The Silliest Stories Out of Bustleburg

  The Silliest Stories Out of Bustleburg, America’s Worst City

  By Jimmy Misfit

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 David Mohan

  ISBN 9781634865876

  Cover Design: Willsin Rowe

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For my sister, Denise. Love always, your little brother.

  * * * *

  The Silliest Stories Out of Bustleburg, America’s Worst City

  By Jimmy Misfit

  The Grand Tour

  I Was Born to Bother You

  The End of the Line with the Gamboge Girls

  My Day at the Zoo

  I Always Win

  I Can’t Believe It’s Tofu!

  My Day at Grandma’s House

  That Feathered Menace

  Points Towards Heaven

  An Exciting Day in Bustleburg

  The Boy Is For the Birds

  Elements of Style

  My World, Ripped Apart

  Sweeter Than Sugar

  In League with the Dark One

  My Day at the Parade

  Here Comes the Hot Pepper

  Merry and Bright

  I May Be Evil, But I Can Explain

  My Day at the Firehouse

  In My Heart, a Cloud

  Acknowledgements

  The Grand Tour

  As told by Marty Sweet, Age 34

  I wished there were a book called How Not to Look Desperate When You’re Extremely Desperate. I also wished I’d read it. If I didn’t impress these potential new hires, my employer, Environmental Bustleburg Lobby, would lose a grant. Thus, I wouldn’t have a job. Still, volunteering to be the substitute contact for their tour had felt like a mistake. And that was before the tour bus was sort of hijacked.

  I’d visited my cousin Rob in Bustleburg often when we were kids, but I’d only become a resident within the last three months. While crime is a problem in most cities, the sources of crime here make Bustleburg unique. Case in point, our hijackers were also our tour guides.

  The guide we’d requested, Billy Snow, had been a big hit in the past, but he was nowhere to be found. Neither were the Lobby’s recruits. Neither Rob nor anyone at the office had been able to reach them before the tour began, thanks to worse than standard problems with the airline. After another five minutes biting my nails, there was the airport shuttle I’d been told to expect. Phew. Finally.

  The recruits and their spouses looked exhausted as they piled on with their luggage. I stood to shake hands. Then I explained: “I’m Marty Sweet. You’ve spoken with my cousin, our assistant director, Rob Sweet. He was supposed to be your liaison for the tour, but his younger daughter needed stitches, so—”

  The group said, “oh no” as one and clucked in sympathy. I didn’t want to explain further, but the recruits seemed concerned with details. All I added was his daughter, Tootles, “had taken on an alley cat, but would be fine.” Well, not just an alley cat, but the neighborhood’s notorious orange tabby, Swampfox. She’d then carried the cat half a block and threw him at Murphy Runk, the local high school bully. I’m told she won both battles, but not without minor wounds. Tootles is three. They say Bustleburg toughens you up from an early age, but good gravy.

  I promised the recruits we’d spend time together after the tour. They seemed happy to be here, or at least relieved to have made it. So far, so adequate.

  “Well, brand new hello!” said a curly-haired brunette tour guide. Her greeting made me wince. “Bustleburgese” is considered “part English, part advertisement.” Speakers of Bustleburgese say “brand new hello” when you’ve never met before. I took out my pen so I could make hash marks on my notepad every time she said “double-extra” or “Bustleburg is the absolute limit!”

  “I’m Breezy Sundstrom,” said the guide, her smile beauty-queen wide. I’d never seen such odd-looking eyes. I mean, they were a pretty blue, but even from five feet away it looked like clouds drifted through them. I hoped she wasn’t on something. Not that I knew of a drug that created cumulonimbus patterns in one’s pupils.

  She turned to me as she ushered two mystery guests aboard and said, “I know E-BLOB requested Billy Snow, but to your delight, you’ve been upgraded. I’m a senior guide, and this is our talented new driver, Phantasma. Welcome to fabulous Bustleburg and the Great State of Arkanois!”

