bout de papier, Vol. 16, No. 2 (1999) — Summer 1999 // Été 1999, pp. 42–44
As summer wore on, events in disparate parts of the continent began to converge. In York, Rialto Sleazewagon celebrated his re-election as Premier, based on electoral lists consisting entirely of his relatives, leftover clones from the Centre’s First Generation program and the population of every graveyard in the province. Pledging to make his second term a cinch for the Simon Legree Award in Caring Government, he also had other goals. One was to lead the Popular Assembly for the Patriarchal Ascendancy (PAPA) to new heights, despite his handicap as a closet egalitarian. (He toadied to the rich and powerful while treating everyone else as slime, but without discrimination by age, class, race, creed or gender.) His second goal was to block the threatened merger of two automotive firms, Amalgamated Fender and Generalissimo Motors. Both had branches in the province and he saw no reason to be paid off by one instead of two.
Meanwhile in Boca Grande, Generalissimo Don Gordo Ballena de Puerco y Frejoles was putting the final touches on a wedding cake design. That he did so in Castle Escorial’s subterranean torture chamber, during a pause in the proceedings, was classic Don Gordo. Also, of course, the man on the rack was the castle’s pastry chef (suspected of using fat-free ingredients). “Listen, Diego,” he bellowed, “the cake must speak about my daughter and this car-maker she’s marrying. But it must also say something about me. So here we have a pool of live miniature piranha around the base, then tiers of skulls and crossbones on a background of mangrove swamps, all topped — you’ll love this, Diego — with models of myself and the lucky couple seated in an open hearse running over a woman in a large hat with flowers and fruit! Fantastico, no?” Diego smiled weakly and (of course) agreed. In the shadows, a young woman shuddered and turned to go, a resolute look in her eyes.
At the same time, deep in the jungles of Manhattan, Don Gordo’s estranged wife Faith Catastro, who no longer wore large hats with flowers and fruit, pondered her next move. Mothers Against Macho Aggression (MAMA) needed a coup to recover from its fruitless showing against PAPA’s recruiting drive in the Chicago meat-packing district (which gained the Assembly hundreds of bovine new members and an utterly redundant lifetime supply of bologna). And she was not prepared to see her only child marry Throckmorton Fender MacEdsel III, once voted Manager of the (15th) Century for his response to wage demands from his workers (“you’re all fired”). Don Gordo’s enthusiasm just cemented Faith’s opposition — the man had an instinctive genius for egregious catastrophe.
Segue to a lonely garret in a mobile home overlooking the Tuktoyaktuk fairground, where Ragtag Brothers Bunkum and Oily was playing its northernmost stand. Having quit his job at the Centre and run away to the circus after a disastrous strip poker game with a fiery Latin beauty, Attila McGee gazed forlornly at her silver-framed photo as he dressed for his 3 pm performance as a human cannonball. He only hoped the gunners missed the iceberg this time. Suddenly the door burst open and a messenger staggered out of the icy blasts. Sweeping off his sombrero, he handed McGee a fragrant letter, in which the ex-agent was soon lost (a not unfamiliar condition). After waiting pointlessly for a tip, the messenger trudged wearily away over the tundra, cursing loudly and pursued by a bear.
“Enough!” shouted ace logician Ludwig Liebnitz. “I know you’re confused why we care about this wedding, but it’s vital to future relations with our southern allies.” Dead silence in the conference room. “OK, it’s vital to our future paychecks.” Enthusiastic expressions of concern. “Right. We’ve been tasked by PMO to counter a Canadian threat against a wedding in the States between Esmeralda Ballena of Escorial and Throckmorton MacEdsel of Amalgamated Fender. Although there isn’t enough evidence to move against him openly, we know that Rialto Sleazewagon and PAPA plan to break up the ceremony, kidnap the bride and halt the corporate merger behind it. Our job is to stop them.”
Felix Africa’s voice came from the back of the room. “Throckmorton Fender MacEdsel II!? The poor kid. I’m not sure Sleazewagon would be worse.” The ace logician shook his head. “I sympathize, but our orders are clear. The problem is that the groom is taking his own precautions and refuses to tell anyone where or when next week the wedding is taking place. And we don’t know Sleazewagon’s plans. Fortunately, we have a secret helper. This just arrived by postal tapir.” So saying, he unrolled a maze on the table.
“This is an odd form of cipher, called a Lyrical Labyrinth. The framework of the maze follows the lyrics of a popular song. These wide empty “alleys” running all or most of the way across the page represent breaks between verses of the song, moving from bottom to top. The letters at the bottom are the initials of people mentioned in the lyrics. The words in CAPITALS in the maze are linked in the song to one or more of those people. To solve the cipher, start at one person’s initials and work up the maze, passing through the areas containing all the capitalized words that relate to that person (but none that don’t) and finishing at the last such word. Along the way, you pass through areas containing other words, not capitalized. Those uncapitalized words form a clue based on the lyrics of another song by the same artist or group. Repeat the process for each starting initial, five of them in this case. Two or more paths starting from different initials can follow the same route in part of the maze, but you can’t backtrack along a path already drawn from the same initial. Once you’ve entered an alley you can’t reenter the previous ’verse’ section, and once you’ve left an alley you can’t return to it.”
