking around where to put the accent (“AN-ten-na-ville, An-TEN-na-ville, An-ten-na-VILLE”) . . . You text your team a convoy of Simpsons-yellow thumbs-up emojis as the mayor pulls out a checkbook big enough for a Sikorsky to plop down on.

Fast forward to a couple of years later. . . . You and your crew and Mayor Dukedom are cheersing each other with barrel-aged Manhattans and watching a hundred or so cryptidistas deck out the town square with all sorts of bug-eyed, kookcentric crafts and trinkets, all underneath a huge sign that in dainty cursive proclaims: “WELCOME TO ANTENNAVILLE! HOME OF THE CHUPABURRO!—AND THE WORLD’S ONLY CHUPABURRO FESTIVAL!”