  Phantasma, with her chandelier earrings and form-fitting red dress, looked ready for cocktails. From her attire and her hardened expression, I’d sooner picture her seducing James Bond than driving a bus. She nodded at Breezy and sat down.

  “We also have a double-extra special exclusive treat for you,” continued Breezy. “Everyone, this is Ivan M. Vickers. He’s a local environmentalist.”

  She pointed to a squat, grim man in a straw boater hat, who yawned and inspected his nails. His hat made me think he should be yanking bad performers off a sideshow stage with a huge shepherd’s crook. Also, why hadn’t I heard of this local environmentalist? True, I’d only been with the Lobby a short while, but you’d think someone would have mentioned him.

  That left one person still a mystery, an elderly lady wearing a hat resembling a flower pot with a single daisy. She sat next to the environmentalist, Ivan, on a bench lining the wall instead of facing forward. I had imagined that would have been for the guide.

  Breezy remained standing and fiddled with a microphone—unnecessary considering how few of us there were. She appeared to guess my question about the older lady. “Everyone, this is Mrs. Anemone Vostic. She’s with the Privilege Pond Garden Club and wanted to know more about the environmental lobby’s plans. Is it okay if she joins us?”

  Everyone murmured, “Of course” or “More the merrier,” but I didn’t join the chorus. It was a little late to ask, considering we’d already begun moving.

  Besides, based on Mrs. Vostic’s expression of surprised disdain when Breezy asked if it were okay she came along, she fit the Privilege Pond stereotype. She’d probably expected Breezy to ask her if she approved of us.

  Mrs. Vostic glared at our group and rolled her eyes. “You’re running twenty minutes late!”

  “I know. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Vostic,” Breezy said, shaking her head. She looked at us. “We’re always late here. It’s benchmark Bustleburg! That’s a local saying.”

  It is? Perhaps I wasn’t a native, but I’d been visiting Rob and my other cousins for years. Considering how often I’d heard “Bustleburg is the absolute limit,” it seemed like the residents would choke on their self-admiration. This was the first I’d heard of “benchmark Bustleburg.”

  I turned sideways in my seat, so I could address both Breezy and the recruits. This was the part of the tour where I’d have to distract them from the scenery. The Sunspray office was located at the city’s bus depot in a tiny area known as Hollandton, winner of the award for Most Depressed Neighborhood the past six years.

  “Breezy, with the canceled flights I haven’t had a chance to meet our guests.”

  “Benchmark Bustleburg again!” Breezy said.

  She needed to stop saying that. “May we do introductions?”

  “Sure! I’m Breezy Sundstrom, and I’m your tour guide to everything one-hundred percent pure Bustleburg!”

  “Great. Thank you.” From their expressions, I sensed the group already perceived her to be so empty-headed it was a wonder she didn’t float away.

  I turned back to the recruits. “I mentioned I’m Marty. I’ve been working as a liaison with the urban planning department of our city government.” So far that meant I spent all day on the phone saying, “We went over this! What do you mean you ‘still don’t have an urban planning department?’” Hence, my need to make myself useful in other ways. Like this tour.

  I smiled at the two women behind me, hoping my memory would be good enough not to need my notes. “I’m guessing Lisa Larkspur and Wendy Rochet?”

  They beamed. “My last name will be Larkspur soon, I hope,” said Wendy as she shook my hand.

  “Oh, for heaven sakes! Women marrying women. It’s a wonder this whole country hasn’t turned into a pillar of salt,” said Mrs. Vostic from the front seat.

  Good God. I saw their expressions fall as they looked at our uninvited guest. I felt pain in my jaw. I’d gone from uneasy to clenched-teeth anxious.