He continued, “Our helper gave us another clue: “www.mathematik.uni-ulm.de/paul/lyrics”. With that, I solved the labyrinth. The five clues give us the weekday and time of the ceremony, the city, Sleazewagon’s disguise and the code-word he will use to set the kidnaping in motion.” Inspector Wa chimed in. “That’s great, Ludwig, but who did this come from?”
Replied the ace logician, “I don’t know. Clearly someone who can penetrate both MacEdsel’s plans and Sleazewagon’s, and who knows our codes. But the results check out. We aren’t invited to the wedding, but we need to catch Sleazewagon red-handed when he makes his move. So we’ll have to disguise ourselves too……..
A week later, Ludwig and Felix were hidden in a gallery, scanning the congregation that filled the cathedral and exchanging nods with a stocky collection of ushers scattered around the nave, all sporting hearing aids (despite their youth) and gun-shaped bulges under their arms. The bride was beautiful and surprisingly calm beside a groom who closely resembled a fossilized haggis. The rotund father of the bride stood bestowing prouder smiles on a singularly ghastly wedding cake, visible through an archway, than he did on his daughter.
The women’s choir had finished a psalm (to the relief of the congregation) and the preacher was asking about just cause or impediment, when a grim procession appeared from a side chapel. Figures in dark monkish garb advanced with solemn tread, hand-bells ringing and censors wafting smoke, a black-draped coffin borne on six broad shoulders. A beaming Don Gordo wrung the groom’s hand warmly and said, “What a wonderful, tasteful surprise, Throckmorton! I can’t thank you enough!” As the procession neared the altar, however, Rialto Sleazewagon suddenly threw off his disguise, spoke the anticipated code-word, set off a small smoke-bomb and disappeared, coughing.
The monks rapidly disrobed to reveal the distressed black leather uniforms of PAPA commandos. Pepper spray in hand, they corralled the congregation. Felix leapt to the radio to marshal the Centre’s agents, but they were abruptly flattened by 120 decibels of Edible Granite’s “Oratorio for the Immanently Deaf” blasted through their earpieces from an all-frequency jammer manned by Sleazewagon in the pulpit. Chaos prevailed. But then the choir tore off its own vestments to reveal the svelte suede and ostrich plume uniforms of the MAMAs. Led by an exultant Faith Catastro, they unholstered high-pressure soakers and began to spray their black-clad opponents with a steaming yellow liquid. The congregation took cover as one.
Terrorized by the unexpected attack, the PAPAs were in full retreat until Don Gordo suddenly lifted his face from a pool of spray and stumbled to his feet. Swaying toward the MAMA leader, he crooned, “Faith, my little fruitbat, this is wonderful chicken soup!” Replying only, “Gordo, your timing was always appalling,” she demonstrated just how forceful a mother’s soup could be, especially delivered at 200 pounds pressure on a floor coated with chicken fat. Leaving him flat (or as flat as he got), she and her troops returned to confront the rallying PAPAs.
With everyone else’s eyes riveted on the battle, only Liebnitz saw the coffin silently open and disgorge Papa Jack Paridy, Sleazewagon’s sinister sidekick. Creeping around Don Gordo’s recumbent form, he snatched Esmeralda from a sputtering MacEdsel, pulled her by main force behind the altar and handcuffed her to a pillar. Raising the trapdoor to the crypt, he extracted a complicated contraption of titanium poles and fabric, which he rapidly assembled into a small but powerful gyrocopter. Turning back to Esmeralda, he found her to his confusion murmuring calmly into her bridal bouquet, “Now might be a good time.”
From outside the cathedral came the boom of a heavy howitzer. On all sides, weapons were dropped and people looked around in shock. And then, resplendent in his rhinestone uniform and neon-lit helmet, Attila McGee came crashing through the eastern rose window. Executing a triple somersault, he caromed off Don Gordo, who rolled like a bowling ball through the arch and crashed into the cake table, bringing it down on his head. Rebounding, Attila slammed MacEdsel into the unwelcoming arms of Faith Catastro before leaping over the altar to knock Papa Jack casually aside, uncuff Esmeralda and lift her gently to her feet. “Cool entrance, lover. Now let’s split before people get it together,” she breathed, kissing him lightly. “Your steed awaits,” he replied, as the tall doors of the cathedral burst open and an elephant walked in. Followed by the rest of the circus.
Pausing only to thank Liebnitz for coming — they hadn’t been sure how much chaos they would need — Attila and Esmeralda mounted the great pachyderm, which ambled back into the sunlight, leaving the congregation agape. Except for Don Gordo, who was bouncing frantically up and down trying to get the piranhas out of his underwear. Overhead, a gyrocopter with the insignia of a pencil thin moustache bore two bickering figures away to the north.
Can you duplicate Liebnitz’ feat by working your way through the maze and determining the weekday, time and US city for the wedding, as well as Sleazewagon’s false identity and the codeword he used? bout de papier will decide the winner by drawing from a box containing all correct entries received by October 24. The winner will receive a book prize autographed by A Aalto.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 16, No. 2 (1999) — Summer 1999 // Été 1999, pp. 42–44. Read the rest of this issue →