  I
swallowed and counted to three. Then I smiled at them again, but I also raised my eyebrows in exasperation. Hopefully I’d communicated intolerance wasn’t customary. Lisa might have been African-American, or she might have had a rich tan that brought out her green eyes. Wendy had bone-straight ebony hair and high cheek bones. I wondered if she were Native American. Since Mrs. Vostic’s comment, they’d begun holding hands. Good for them.

  From Rob’s notes, I knew Lisa was a water quality specialist, but for Wendy it said, “coffee shop.” I took a guess. “Wendy, am I right that you own a coffee shop back in Cleveland?”

  “Oh, Cleveland!” gushed Breezy. “What a lovely city. I know the lake-effect snow must be brutal. I think your river has only caught fire about thirteen times. That’s so few compared to ours!”

  I ignored Breezy and waited for Wendy to respond.

  “Right now I’m a manager,” Wendy said while fiddling with an ankh pendant. “But I’ve been offered a license to open a Kindly Cup Coffee there, so moving to Bustleburg might be a tough decision.” Most of the bus started oohing and ahhing.

  “I love Kindly Cup,” said the man with the bushy mustache sitting with the pregnant woman to Wendy’s right. His accent sounded part Midwestern and part Middle Eastern. “It’s the only place I’ve found since leaving home that makes decent Arabian coffee.”

  “And the donuts are fantastic,” added the young man with an earring sitting across from me. The woman with him batted his hand, as if reminding him he had a serious donut problem.

  “I’ve been to a Kindly Cup in New Orleans,” Breezy said. “The line was around the corner.”

  That gave me an idea. “You know, there’s no Kindly Cup here. Maybe the company could authorize—”

  “—Wonderful!” cut in Breezy. “Since Bustleburg’s Starbucks closed, we really need another coffee house.”

  “You only had one Starbucks?” Lisa asked. “In a city this size?” She had a trace of a Caribbean lilt. Hmm. If she were accustomed to tropical weather, then good for Breezy for bringing up Cleveland’s terrible snow.

  Breezy nodded. “Yes, there was a small fire, but it was a nice place. Always crowded.”

  “Good grief, why didn’t it reopen?” Wendy asked.

  Ivan shook his head, raised his eyebrows, and gave us a cryptic look. “So many reasons.”

  That’s ominous. I didn’t realize Starbucks had no plans to reopen. I directed my attention to the man with the bushy mustache who apparently loved Arabian coffee. Based on choice of seats, I expected he was married to our possible new environmental lawyer.

  “Joy Ibrahim?” I ventured. “And you must be, Fadi?”

  Joy smiled. “How did you know?”

  “I’m a good guesser.” Or really, I knew because she was clearly expecting a baby. Rob had mentioned she’d asked about neo-natal care and which neighborhoods had safe, functioning schools.

  Except for her black maternity dress, Joy looked like a flapper with her short black bob, bright lipstick, and long strand of pearls. As I handed her the names of a couple doctors Rob and his wife liked, I caught sight of a large market tent, that hadn’t been there when I drove in, blocking a side road.

  Yipes. Through the window behind Joy, I could see a spray-painted sign. “Fresh melons, fireworks, and firearms! Buy one, get one!” Several women knitted in rocking chairs next to a table, waiting for customers.

  I needed to keep talking. “Will it also be a tough decision for you to move to Bustleburg from…uh…”

  “Detroit,” Joy said. “It’s a toss-up.” She turned to her husband. “What do you think?”

  “There are places I’d miss. Some relatives in Dearborn. But if there’s a welcoming community—”

  “There’s not.”

  Everyone turned to Anemone Vostic again.

  “You. With the pearls and the Star of David,” she said, pointing to Joy, “we could work with you.” Then she looked at Fadi. “You. No one knows which direction Mecca is from here, if you get my meaning.”

  Fadi narrowed his eyes, looked at the sun, or really, the brightest spot in the cloud cover, then pointed east. “Though perhaps, Madam, you know of the Chaldean Church I read about on the web? Or is that something you can’t work with either?”

  Joy patted Fadi on the arm and looked at Mrs. Vostic. “You should be happy to have us. There’s a lot of work to be done here.”

  “Oh, extra absolutely,” said Breezy. “You’ll adore the mountains of work. It’s everywhere!”

  Fadi brightened. “It is? Since I’d be leaving my job in an auto plant, I’ve wondered what I might find.”

  Breezy clapped her hands. “There’s Arkanois Cold Call Center. And Toxaco Chemicals. Of course, Total Institution Inc. always needs maximum-good guards for Hollandton Supermax Middle School, the slightly fire-blackened building coming up on our left.”

  “My notes say you’re an electrician,” I said quickly. “The Lobby’s HR staff will be at your disposal to find something you like.” I turned to the scruffy, sandy-haired guy with the earring who apparently liked donuts and the woman who disapproved of donuts. They were both possible recruits and the most important. True, we needed a water specialist, like Lisa, for the grant, but we also needed experts on this new-fangled TOXMAP data analysis and Geographic Information Systems. That technology was how the Lobby had determined almost every factory in East Bank violated federal laws. I noticed our analyst recruits looked like they couldn’t be long out of college. The young man also looked annoyed.

  “So, you must be Rochelle Leeds and…” Rats, I’d smudged Rob’s notes with my sweaty palms. His name couldn’t be “Ruff.”

  “Jeff.” He shook my hand with a smile. Then his snarl returned as he looked in Mrs. Vostic’s direction. “We’re Reverse Mormons. I’m Rochelle’s primary consort, but her whole harem will be relocating with us.”

  Rochelle swatted him again, but then she ducked her head to hide a smile. I looked at Mrs. Vostic. She crossed herself but then continued with a gesture that made her look like she was either doing the Macarena with one hand or hoping Frankie Ford would take her on a sea cruise. Oh, good grief. According to Rob, that was the Pious Rivalist Church’s way of saying “God protect me, but send trouble in that direction.” Now Mrs. Vostic gripped her umbrella and regarded it as if calculating how hard she could hit Jeff without going to jail.

  Rochelle looked at me. “Saint Louis has had enough of Jeff, I think.”

  Breezy began to rhapsodize. “Saint Louis is divine! Such delicious food. I can’t imagine moving away.”

  Rochelle shook her head. “We’re looking forward to a change. But based on Yelp, there are things we might miss. Where in Bustleburg would we find an organic market or a yoga class?”

  Mrs. Vostic looked over her glasses. “You’ll find there’s no neighborhood for organic yoga people in our city. We do have standards.”

  Breezy’s laugh sounded forced. “Oh, now now, Mrs. Vostic. Those batty organic yoga people have to live somewhere, too.” What? What was wrong with this guide? I noticed Breezy’s chipper, fluting voice occasionally sounded woozy, like Julia Child recovering from anesthesia.

  Breezy looked back at us with vacant, flight-attendant pleasantness. “Now on to our tour. Ladies and gentlemen, the settlement that became Bustleburg was established in 1802—”

  “No it wasn’t. The sign at the bridge says 1900!” the old woman hollered.

  “—but was destroyed in an earthquake in 1811. The name of the original settlement, Yuckamud, was derived from a local Native American language which translates to ‘Please, by all means, White People, you’re welcome to these disease-filled swamps.’”

  Really?

  I turned around to see Wendy stiffen. “I can’t imagine that’s accurate,” she said.

  “And our river is still named Yuckamud.”

  “The one that caught fire more than thirteen times?” asked Lisa.

  “Oh, sixty-two times!” Breezy said. The excitement in her voice would have been more appropriate if we’d won that many pennants. Not that we had a baseball team.

  Breezy folded her hands and continued. “After the earthquake, Yuckamud was rebuilt in 1816, but destroyed by fires in 1817, 1819, and 1821. In 1825, the legendary Miss Jacaranda Bustle came through the area and chopped down every tree to make way for her sons’ wheat farms.”